Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Stuffly Wuffly 2

Nuclear radiation has been found in the seas around Japan. I could be wrong but... isn't that how Godzilla was created? Japanese scientists must be quaking in their boots. (poor choice of expression, sorry).   

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Last night, Strathclyde Police were forced to close a motorway slip road. It wasn't due to road works. All the cars just started sliding off. A police spokesperson has called for an urgent review of road nomenclature.

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Bizarre experience:

As my master drove into the Barshaw Park car park tonight through the centre gateway, a girl perhaps in her late teens, with long, brown hair and a back pack was walking into the park. He slowed the car and gave her a safe wide berth as he made for the parking bays. Her walking style was a little tentative, with a slight bob. Her poise too seemed quite rigid. She made me nervous, my hackles rising in response.

When he got out of the car and lifted the boot door to let me out, the girl, who had now reached the side of the cafe, suddenly shouted, "Not another one!" Neither of us had any idea who she was directing the outburst at. She then mumbled something to herself and turned round in a huff to leave. Not finished however she then spun round again and screamed, "I hope it mauls you!", the verb being particularly shrill.

My master was dumbfounded. Looking around for something by way of explanation, he couldn't find any. There was no one else around. She'd just shouted at us for no apparant reason. 

He won't let me subtitle this section, 'Crazy Bitch', in case she was mentally ill. I wish he had a camera phone and I could have posted her picture.

Sunday, 20 March 2011

Keep Off the Grass (Additional)

 Another plan to backfire this week was in regard my master's torch. He lost it this week and I mean in every sense. On Friday, we had multiple workman in an out of the house disturbing my day: electricians, a plumber/tiler and window cleaners all visiting the abode. And then his torch could not be found. He was frantic. Every drawer, cupboard, bin, stack and bag in the house was searched. Then the outdoor jackets and the cars. Then the wheelie bins. He then got paranoid and considered every scenario where each of the workman could have stolen his expensive torch. He even wanted to confront them all. It was crazy.

At this point I was a bit naughty. I knew where it was because I'd seen him drop it into his suit jacket pocket when he'd tidied the living room. I knew it was hanging upstairs on a hanger. I figured he'd find it when he went back to work which gave me three nights at the park with no sudden light explosions exposing my secret snacking. So I planted a suggestion subliminally that perhaps I'd buried the torch in the garden like a bone. This way he'd be searching in the wrong place.

That night, while they ate dinner, I made several holes on the back lawn then flicked the dirt back over with my hind paws. It was fun. When I returned to the kitchen my paw prints and perky attitude alerted the mistress to my escapade. She pushed back her chair and hurried to the window. In the dusk light she could see her mossy lawn now had dark patches, looking like little flattened mole hills, breaking the lushness. My master already in a dark, paranoid place, rose and studied the holes too and took the giant leap of illogic that I expected him to.

"What if figbane buried it? What if she did it earlier when the back door was open?"

"It could have been knocked to the floor by one of the workmen. She picks it up, runs out through the open door unnoticed and, instinctively, buries it."

The mistress' shoulders visibly rose as she drew in a deep breath to respond. I didn't know she had hackles too.  

"You're just being stupid!" The start of every word heavily emphasised for added effect.

"Figbane couldn't have put the torch in her mouth. It's metal. She doesn't like it. And if it fell on the floor, a workman would have heard it and picked it up. And why would she make so many holes if she was only going to bury one thing."

She then turned and blasted me.

"You get to your bed right now! And stay there. No treats. Right!" She turned to the master and gave him an insistent look that told him he'd better comply. He continued to stare out the window at the patches. "Right?" she repeated. This time he looked round and saw the emphatic stare. Message received.

"Don't even think about going out there. Now make me a coffee. You'd better check inside the kettle first in case figbane's hidden your torch in there." She pulled a twisted smile and for a second I thought I was going to witness some domestic abuse but the master did as he was told. He flicked on the kettle, shoogling it first to check the weight (just water, no torch) and the mistress left the kitchen to unfizz in the living room, point made. 

The master came over to me to clean the mud from my paws while the water was boiling. He whispered to me, "You didn't bury it, did you figbane?"

I just flicked my eyes enigmatically. Not the answer he wanted. I sometimes just don't know when to stop.

I got no walk, no treats and I was barred from going upstairs that night. I couldn't even redeem myself by showing him where his torch was.

He found it the next day. 

He's still in the doghouse for suspecting the tradesmen. I am too for making the holes. Hopefully he's learned his lesson. I know I have.

Keep Off the Grass

My special grass diet backfired a little when a few strands of grass failed to plop along with the other contents. It felt like I had a bush poking out my bottom. I tried shaking my booty, licking at it and scraping my bottom along the ground but nothing worked. No amount of clenching and pushing would budge the grassy poop. The longer it remained stuck the more I panicked. What if it took hold and started to grow? It was implanted in an area surrounded by natural fertiliser. I'd have to get the grass cutter to give me a fortnightly trim. I began to whine and bobbed around the garden to try to shift it.

My master came to the rescue. A poo bag gloved hand ripped them out quickly and without distress. A quick sniff from me confirmed the operation was a success. The diet could hang. I returned to the kitchen demanding a 'good girl' treat. I needed a nibble to settle my nerves after that experience. Just as well my master's a medical man or I may have been in need of a horticulturist instead of a vet.

Sunday, 13 March 2011

Stuffly Wuffly

Over the winter month's, I'm afraid to say, I've put on a few pounds. I'm not comfortable. When Skinny Gus, a greyhound friend of mine, suggested I try his special diet, an eat-as-much-as-you-like weight-loss diet, I listened. It works on the bulimia principle. So long as your diet consists of at least 40% grass, you'll regurgitate the food before it can be digested and the weight will fall off. I thought I'd give it a try.

It failed on two counts: one, once the food was out again I couldn't help but nibble; and two, it snowed on Saturday cutting off my supply of grass. Probably just as well. I don't think my owners would have approved of the amount of cleaning up required after my regurgitation. And it was not pleasant sleeping on a single cover while my bedding was still drying. 

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People who live in old houses with high ceilings should buy tall chairs to get the full benefit of their heating. Chairs so tall you need a ladder to climb into them. This would also require a number of other furniture adjustments. The television would need to be on a high stand and the dinner table would need long legs so the diners could reach their food. And every table should have a bottle of liquid labelled "Drink Me".

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I got a night walk at Barshaw this week for the first time in ages. My master had to pick up a parcel at the Post Office so we were half way there already, he figured. That night he had a problem finding my poo, even with his amazing torch.

I'd run across the car park to the grass beside the public toilets and squatted to do my business while he was walking towards the main path. By the time he'd walked over, he'd lost the poo position, having been distracted by a car entering the car park. He spent ages scanning the grass with his torch, walking back and forth, tapping leaves gently with his Adidas trainer in case it was my poo. Eventually he gave up. No one would penalise him surely after all the effort he made, he thought. We walked on, covering a good mile or so before returning to the car.

It was during the drive home that he found it... with his nose. It was under his shoe. I thought he was really clever, saving a poo bag that way. I hadn't expected him to bring it home with him. I don't think Adidas will be advertising the amazing grip quality of their trainers in relation to poo retention any time soon though. "Buy our new shit-grip trainers - you'll never need another poo bag again."

He was sent to the garden by the mistress to scrape it off.

Sunday, 6 March 2011

Oil and Sand and Bonios - a Dirty Revolution

This Libyan mess is starting to affect me. With petrol prices rising at the pumps, I'm not getting driven to the park for my walk at night as a fuel saving measure. I'm forced to pad the pavements around my estate instead. No off-lead sprees for me. What makes it worse is the pavements are still covered in sand and grit, despite it being March. It's really annoying because it gets stuck between the pads of my paws. Why did the council use so much grit and why hasn't it washed away by now?

Did they forget to stop gritting after the Big Freeze was over?
Did they buy in special long-lasting grit as an economy measure?
Is it an anti-mugger device designed to allow you to hear someone crunching up behind you?
Or did they think, by having sand under our feet, we'd adopt a relaxed beach mentality and forget about increased fuel bills, inflation and all the cuts, redundancies and loss of services?

If that was their plan, it won't work. Look at Tunisia, Egypt and Libya: they've got plenty of sand under their feet and are anything but relaxed. They're unhappy because food prices are becoming unaffordable. They see the oil wealth of the people in power and feel oppressed. Remind you of anywhere?

Not that the Scots would rise up against their English oppressors. I wouldn't expect us as a nation to storm Faslane and take control of the nuclear subs, then threaten to blow up Westminster unless they relinquished fiscal control of our North Sea oil and gas and allowed us to govern ourselves. That would be ridiculous. It would make a great film though. The kind of thing the Comic Strip would have made in the eighties.

I need to go. It's time for my night time treat. Oh wait...

"What do you mean there's no Bonio tonight? This is totally unfair. I don't care if the price has gone up. It's not my fault you've mishandled the economy. I don't care how big you are. I'm not leaving. I want regime change and I want it now!"

Grrrrrr! Nobody messes with my stomach. Leave it hungry and I'll be forced to find a bite elsewhere, if you follow me. I'll not rest until I've had my way, and my Bonio. This is not over.