Woody’s Dog Blog

I finally got my birthday card from Dotty, nearly two weeks after she posted it. The postman had drawn a big black kiss on the envelope which was so sweet. Lots of dogs and postmen have issues with each other, but not me, no no. I’m very fond of Alan The Postie, and he’s always pleased to see me, or as pleased as you can feel at 8am to see anyone. Anyway Alan or maybe another, angrier postman, had written ‘not enough postage’ in big letters next to the kiss, which is why it’s taken so long to get to me. Alan didn’t ask for any money though, he just posted it through the door. I guess he’s been holding it back to teach Dotty a lesson in postal etiquette. She’d very kindly wrapped up a gravy bone for me and slipped it into the card, thus transforming the innocent, unsuspecting birthday card into a beastly oversized item, requiring a LARGE letter stamp, even though gravy bones are in fact very lightweight.

Speaking of birthdays, I must say Happy Birthday to my friend Claire. I’m not sure how old she is but she’s a very nice lady. If your birthday’s coming up, just email me with your name, birth date and a photo of you, and I’ll pop you on my blog and give you a birthday lick x

Apparently there’s a shortage of fivers in this country. Well I just want to share with you the fact that I’ve got one. I actually own one of those elusive notes, as seen on TV. I found it on the street - how lucky am I! I felt like Charlie Chocolate Factory. I’m going to bury it in my garden in case I lose it.

I had a chat with Val the Vet yesterday and I’ve got something or other dermatitis, can’t remember the posh bit. Let’s just say it’s itchy shall we. She felt so sorry for me that she gave me a steroid injection which she doesn’t just give out willy nilly apparently, so that was nice. She deemed it appropriate to weigh me as well, which I thought was quite insensitive given how shaky and unwell I was. When my mas go to the doctor with itchy skin or whatever, their doctor doesn’t weigh them just for the sake of it. ‘Oh dear, sore throat? Ooh yes, looks like laryngitis to me. Let’s pop you on the scales shall we, see what a fatty you are and whether in fact the reason you’re ill is because you’re greedy.’

Turns out anyway that the scales were a bit wonky; they said I was just over 12 kilos which I’m clearly not - if you see me here you’ll notice my svelte* physique and you’ll agree with me that there can’t be 12 kilos of body there. Just not possible.

Anyway, apparently my new skin disease may have been caused by Fluffy and his family, which has shocked me. I can’t believe Fluffy would ever do something like that. Wretched parasite. Think you know your friends eh?

Anyway, I’m off to engage in some heavy-duty scratching. Back in a tick.

*definition of svelte on the interweb: “gracefully slender; moving and bending with ease” - that’s me.

I’m all of an itch. It was so bad yesterday that I couldn’t even bring myself to play ball in the park. It was all I could do to get my dinner down me in one go, I was flicking about and twitching that much. I’ve got to go the vet today to see what’s wrong. It’s not fleas that’s for sure, and well it can’t be ticks now can it? (shhh, don’t mention Sister Tick whatever you do).

Last Sunday, I had another calling from the woods. My mas were invited to a barbecue so I tagged along. Two hours later they realised I hadn’t been seen for a while - charming eh?
Well anyway I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say I’d been digging for rabbits for two whole hours. My muscles were sore for two days afterwards, and so my walks were rather strained as a result.

The good news is, I got a pet! I picked up a tick from the rabbit warren, and he was almost the size of a hamster. I called him Fluffy. He went everywhere with me for a whole week; stuck by me through thick and thin. He tickled me a lot - he was cheeky like that, but otherwise we got on great. I’m having to use the past tense because, believe it or not, my ma decided yesterday that Fluffy was no longer welcome in our house, and twisted him off me. He was still alive and she put him in a sealed bag with a tissue and split him in half with her nail!!! My ma’s a psycho! He was my pet for pity’s sake! I am so disappointed, not to mention heart-broken. Ever since that unfortunate incident, I’ve felt let down and a bit lonely, if a little less itchy.

I’m in despair over humankind at the moment, and I think it’s a bit rich for them to tell us off for chasing rabbits or squirrels and the like, when they are capable of such heinous acts of barbarity.

Fluffy’s still with me in spirit anyway, and luckily he had a little sister who’s decided to stay with me that my mas haven’t found yet.

Do you know what I found out today? That the smallest dog in history was a tiny Yorkie from Blackburn. At two years of age and fully grown this little pooch stood 2.5 inches tall and 3.75 inches long! He weighed four ounces! He was a rat! I could have eaten him without chewing! He was practically a Malteser! A Yorkie smaller than a Yorkie!

Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday dear Woodeeeeeeeeeeeeeee;
Happy Birthday to me!

Well I’m five today, as it goes. My neighbour pointed out that I’m thirty five in dog years - well I’m sorry but being a dog, I live in dog years, and I’m five. I don’t remember Barbara Woodhouse or Crackerjack. I’ve never eaten Space Dust off the pavement, and I’ve never burnt my legs on plastic car seats. Ok, I’ve done some research on the 70s, but I certainly haven’t lived them. I’m five. One two three four five. None of the thirty five year-olds I know get excited by frisbees or bouncy balls - there’s nothing thirty five about me actually. Apart from my waistline. I love my family, and my neighbours (especially Ruth and Gordon), but I do find it so silly when everyone tries to draw parallel lines between us.

Apparently my friend Dotty remembered it was my birthday and sent me a card, but the postman must have left it at the bottom of his bag by mistake.