Woody’s Dog Blog

One of my babies hasn’t been very well; apparently he had to go to the vets for a few days to get better. Poor thing. I’d be shaking like a whippet if I had to stay at the vets for a few minutes! So anyway I was shipped off to Nanny & Grandpa’s house out of the way (I’ve made a mental note Mas). It was great really, I went down the garden dodging the rainstorms with Grandpa, and we levered out lettuces, picked out pak choi and pulled up leeks aplenty. Nanny and Grandpa had a visitor staying, cousin John from Essex, and after lunch there was much chatting about rain, trains and buses (cousin John took the public transport from Essex to Oxford but the flooding meant some of his connecting trains had been cancelled) … I considered proffering my opinion on rail replacement buses from Didcot to Oxford, but I fell asleep around Abingdon.

Ma came to get me at about 9.30pm tonight; I was very pleased to see her. I can’t emphasise how much I love Nanny & Grandpa, I mean they’re the beef to my tripe, the cheese to my cracker, the very soap to my rope, but there are only so many Morse re-runs I can take in an evening. I’m a young dog still. I need to be out and about, chasing rabbits, teasing cats, mauling squirrels (I wish) … not stuck in the house worrying about long-suffering-but-ever-faithful Lewis’s marriage, or waiting to see whether Mrs Teapot’s misplaced doilies incriminated her in the 116th minute.

Let’s just say my homecoming was a sweet and sour dish. One of my babies was pleased to see me, but the just-out-of-hospital one was a bit overcome by the welcoming home committee (ie. me), and pushed me out of the way when he saw me, which almost broke my heart. I’ve never done anything to him except love him and lick him. Luckily there were some Cheerios on the floor to take my mind off things, and then it was tea, so all in all, the incident remains a mere trifle of a memory.

My mas were both very happy to see me I’m glad to say. I’d hoped there may have been a special chicken or steak dinner awaiting me, as they’d clearly missed me and felt guilty about palming me off yet again. Love doesn’t necessarily bare itself on a plate, however, and tonight Matthew, I had tripe and beef dinner from a tin. And to drink? A bowl of water thanks very much. As I lapped perfunctorily at my water bowl, Ma dived into the fridge to get a bottle of white wine out. She pulled it out with desperation and relief, but there was an expression on her face that told me she had reached a stage in life where she was ever so slightly disappointed it wasn’t a screw-top.

Luckily, since my baby has been back at home, my mas have been offering him McVitie’s Digestive Biscuits to encourage his appetite back. Well, I’d just like to say that these simple discs of crumbly wizardry are quite simply the best medicine in the world. At times when I’ve suffered as a result of an illicit snack from the woods, and whenever my babies have been poorly, digestives have, without fail, built the biscuity bridge to recovery. They are a medicinal marvel and happily, my babies have been feeding me beautifully bitesized bits all day today when my mas haven’t been looking. Ooh, I love those wonderful wheaty wheels.

I’ve got a new fancy woman. I was in the park today playing stick, minding my own business. Straight away I’d noticed a big black labrador watching me from afar but I didn’t take too much notice. About 15 minutes later as Ma threw (I use the term loosely) the stick for the twentieth time, it landed in Mrs Lady’s direction and close up I was aware of a man tugging at my admirer’s lead, crying: “Come on, come on! We’re going home now!” Needless to say, the dog didn’t budge. She was too busy gawping at me wasn’t she? Marvelling at my lean physique no doubt. Ma asked the man if his dog was ok (silly, course she was ok; she was on heat and I was in the room, so to speak). Ten minutes later, her dad was still trying to tug her great body out of the park, but to no avail. He had to carry her out in the end! She was a big girl as well, and twice my age … old enough to be my great great great great great grandmother! I never even got to know her name.

I was just leaving the park as a black labrador puppy was coming in, and it was so eager to meet me that it lurched towards me with all its mini-might. What made the incident both surprising and amusing was that the excitable puppy was attached to a little boy, about 7, who suddenly found himself flying through the air for a few seconds and then dragged several metres along the grass. It conjured up images of the free cartoon clip art they use as logos for dog training courses, and reminded me of my puppy training days (I attended school for a few weeks but dropped out because I screamed at the other dogs too much. My mas said it was like being in Waitrose with a tantrumming child; they couldn’t bear the embarrassment. They had to remove me from classes and take me to Tesco instead, ie. the park, so my screams wouldn’t be noticed).

Today’s special birthday lick goes out to Georgia … Georgia’s a lady, so I wouldn’t know how old she’s being today, but I think you’ll agree she’s a very pretty birthday girl. A big long lick to you on your special day, Georgia.

When I was a pup, my friends’ dad came round to my house and sat on my sofa with his ‘beard’*; well I never knew such a phenomenon existed. It frightened me actually and I barked at him. I barked at him until he left the house. It signified the beginning of a mild but lifelong prejudice against the facial hair. I am a very friendly, mild-mannered, forgiving, sweet-natured kind of a dog, but if a bearded man (or lady) comes into my shop and says hello to me, I will skirt around him with my tail between my legs, look at Ma and ask, “Will I be ok? Will he say hello and pet me or will he pull a fork out of his beard and poke me with it? If I lick his face will the beard come off on my tongue and choke me to death?” Apparently my namesake, film director and actor Woody Allen, claims to have morbid fears of insects, sunshine, dogs, children, heights, small rooms, crowds, cancer and any place on earth outside Manhattan. He originally wanted to call Annie Hall ‘Anhedonia’ - the inability to feel pleasure. Well suddenly I feel quite normal. Baywatch star Pamela Anderson apparently has a phobia: “I don’t like mirrors” she admits. Poor poppet! Rupert Grint who plays Ron Weasley in the Harry Potter films, has a big fear of spiders: “The scenes in Spiders Hollow were particularly scary … when I saw Aragog (an enormous ancient spider who lives in the Dark Forest) for the first time, I wasn’t acting - I was genuinely scared!” Well I can only imagine it must be like being thrown into a forest full of long, swishing beards.

I must share with you the fortuituous news that it is in fact Sophie Brigden’s birthday today. Happy Birthday Sophie! A super-special lovely licketty lick goes out to you today. I don’t know how old you are Sophie, because you’re a lady and you should never ask should you, but I know if you were a dog you’d be younger than me.

*According to my research on the interweb: “In the course of history, men with facial hair have been ascribed various attributes such as wisdom, sexual virility, or high status, but also a lack of cleanliness and refinement, or an eccentric disposition.”

On car journeys, when I’m not playing ’stand up just as the traffic lights change and see if I topple over’, I like putting my paws up on the back seats so that I can see the cars in front. I have noticed a few cars lately with cute little suction posters on the windows like, ‘bump on board’, ‘little person on board’ (I know if I was a midget I wouldn’t want it announced on the back window), and my personal favourite, ‘babe on board’ - the licky, sticky choice of Ford Fiestas, Seat Ibizas and Fiat Puntos all over Oxfordshire. Apparently in Ma’s day, the fashion was to collect stickers from all over the world and plop them on the back of your car, so that people knew how well-travelled you were. Apparently some people had GB, DE, the US flag and ‘I saw the wallabies at Whipsnade’ stickers all on one car! They must have been the talk of the town. Nowadays, it’s the size of the car and whether or not the rear windows are blacked out that matters. And if you haven’t got air-conditioning, well you should keep quiet and make sure the windows are kept shut at all times, especially in the event of a hot spell.

I’ve been on another mini-break this weekend … my mas went off for a few days again, so I went to stay with Nanny and Grandpa, watched a bit of Dalziel and Pascoe, and on Sunday morning they took me to their favourite Mega Car Boot Sale. The Car Boot Sale is a ritual that Nanny and Grandpa go through every Sunday. Generally Grandpa stays in the car and has a nap while Nanny traipses through grassy aisle after messy pile of locals’ unwanted birthday gifts, used highchairs and baby baths, cds that nobody wants and incomplete jigsaw puzzles of shire horses from 1974. Amongst all this bric-a-brac however, are several hardcore outdoor retailers of snazzy plants, big box trees, brand new luggage systems and trays upon trays of hens’ eggs. Once when my mas had a Mini, they took Nanny, Grandpa and me to the bootfair, and Nanny came back with two huge box trees, some curtains and a big plastic rocking horse for her great grandchildren; my mas had also been tempted by a couple of suitcases that were brand new and cheap as chips. All in a mini! I nearly had a wee on the suitcase man’s main display, but I was dragged away faster than I could say ‘back of a lorry’.

By the way, Ma didn’t do tea tree to me. Thanks Ma.

I’m so itchy still, it’s just not fair. It’s been too long now. I’ve scratched myself so much that I’ve got sore, bald patches on my body and I’m afraid people might assume I’m diseased. Already today a family has been into the shop and the parents told their children not to touch me (they did anyway); I’m so upset I could sigh. Ma’s threatening to put tea tree oil on me - there couldn’t be anything worse. I’d rather be itchy thanks. It stings, it stinks, and it will leave me psychologically scarred for life. Ma, if you’re reading this, I will never forgive you. You might as well throw a bucket of vinegar over me and lay me in the imagine-if-it-existed hot summer sun to dry. And starve me for the weekend. And then squeeze a grapefruit onto my body and season me with salt and pepper. And a pinch of chilli powder to taste. Please Ma, don’t do it.

Well I’m only just compus mentis as I write this, I’m so sleepy … I got dragged back to the vet today because I’m still so flicking itchy, even after two weeks’ worth of antibiotics. The lady vet seemed very nice, she got me on the table and had a chat with me - everything was going fine. She asked Ma if I was itchy last summer (no), chat chat, was I itchiest towards the back end of my body (yes), blah blah, had I been scooting much recently (yes), la di da, then WOOM … I found a lady vet’s finger up my bottom! She was fishing about in there for ages! It was awful. I couldn’t believe my eyes, ears, nose or feet … it was the last thing on earth I expected to happen. I couldn’t even look at Ma, I felt so abused and humiliated. Do you know what she said I might be suffering from? It may not be posh dermatitis after all, but mange mites if you please. Mange? Isn’t that the common affliction of rabid bush animals and Gary Larson dogs? I’ll take it back for a full refund thanks for asking. I don’t want it, I didn’t ask for it, and I certainly don’t want lady vets getting intimate with me over it.

She managed to empty my anal glands anyway which was a relief. At a price. To top it all, I’m on more antibiotics, as well as anti-histamine tablets (hence the drowsiness).

On a lighter note, the lovely Mr Matthew Bannister read one of my blog entries out on his Radio 5 Live show today, which was nice. Oh dear I’m so tired. Anyway he read out quite a few diary entries as it goes, including one from a man in the 1920s, one from a famous photographer and one from a fish. A fish? Whatever next! Next he’ll be having a phone in for the fleas … ‘I Can Jump 80 Times My Height And Be Taught Circus Tricks, And Yet Society Still Shuns Me’ … oh deary me just thinking abou

It’s a bit windy round my place today. I haven’t managed to ‘go’ today if you get my drift, even though there’s clearly a whole ton of digested matter that needs to be set free from my gut. As a consequence, the house smells a bit hot and fruity.

Speaking of cheese*, did I ever mention how much I love it? I think it’s my favourite food in the whole wide world as it goes. Not so long ago, my mas had a little night where they just had cheese and bread and wine in front of the telly, and they put it all in the sitting room ready for a bit later on. So I queued up outside the sitting room door. For 20 minutes. Just me - nobody else came. It seemed like forever, and I got cramp in my bottom as a result. Ooh it was worth it though - at the end of their meal I was given the most delicious Camembert wedgette I’d ever tasted. I think if I were pushed, I would have Cheddar as my favourite of the cheeses … did you know that some Australians call it ‘Tasty cheese’? Mmmm, you bet it is. Say what you see, chaps, it’s the best way. The largest cheese was produced in Wisconsin for the 1964 New York World’s Fair. It weighed in at 34,951 lbs! Imagine how breezy my house would be! Ooh, lovely. I know for a fact that my mas are cooking some hallovelyloumi this very evening so I’d better reserve my place in the queue before anyone else gets there.

*Although I didn’t mention the cheese specifically, I did have some last night and it currently constitutes a major proportion of my belly swill.

Yesterday afternoon, on my way to the park, I popped into the pet shop to buy a soap-on-a-rope (aka soapy), and a bag of biscuits. Whilst I was being served by a young lady, an equally youthful male employee came out from another room moaning about a snake that they had for sale: he was “evil, that one”. Apparently the young man and the young lady had both been bitten by snakey. Now, I didn’t see him with my own eyes, but I suspect the sorry serpent was stuck in a box not even as long as himself; I don’t know any shopkeepers that treat their livestock like kings, that’s for sure (I would be glad to hear of some). Imagine if you had a pet dog or a cat that you kept in a glass box at home as a trophy. How can it be fair? I’d do more than bite if my mas did that to me! I nearly said something, but I was so busy clearing their floor of all the delicious dried liver, tripe and other edible debris that I clean forgot.

Once I reached the park, I met up with my good old friend Scamp whom I’ve known since I was a pup, and forgot all about Sid. We played a bit of soapy for old time’s sake whilst our mas compared waistlines (ours, not theirs); Scamp is a year older than me and it’s reflected around his trunk mainly, although his ma is in denial. She thinks we’re both ’solid’ dogs. I love her.

I was walking home from work this afternoon in the rain when suddenly from nowhere, the biggest clap of thunder you’ve ever heard smacked me round the body like a 60 ton anvil. It was so loud it actually shook me to the very bone and made me jump into the air. I eventually managed to find my way back into my skin, span around like a Russian Roulette pointer with my tail between my legs and tried to run into the car park adjoining the road, in case there was a car to hide under, or an abandoned KFC box to soothe my nerves. No such luck. Ma told me everything was ok and that my tea was waiting at home; so we continued our soggy trudge with me twice as wet as I should have been thanks to Ma’s umbrella dripping onto my back.

Well I got home only to find that one of my babies had posted one of the telephone handsets through the cat flap, where it had been rained on and rained on and rained on a bit more. Seems as though it’s fine though, just a bit cleaner. Both my babies grab anything-that’s-not-a-toy and post it through that flap as though it’s their work, their mission, their workaday passion. They are mini Gordon Ramsays in the household arena. Phone - dial. Ringing tone - speaker - lick. Milk bottle - biscuit crumbs - season. Crawl. Cat flap. Post. Job done.

Yes?

Well, I’ve been well and truly poked by the smelly finger of terrorism. My friend Dotty invited me on a city break to Bath, so I caught a bus for the second time ever yesterday (filthy by the way; I had a dirty bottom by the time we got off - so humiliating), all the way to the train station which takes about 15 human minutes and 75 dog hours to get to. Ma and I (yes I did go to puppy grammar school thanks for asking) queued up for ages for our tickets (about 4 dog hours or something like that), only to be told that our train had been cancelled because of the thwarted bomb attacks in London and Glasgow. We were offered the bus replacement service as an alternative mode of travel, which would have taken 5 hours (that’s not even in dog hours) and three changes. What’s the point in that? Worse still, I had to wait for another half an hour for a bus to take me home! In the rain! We were cross, but decided we wouldn’t be won over by the Evil ones, so we took the car in the end, where I was expected to spend 2 hours in the boot. How fed up is it possible to be when you’re a pooch? I had no idea until today. The ensuing journey was only made bearable by the occasional magical chocolate button missile, fired lovingly my way from the driver seat.

I won’t be catching the public transport again. I spend enough of my time waiting as it is, without waiting for Mr 400 to take me to the train station on top of everything (he was in a mood too it seems). I like my beanbag in the boot just fine, and the floor’s a lot cleaner too.

On a happier note, I’m delighted to announce the 31st birthday of Mrs Amy Evetts! I know she’s been really excited about her birthday for weeks so Amy, I hope you have a lovely day. Please accept a super licky lick from me x