Woody’s Dog Blog

Apologies for my bloggy absence, but apparently somebody nearby has been sharing my interwaves and it’s been playing havoc with my wireless channels.

One of my next door neighbours, Francesca, has been taking me out for several walks a day recently - she’s eleven years old - and to quote Mr Golden Arches himself, I’m lovin’ it. She’s in the last throws of the school holidays, with nothing much to do I guess, and she can’t get enough of me. She’s stealing me away from work during the day, knocking at the house in the evenings … I’m averaging four walks a day at the moment! She’s got me chasing tennis balls and all sorts … I’m frolicking about as if I was four years old! I’ve had a few comments on how fit I’m looking actually, which makes a welcome change.

Speaking of age, one of my other neighbours popped her head over the garden fence yesterday and told me about a little accident she’d had. She’d had a fall, poor poppet. She’s fine, just a couple of bruises. Now I don’t know when you people start embracing old age, but I think it starts somewhere between the moment you stop ‘falling over’ and the first time you ‘have a fall’. It signifies the trepidatious step from the fountain of youth into the foot spa of old age. You might as well put grab rails up in the bathroom just in case … oops, there goes the front door. I’m off again!

Some people spend their lives getting other people’s backs up. For a living. I went off for a nice walk in the park this morning and when I got back to work, these two ladies were sniffing around the back till. I walked straight past them both but one of them was cooing at me so I backtracked and said hello to be polite. Turns out they were Health & Safety. Actually they were just on their way out, but my entrance had prompted a last-minute risk assessment and caused an unexpected encore of twitching biros.

After a brief appraisal based on my short-term movements (ie. walking away from them), I was thrilled to hear I’m not a risk to public health or safety. “It’s not like there’s any food around,” said Mrs Health. Congratulations lady, well observed. Dog plus food equals clean floor. My mas and their staff could spend every other working hour scattering food onto the shop floor* - fact is, the food will be gone before you can say ‘get a proper job’ (unless it’s vegetable matter).

“He’s nicely tucked away by the back till,” said Mrs Safety. Well yes that’s true I am, but only when I’m not charging around the shop tripping up the customers, gnawing at their children’s shoes and weeing on old ladies’ stockings. Woopsie there’s a young mother with her baby coming in, would you just excuse me whilst I run towards the buggy and wedge my body against the front wheels in the hope of a little catapult snack? Mmm, lovely.

Turns out my mas might get a smack unless they fix the bathroom tap and strap their helium canister to the wall, as it could break somebody’s foot if it toppled over. Now I may be a dog, but I’ve seen how difficult it is to move a 50 litre helium canister. It’s no foam skittle. It would take a poorly employee inflating a balloon, feeling a bit faint, grabbing onto the canister and being pulled back by a nightclub bouncer for it to budge. Secured to a party wall in such a situation, it’s likely to bring half the neighbouring hardware shop down with it.

*Not that they do, unfortunately, in case Health & Safety are reading this. They’re too busy thinking up new ways of endangering their staff and customers to engage in such heavenly activities.

Well, did you know that a Canadian border collie named Striker unwound a non-electric car window in 11.34 seconds, back in September 2004? Neither did I as it goes. He was owned and trained by a Hungarian man - I don’t know whether that makes his talent more or less surprising.

Tell you what though Striker, no point in trying that little trick of yours over here. We have air-conditioning thanks. And frankly if the air-con’s not on, pop your paw on the electrics baby. It’s much quicker - I can do it in 3.4 seconds!

I’m off for a kip.

My mas are threatening to dial-a-groomer to give me and my two feline brothers new haircuts. I’m not happy about this but as usual, I don’t get a say in the matter. My cat bros both have matted lumps of fur on their enormous bodies so they clearly need to go, but not me, no no. My hair’s as smooth and trim as a cashmere scarf. All down my sides. Soft as a kitten I am. The fact that my fur’s broken coated, which means it’s a bit rough and shaggy on top and round the neck, well it’s the way God made me and frankly, it’s nobody else’s business. Ma says my ruff is reminiscent of Queen Elizabeth I, but her dig falls on deaf ears because a) I don’t know who the Dickens this lady is and b) look at the paw sister. The summer hasn’t been great, and I for one like a warm neck during those chilly spells.

I wouldn’t normally be so sensitive, but if you’d been through what I’ve been through at the vet recently, you wouldn’t want any shaving equipment near your body either (I had to go to the vet again this morning for a quick poke - seems like the infection has all but gone. I didn’t find my visit too bad today, but when Ma was paying a big dog came and sniffed my bottom which I didn’t much appreciate I can tell you).

I’ve seen those razor adverts on the telly (VERY LOUD AREN’T THEY) voiced by Mr Saviour Of Smooth Skin, who shall presently draw out his wilkinson sword and gallop forth upon his trusty steed on a mission to save middle England from cheap disposables. The trouble is that real life just isn’t like that. Believe me, I wish my groomer used the best a dog can get, ‘for those who demand perfection’. None of that. My groomer’s tool of choice is a hand-held lawnmower. I don’t even ask for perfection. A post-operative tripe stick would be fine thanks.

On my way back from the park today, I noticed an interesting item for sale at the shop next door to mine: an Ant Killer Pen. At first I wasn’t sure whether you’re supposed to draw on the ants with the poisoned pen tip, or whether you just squash them with the nib, but apparently you have to draw around the area where the little beasts congregate, and the poison kills them on contact. Charmed I’m sure. There’s a Fly Killer Pen out there as well, although not for sale next door. Sold out I guess. There must be lots of angry people in Headington writing ‘DIE, FLY, DIE’ on their window panes with their murderous markers.

I hope they invent a Tick Killer Pen. Ooh, I’d have a few words to write on myself then.

Anyway Happy Birthday to Holly Wilkins, who is a year older today (although I don’t know how old she is - what with her being a lady I wouldn’t dare to ask). Holly please accept a truly loving albeit dry lick from me; I’m on antibiotics so I’ve got a bit of a dry mouth at the moment. I hope you have a lovely day.

I had a lovely walk this morning. The sun was out, the grass was dry and the ground was nice and hard. Lovely. I wore myself out a bit and slept it off at work. In the middle of my snooze, a lady came in to do some shopping with her two daughters, both small ones, and as she was paying for her goods, one of her girls found an uninflated ‘Happy 40th Birthday’ balloon in a packet and decided it was the most desirable item in the entire universe. Of course when her ma said she couldn’t have it, the girl had a hissy fit and squirmed and screamed her little head off. My ma tried to use me as a distraction (thanks Ma) and asked the girl if she’d met me (turned out she hadn’t) and would she like to come and say hello to me perchance? Well I don’t mind, I’ll see little children if they’re nice to me. Anyway the little girl didn’t take a blind bit of notice so Ma told me to go and say hello to the girl. Well I was going precisely nowhere. She kept on at me, but no no, nuh uh. Not getting involved thanks. All this hullaballoo just made the situation more stressful for everyone, and by the time the girl and her ma reached the door to leave, most of Headington was rolling up to have a look.

Later, on the way home from work, there was another small child having a tantrum - this one seemed to have fallen in love with a lamppost he was hugging it that tightly …. then I got home to find that both my babies were screaming too! It must have been something in the air. On a positive note, I managed to eat a whole bowl of all-meat chunks in jelly in approximately 3.4 seconds flat, and still leave the evil pill Ma had ‘hidden’ in the middle. Roquefort had to come to her rescue once again.

Anyway I’m thrilled to announce the birthday of Joseph Brigden who is a whopping 4 today. That’s nearly as old as me! Happy Birthday Joseph, and please accept a big face lick from me.

I’ve got a very special mid-week lick especially for Vicky Nicholson, whose birthday it is today. I hope you have a lovely day Vicky, full of cakes and biscuits and cheese twists. And sausages and chicken dippers … jelly and ice-cream … sausage rolls … mmmm, I wish it was my birthday. Mine was back in June when I got, ooh let me think now what did I get …… um anyway for my tea I had … oh … well at least I had the day off … oh no, no I didn’t did I. I got one birthday card, two weeks late. I remember now. Better late than never I suppose. Royal Mail you call it? I hate to think what Lizzy would think if she knew what goes on in her sorting offices. I say pay them more, put stamps up to 55p, it would stop the annual strikes! Surely Mrs Sandcastle from Portsmouth can’t moan when her letter gets to Mrs Shortcake in Edinburgh the next day, for the price of a Mars Bar? Buying stamps and confectionery involves equal amounts of time, thought and effort; the only difference is that when Portsmouth sends her letter, Shortcake gets some post, posties get richer, and nobody gets fat. Everybody wins! Come on Mr Mail, you know it makes sense.

Well what a change of fortune. It was a gorgeous hot, sunny day yesterday and I went swimming at Port Meadow which used to be a regular summer haunt of mine before my babies came along. It is a flood plain, still overflowing in parts from the recent weather, and also home to cows, horses and geese, so it smelt a bit damp and fruity there yesterday, but it didn’t worry me a bit. I dived into the river and swam for stick after stick after stick; every throw from Ma (well I say throw … more like an anomalous tic) went a little bit further to test my stamina. Apparently I started snorting like a piglet after a while, and Ma became concerned that my fitness levels weren’t what they used to be. She stopped me swimming after about half an hour, but allowed me another 15 minutes of fun playing stick in the field, which was great. I certainly paid for it all when I got home; Ma said I smelt of farmyard toilet and promptly placed me in the shower before I could say ‘ouchy raw sewage on my sore wounds’. I was still giddy with glee from my morning outing though, so it wasn’t a problem at all.

Those mas of mine though; I swear they think I’m stupid. I’ll admit that in my world, tea time offers up tear-jerkingly limited variations on meaty chunks in jelly, or gravy if you’re really modern (and by the way just because you label a tin with ‘fresh ham, chicken and pea casserole’ and slap 50p onto the price doesn’t make it any more appetizing. Big lumps of green pus camouflaged as peas do not do it for dogs - if I wanted a vegetable I’d eat a rabbit), but I can recognise the bitter chalkiness of a Metronidazole tablet cushioned inside an all-meat chunk from a mile away. Imagine if I pushed a rotting fish eye into the middle of your Marmite on toast. Even if I’d shoved it right into the heart of the bread, you’d have to be drunk, anosmiatic or as blind as the fish not to notice its putrefying pupil winking at you from within.

I took the pill in a lump of Roquefort in the end. To be honest I prefer Camembert, but beggars can’t be choosers. Ma could have stuck a great big pea inside it and I would have eaten it. I’d do anything for a piece of cheese me.

There’s a buzzing noise in my head that won’t go away. It’s there all day, bugging me and crackling, crunching and ripping at my brain, and it’s making my waking hours a misery. It’s not tinnitus, it’s not a bee in my ear, and I’m not going mad. It’s worse than itching.

It’s Velcro. Every five minutes somebody somewhere is ripping it in front of me. Mothers come up to the till in my shop and rip open the Velcro fastenings on their buggies, reach for their Velcro wallets that are bristling inside their crrrrrrrrrrrrrrrip handbags, woopsie baby’s taken her shoe off - whaddayaknow it’s a Velcro shoe fastening - let’s put that shoe back on properly, oopsie not quite tight enough, do it again, that’s better. I can’t even get away from it in the park. When it’s raining, Ma’s raincoat comes out and unfortunately for me, she keeps the poo bags in her pockets - guess how they’re shielded from the rain. Sometimes my lead gets caught up on the stuff from her cuffs. When she pulls my lead free I can feel my neck splitting apart. Even my babies have Velcro shoes; there’s no other option in Clarks apparently. It seems the western world is now buzzing with the sound of little children in buggies crrrripping at shoe straps. Park gate railings all over Oxfordshire act as lost and found adverts for single, abandoned baby shoes* and bear witness to the shortcomings of Velcro… it’s a modern phenomenon that Mr Georges de Mestral, with his hook and loop system, has a lot to answer for. I say bring back buckles; they’re sweet and babyish, they’re much harder for little hands to unlock and above all, they’re quiet. Velcro has its place in society, with the elderly and the infirm, but for the good of humanity and for my personal sanity, I want to reclaim the zip, the popper, the button and the buckle. Let’s send Velcro back to where it belongs - with the beige age.

As for me, well I’m having the worst day of my life so far. My morning walk consisted of sitting in the park whilst Ma chatted away with my friend Molly’s mum, Maria for 25 minutes about something or other I don’t know - I think Maria mentioned her cat got run over and she had a car crash all within a couple of days. Molly and I sat there and scratched until the old dears had finished wittering, and then I got frogmarched to the vets where I was man-handled by yet another lady vet. As soon I saw her pull a latex glove out of a tissue box I knew it was bad news. Ma cradled my head to her body to calm me but frankly it just made the situation worse. I don’t want to go into details because I’m still a bit sore, but suffice it to say I have an internal infection for which I’m on more flicking drugs for the next fortnight.

The icing on the cake occurred on the way back to the shop, when I nearly spoilt myself on the pavement, on account of my earlier non-walk in the park. Ma managed to drag my sorry behind down an alleyway where I was able to find relief amongst some shingle, but the humiliation is still with me.

On a positive note, the day can only get better.

*By the way, if anyone comes across a red suede shoe for the right foot from Clarks, size 3G, hardly worn with Velcro fastening, in the vicinity of Cowley Retail Park, please let me know.