Woody’s Dog Blog

Well I was going to recount last Thursday’s short but eventful walk to the park, and tell you how I mistook a velvet jacket hanging outside a charity shop for a bush, and woopsie did a little wee on it, and how Ma felt so awful about it but just kept walking in a forwards direction in a frenzy of shame and panic; but frankly something very grave has occurred, and I digress.

I’ve been kicked off Facebook.

Deleted, barred, disabled, sent to social networking damnation - I am now an ex-entity of the Facebook. I have been wiped from the memories of approximately 83 friends, human and mammalian; I am unable to write on my friends’ walls, kick them, poke them or throw sheep at them. The multi-billion dollar company has executively decided that I am an unworthy, lowly little fidget wipe and without any notice has denied me the delights of licking friends in faraway places, and ripped apart all the flowers I sent my ma. No more recruiting people to causes such as ‘Stop bull-fighting’ and ‘Put an end to animal testing’ for me; so long to comparing culinary tastes in the group ‘Cheese, I think I love you’; and to all you common fanciers of weatherproof dog clothing from the group ‘Whippet in a raincoat’ - well it was fun wasn’t it. To all my buddies in Canada, USA, Australia, Sweden, France, Hawaii and beyond - so long, later, g’day, farvål, adieu, aloha - sorry I won’t be there to tickle you across the waves next time you’re feeling down.

The big Facebook chiefs have decided enough is enough. ‘Get these wretched pests off our land. These facebook animals are dirty little flea benches and they have no place in our world. Killll themmm!’ they cried in their very best Baron Greenback rasps, stroking their furry cackling caterpillars as they guffawed at my virtual demise.

Meanies.

If I had to choose between two low points of the week (1. having a haircut or 2. vomiting on the shop floor during working hours) I think it would be the haircut. Liz the Groomer knocked on the door on Wednesday morning, took me away a self-respecting dog (dishevelled beard, lovely thick mane and spinal mohican) - she brought me back home at lunchtime, short back and sides, beard off, toenails cut - well hello Trudi the Toy Fox Terrier. Since then, I’ve had two ladies in the shop bending down at me cooing ‘Oooh isn’t she good? What a lovely dog she is! Aaah, look at her in her basket - she’s tired, bless!’ My long-haired cat bro Louis had a cut’n'blowdry too, but he’s somehow managed to return home with his long coat and self-respect in tact. The worst bit was the granny perfume Liz washed us in - think old roses, Lux soap, Glade plug-ins and lots and lots of budget face powder. I still smell two days later. How humiliating?

God’s been smiling at me though … I was walking home from work with Ma the next day, we were a hundred yards down the road and she was about to put my lead on when I spotted it. Can you guess what I found? Was it a forgotten breaded chicken wing in a basket? No. A regurgitated kebab? Think again. A whole, round, unsullied chocolate cake twice as big as my whole head? You got it. It wasn’t so much winking at me as begging me to be its Facebook friend and offering me pretend pints of beer - it was giving me its whole profile on a plate. Status: double layer. Interested in: men, women, random play, whatever I can get. Hometown: Cake Corner, Headington Car Park (temporary placement). You bet it’s temporary! I clamped the entire chocolatey tyre into my jaws and ran off with Ma chasing me into the road! Silly woman running into the road, hasn’t she ever heard of the Greedy Cross Code? Never, ever run into the road chasing after food Mother. It’s very unbecoming in a woman, unless you’re a supermodel in which case it would be a headline, and frankly a blessed relief.

Life is getting desperate here at home. My paws are so sore I’m on steroid cream, I still have to wear the ice-cream cone (on and off), both my babies had terrible tantrums in John Lewis on Saturday whilst their little handprints were being embedded into clay (Christening present from a friend - thanks Wicky!) and worst of all, my ma has become an ebay addict. She can’t stop buying unwanted clothes and toys from faceless strangers off the interweb. Our house is now filled with baby shoes (’BNIB!’), baby shirts and trousers (’BNWT!!!!’), baby coats (’ONLY WORN TWICE!!! FROM PET AND SMOKE-FREE HOME!) and second-hand toy garages with cars missing (’L@@K!!!! BARGAIN!! MUST SEE!!!!’ …) all right, all right, don’t get your knickers in a twist, I might have a L@@K!!! if you’d only CAAALM D@WN P@PPET!!!

A couple of months back, I even saw her ‘watching’ a set of earplugs (’BRAND NEW! 28 PAIRS IN PRESENTATION BOX’). I don’t know why they were there, how long she was watching them for, or who ‘won’ them, but you’ve got to wonder what sort of person wants to buy 28 pairs of earplugs in a tailor-made presentation box? A pair for every day in February perhaps?

I bet the winner was pleased that they were ‘BRAND NEW’.

Something terrible has happened. I can hardly bring myself to talk about it. If you have a violin to hand, now’s the time to start playing. Look what they’ve done to me. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I’m hobbling along on three legs like a geriatric whippet, they’ve wedged my head into a plastic ice cream cornet and made me look like an It’s A Knockout game. Every time I go to move my head or settle in my bed, I scrape the walls and jar the damn thing between the chair legs. Yesterday my Granny came round and I was desperate to give her a lick, but I kept jabbing into her legs and I just gave her bruised calves instead. What’s more, my friend Amy sent me an email warning me not to look at the sky for too long when it rains. I can almost hear Stuart Hall’s cries of laughter echoing inside my megaphone.

It seems I’ve got dermatitis again, and the vet has prescribed two lots of drugs this time - painkillers and antibiotics. Granny said that £30 for 14 pills is a lot as they’d only be the same as human drugs. I say I’ve probably popped more pills in the past 4 months than Amy Winehouse and Pete Doherty combined.

Never mind the vets, I should be in The Priory poppet.

My paw is so sore at the moment that I licked it until it bled yesterday. Last night Ma put a bandage round my foot and taped a baby sock on the end of it to stop me fiddling with it. Imagine the humiliation! They might as well pop a pink bonnet on me and call me Tiffany. I mean really. I was having none of it so once everyone was asleep, I tore the bandage off without a problem (the sock was a bit tricky as it was taped to my leg, but I persevered by nibbling through the tape and prizing the sock off with my teeth). Unfortunately all this kerfuffle has excited my soreness so I’m off to the vet this morning for some poking, prodding and general bodily abuse.

The good news is, I caught* at least seven squirrels on Sunday in my new favourite hangout, Headington Hill Park.

On an even brighter note, I’m very excited to announce the 9th birthday of Olivia Gray today. I’ve managed to stop licking my foot for a minute to give you nine lovely birthday licks Olivia. A little licketty lick for your sister Ella as well. I hope you have a lovely day! Now you must excuse me, but I’ve got wounds to aggravate.

* Ooh I was so close I could see the fleas dancing about on their jittery little shoulders. Just missed by a millimetre. Next time though. Next time.