Woody’s Dog Blog

Since I’ve been unwell I’ve been sleeping upstairs with my mas. I used to sleep in the kitchen or sometimes the playroom but they took pity on me all poorly and sorry for myself, and invited me up for a couple of nights. Well how time can test one’s fidelity … four months later and apparently they’re getting fed up of me licking my lips for hours on end, shuffling around the room snorting, wiping myself across the carpet and scratching for Britain when I can’t sleep. So last night Ma prepared the spare room just for me; drew the curtains, popped my bed right next to the radiator, gave me a bit of leftover steak for my bedtime treat. All very nice. But then she left me on my own. All alone. In the dark.

And I cried. I sat on the end of the sofabed and I cried. I cried and cried until she eventually came downstairs to get me. “What? What?” she shrilled impatiently. “What? What is it? What’s the matter? Are you cold? No. Hungry? No. Dying?” she suggested, throwing her hands up in the air. “No.”
I whimpered softly as I licked my lips. “Oh for God’s sake come on then.” she chuffed. You’ll never know how sweet those words sounded to me. I leapt off that sofabed like a gazelle, raced straight down the landing and up the stairs before you could say ‘dog whisperer my arse, it’s my mas that need lessons in discipline’.

Nighty night.

I had to go back to the vet on Saturday for a second opinion, as my mas don’t think the root of my problem is being treated, and also Cooky Ma is damned if she’s going to double, double toil and trouble over eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog, liver of blaspheming Jew, gall of goat and slips of yew again. It stinks.

So the alternative seems to be an allergy test which will mean me giving some blood away, and my mas giving some £222.96 away. It’s possible I could be allergic to one thing (imagine if it was cheese?) or even 50 things (imagine if it was 50 types of English and continental cheeses?), but what with my babies chucking food onto the floor at every possible opportunity, and lovely neighbours giving me treats all the time (Bob at the hardware shop next door keeps a Rich Tea in his pocket at all times just for me, and my neighbours at home give me their Sunday leftovers each week, all beautifully chopped up and presented in a sealed margarine box), it’s not really going to solve my problem, rather just diagnose it. Still, I guess it’s better than becoming a junkie.

It’s turned into Jamie’s Kitchen round my place today. My mas aren’t convinced that the drugs are making me better - well they’re not are they: anti-histamines make me sleepy, antibiotics make me sick, steroid cream makes me sting, my sores keep being sore and my itches are driving me nuts still. So anyway one ma convinced the other ma that a change in diet may help. So the one that can cook (Cooky Ma) went out and bought lots of lovely meats from the supermarket, and my goodness me what a pallaver ensued. Well she chopped up some carrot (do I look like a gerbil?) and cooked it with some peas and pasta (boring), some tomatoes (yaaawn), added some pork (ooh, better), let it simmer (come on come on …), got the rubber gloves out (beg pardon?), sliced open the raw liver packet (now we’re talking), retched at the raw smell (what’s wrong with these people?), chopped said livers with Marigolds still tightly on, spattered blood over the worktop and the clean plates (lick it off?), let it simmer for 20 minutes (mmm, liver vapour), opened the doors and windows (too late, the smell’s settled onto the walls and ceiling for ever more), lit a candle (flowery offal), lit another (offal flowers), scrubbed the hob so much it almost disappeared (Fairy clean) and voila, my new tea was born.

Cooky Ma said if I was sick after eating this she’d leave home (it tends to get inbetween the wooden floor planks you see), but luckily I vomited before tea and not after, so we were all safe.

On a brighter note, did you know that King Henry VIII introduced a beard tax in 1535? Yes, old beardy no.8 decided that only he was allowed to sport the swish, and anyone else who dared to defy the furry order was ordered to pay him money. Elizabeth I thought this was a wicked idea and re-introduced the tax during her reign, and guess what - Peter the Great copied it about a century later after a visiting noblewoman pointed out the snot dangling from his hairy face. Well I hate to think what else was lurking forgotten in there - they used to eat a lot of offal in those days didn’t they?

Well I’ve been visited by the skin cowboys yet again.

‘Can I interest you in a free trial of our very latest dermatitis Sir? We don’t think you’ll be disappointed in the quality. It really is a corker. Why not let us spread some onto your seat and see how you like the feel of it?’ So thanks very much for that, I’ve got a really sore botty now, and I can’t sit down properly. The only blessing is that Jenny, the veterinarian nurse at my surgery, has a soft spot for me and gave me a bag of liver sweets when I left. Lovely, lovely Jenny.

Speaking of lovely ladies, I happen to know that it’s Rebecca Whitwick’s birthday today. Happy Birthday Rebecca! Being a lady and all, I wouldn’t know how many years you are celebrating today, but please accept a felicitous lick from me.

This is what I look like again tonight. I’m itchy again, I’m sore once more. And I’m devastated.

On top of everything, somebody is bombing our neighbours a few doors down. They’re using fancy explosives with lights and catherine wheels and all sorts - not exactly subtle. It’s been going on for a few nights and my mas don’t seem to care. They will get us eventually I just know it. I don’t know what to do. I can’t catch them with an ice cream cornet on my head can I?