Woody’s Dog Blog

I’m so glad the sun is back. Last week was totally hot and delicious, and then a couple of days later I found myself tottering around the sodden park with a cold tummy, Ma was crossing her arms over her winter coat to stay warm, and the daisies had all recoiled in horror. It was like stepping out into February after a Centerparcs mini-break*.

Of course when the sun comes out, so do all the lovely local litter louts. Mmm, I’ve had some tasty snacks in the park this week. Yesterday I found practically a whole Chinese takeaway on the grass just near the playground! Just as Ma crept up to get it off me, I darted away from her like a whippet, laughing at her efforts through a gob full of spare ribs. It was just like the old days, when she would chase me round in circles for up to an hour, trying in vain to get me back on the lead. Ah, happy days.

* Cooky Ma tells me that Centerparcs is a heavenly, balmy oasis of fun and wonder, that every square inch of the place is filled with sunny joy, pant-wetting excitement and skippity bunnies. Drinky Ma is suspicious, however. She envisages a big communifuncentre laced with sunny Yellowcoats who encourage you to partake in quad-biking tournaments with the family from hell in the chalet next door. She knows full well that, rather like death, a Centerparcs holiday is inevitable at some point in the future, but she’s jolly well going fight it for as long as possible.

My boys (nee babies) have been on hunger strike for over 3 weeks now, which means I get most of their dinner. Great when it involves ham, chicken or big meatballs. Start fobbing me off with pasta twirls with mascarpone & tomato stir-in sauce and peas, or M&S Chicken Teddies in Breadcrumbs (I love teddies - why would I want to eat them?), or Nice Rice with Chicken (nice rice, small chicken), and I feel sad. My belly feels all rumbly and uncomfortable, and I’m not sated. A dog needs his protein, and it is for this reason, ladies and gentlemen, that a couple of balmy evenings ago, whilst my mas dined al fresco on their fluffy herby rice with la de dish of mullarkey whatsits, I stuck my face into the shrub border and scoffed a couple of cat poos. Mmmm, nice and rich and full of iron - just what I needed, and nicely grilled too. Drinky Ma didn’t care much as she has a cold and therefore her senses aren’t working as they should, but Cooky Ma’s cod in coconut milk, lime & coriander broth apparently lost its appeal around the time my little faecal snack let out a soft crunch as I bit into it.

More importantly, I’ve found my way back onto the Facebook. Well, I have some spare time, and frankly it’s the only way I can communicate with my mas at the mo. Stupid Scrabulous, silly Scramble, wretched WordTwist. Smelly CubeCrash. Even my granny has joined this social fast food restaurant. She got a laptop and some wireless internets for her birthday, and suddenly she’s unstoppable - she’s having her turn at Scrabulous every three weeks! My grandpa says he’s worried about how much the blinky lights on the router cost him, however, so he switches it off at the mains every night*. It’s playing havoc with Granny’s wireless connections.

Anyway, I’m off to see what the cats have left today (it’s going to be soggy due to the rain, but who cares). x

* I secretly think Grandpa’s switching the router off as he’s a tinsy bit jealous that the broadband signal doesn’t quite reach as far as his garage den, and so he’s still on dial-up.

Did I mention I nearly died on Saturday? No? Well, I got one of my callings from the woods at Shotover, but the wretched bunnies were so deep down in their little holes, that I had to bite through several tree roots to get to them. Suffice it to say, the roof of my mouth became attached to a horizontal branch, and I found myself unable to breathe or shut my mouth. Blood was spurting everywhere, several family members tried to wrench the damn tree trunk out of my mouth, no luck, so Cooky Ma whisked me off to the vets, whoopsie it’s shut, so she drives to the shop to get other Ma, who promptly opens my mouth and slips the tree out of my mouth as though it was a soft marshmallow.

Anyway so I took Ma off to the Polling Station this morning to pin the tail on the donkey, which she does every four years or so apparently, and we trotted into the designated small hall side by side, voting card at the ready. The room was empty but for the four officials, all sitting in plastic orange chairs that were perfectly spaced apart, tucked under two wallpaper-pasting tables that had been arranged just so. Each lovely had her own clipboard and pencil at the ready. Ma glanced at the ’smiliest’* of the four and asked: “Is it ok for my dog to come in?” (we were already in). The lady looked really quite frightened. Her brain hadn’t prepared itself for such a question, and she didn’t know what to do with it. She looked around at her comrades, and a brief interlude of teeth-sucking, mouth-twisting and nervous pencil-tapping ensued. I mean really! Finally, the furthest-away lady on the second table braved an executive decision: “As long as he doesn’t wee or poo on the floor,” she asserted, to which Ma replied haughtily, “He’s about as likely to as I am.” How humiliating!

I was so upset that I considered having a word with the door on the way out, but I thought better of it at the last minute as I spied a box of Tenalady poking out of one of the official’s handbags.

* Not very smiley at all as it goes.