parfois c'est juste moi et la ballon

I am having a crisis of such proportion I accidentally accepted a treat from some fellow in the park before realising it was supermarket bought. Not even Waitrose. Bloody Tesco.

This is the fault of Lilli.

Lilli is a French bulldog. Her face looks like she’s run full pelt into a brick wall, she dribbles constantly and shamelessly and she can’t breathe out without sounding like a geriatric noseblow. I have wanted to say to her, ‘Darling look, the only time you should sound like that is when doing Pranayama breathing in yoga. We’re in a Fulham park not an ashram in India on a GAP year yah?'

I wanted to say this.

I tried to say this.

instead I said, 'Darling look… I think uhh… the…um… ‘ and then I froze.

I stood with my mouth open for so long some Tesco frequenter though I was begging for a treat.

The problem is that Lilli is French - proper ‘I studied philosophy at puppy class and can make peeing in a bush look chic’ French.

Damn her.

Damn her and her Gauloise smoking Parisian owner.

Damn her ability to shrug ‘bof’ in response to things I say and immediately invalidate any point I am making

(and I make very good points)

And Damn her for styling out sounding like an obese pig in a bath of truffles.

Lilli looked at me, my mouth hanging gormlessly open, and gave me a withering look.

Quickly, I tried to come up with something cutting and witty but the supermarket treat had put me all of kilter. Uhhh…ohhh... ummm ‘Bof…?’ I said hopefully and shrugged. Lilli looked a touch confused but then smiled before agreeing, ‘Bof,’ and off she trotted.

Eurika!

Now I know how to style out any uncomfortable or embarrassing situation – I just have to be French!

So I am practising….

I am practising cultivating un ennui commes les French peoples.

She walks into the sitting room and announces ‘walkies!!”

‘Pah’ I say and stare out the window.

She rolls the ball in front of me and whispers ‘wherzyerball… come on Maggiepups wherezyerball wherezyerball?’

‘Bof’ I shrug and spend the next two hours contemplating the endless meaningless of the ball and then wonder if my contemplating the ball actually gives the ball meaning,

Wow that’s deep. That’s dark. That so… so… FRENCH!

I’VE DONE IT!

I can now, with a shrug and a ‘bof’ cope with anything the world throws at me.

Now I wonder if Barbour make berets…?

Stick it

I have been presented with a stick.

Yes. A stick.

What a wonderful present.

The antelope of joy is frolicking through my soul singing disco tunes.

It’s a stick.

Perhaps once, through sheer boredom, I did show interest in a stick but clearly this has been misinterpreted.

I had been hanging around before puppy class (Her, over eager, forcing us to be 30 minutes early as usual and talking to the instructor with a ‘please love me’ grin on Her face than would embarrass a Labrador) with nothing for me to do but listen to the drone of Her voice and plan just how bad I could make Her look by peeing on the instructor’s shoes. When, eventually, I got so comatose with the dullness of the situation I was actually dribbling, I decided enough was enough and picked up a stick with the intention of jabbing her in shins with it and shutting her up.

She saw me pick up the stick, was delighted I was doing something so wonderfully and obviously ‘doggy’ and has forever more had a soft-focused dreamy look in Her eye every time we walk past a twig (although to be fair She looks like that most of the time.)

Hence the present of the stick.

I am now wondering how I can communicate to her that something you picked up from the dirt at the side of the Hammersmith underpass is not a suitable present and that actually the A/W 2013 tartan Barbour puppy coat would have been more appropriate. Perhaps a sharp jab to the shin every time we pass a puppy wearing the coat, or tripping her up outside Bishops Bark where they have them on sale. For that I would need something about a foot long and pointy at one end…

Oh my.

A stick.

What a wonderful present!

Pass the hummus, Colin.

She has ruined me.

My reputation is in more tatters than that mid-80s suede fringed jacket that haunts Her wardrobe (and my dreams).

In the park on Saturday the Pekingese twins squealed and hid behind their owner’s legs when I flounced past, Dave the Pug’s asthmatic breathing rasped from the bush he was hiding in and even the slack-jawed Boxer Jax who spends most of his days air humping and lonely tried to hide behind the tree he was ‘befriending’.

I, bien sur, trotted through with my perfectly formed head held high, enjoying the jaunty way my ears were bouncing. I was convinced that Her new day-glow self-tan made the pooches think that Donatella Versace had been released from wherever it was they kept her and was running amok in SW London looking for pelts, vodka or friends or something.

It wasn’t until we got home that I realised what the issue was.

I was happily admiring the reflection of my visage in the fridge door, turning my head this way and that while congratulating myself on the way I had seamlessly been dropping French words into conversation when She swung the door open and reached for the almond milk.

Pardon?

Where is my Organic Dutchy Waitrose-bought semi skimmed?

Where is my imported Greek yogurt with honey?

WHERE IS MY FARMERS MARKET BOUGHT RIPENED BRIE??!

...Apparently word had gotten about the park that our family had turned vegan.

Now, She & He had been toying with vegetarianism for some time. The house is full of Linda McCartney sausages and quinoa and my ‘Beefy Chunk’ dinner was changed to ‘Fish for Dog’s because, in Her addled mind, fish didn’t ‘feel’ as much cows (I’d have pointed out that she’s never actually asked a fish about this but was worried I’d be eating hummus for the next decade.)

Vegetarian … fine. I mean, practically EVERYONE lives on quinoa these days but… vegan?!?

I poured out my troubles to my old confidante Charlie Spaniel on my next river stroll and he pointed out that A. It’s probably just a fad and B. Like Russell & Bromley loafers, something like this only highlights someone’s middle-classedness.

Magnifique! Charlie was right! How more Fulham could one get than fad like veganism? Daddy I want to play tennis - daddy I hate tennis I want a pony - daddy I hate the stupid pony I want to go to Verbier to ski - daddy I HATE Verbier I want to be a vegan…

I will merely look at it as a sign that we are an upwardly mobile family and I will finally get my PA Joanna and my butler called Colin.

“Colin darling, pass the hummus… While pottering around the terrace I think I’ve just discovered a new source of plant-based nutrition – wunderbar!”

(I am tri-lingual.)

The Pocket of Shame

So this happened.

Sashaying through Fulham, catching my reflection in passing shop windows and congratulating myself on the perky yet carefree way I was holding my tail, I heard an ominous rumble. I immediately looked at Her in disgust. This was exactly the sort of noise She normally made after eating Tofurky and I had seen Her stuffing Her flushed, overexcited face with it the night before.

Oh dear I thought and gave Her a dirty look so She knew She was a Bad Girl.

Just a few jaunty steps on, right outside the most divinely chichi of furniture stores, I heard the rumble again.

Oh dear indeed.

With the hideous realisation that the noise was coming from my own delicate insides I tried to fling myself into the road. Rather go under the wheels of oncoming traffic (being Fulham, it probably would have been a Land Rover and my end would have been painful but wonderfully stylish) than toilet in front of somewhere that sold scatter cushions for £200.

Sadly I was on the lead and only succeeded in giving myself whiplash. (I am considering suing Her for this and rinsing Her for everything She’s got… which consists of mostly Argos furniture and a worryingly large collection of too-tight trousers.)

Thus I was forced to perform on the pavement and sit beside it as She rummaged through Her pockets for an appropriate bag. When She was done picking up my pile of shame She marched me up and down the street looking for a bin. Unable to find one She popped it (to my absolute horror) casually in Her pocket and continued on as if She hadn’t just committed the most godawful crime against man/ dog/ sanity/ hygiene/ Fulham.

Still aghast at Her behaviour and muttering ‘bad girl bad girl’ under my delicately perfumed breath I was dragged into Her favourite coffee shop, Tinto. As She ordered and waited for the caffeine fix that would hopefully take Her brain off standby, I was so mortified that someone might smell the horror in her pocket that I didn’t even notice everyone’s favourite underpant stretcher David Gandy strolling in.

Takeaway cup squashed in hand and coffee already dribbled down Her chin, She turned on Her strangely large feet and walked smack into him. Him being lovely and fabulous and obvs my true soul mate apologised profusely and then bent down to pet me. In those precious few seconds I tried to communicate to him (through rolling on my back and gazing up mournfully) that he should adopt me and I should live with him and really I was much prettier than Mollie whatsherface anyway.

And then.

Then I realised that by bending down to pet me he had been brought face/ nose height with The Pocket of Shame. I flipped myself over and threw myself at the door, dragging Her after me into the street. We ran all the way home – me spurred on by horror and Her exclaiming ‘Good puppy! Isn’t this fun!’ as She gaily sloshed coffee down Her ill advised top.

Mentally and physically scarred by this incident I have not been able to go to the toilet since without suffering panic-inducing flashbacks and have a crick in my neck from the whiplash (although this does make me constantly look slightly down and to the right in a delightful Princess Diana-ish way and I think I might adopt it as a permanent feature.)

The only real good to come of this incident is that, as I ran out of the coffee shop, him of the brooding pants got to see just perky my tail was. Mollie Saturdays had better watch out...

Fenton, my man, I thank you!

She has gone too far this time.

Having finally persuaded (I imagine there was much begging and wailing involved) Him to put a ring on Her hammy little mitts (that sadly taste nothing like actual ham – scandalous misrepresentation) and having harumpfed Herself off to India to offend the locals and fry herself on a beach (hands now taste nothing like bacon… most disappointing) She has returned with a pathetically earnest resolution to meditate every day, a disastrous collection of ethnic trousers and dropsy.

The meditation I shall thoroughly enjoy. While she sits cross legged on the floor I shall find my squeakiest toy and do a rendition of Orff’s Carmina Burana followed by some Tinchy Strider (because I hate to be a slave to a genre.) If that doesn’t put her off her ‘Om’ I shall sit by the front door with sad watery needy eyes (something I learned from Her when She is desperately trying to impress the other women in the park) and do my best ‘I need a poo’ whine (which is something I learned from Him).

The dropsy I made up but is a rumour I shall continue to spread.

But the trousers.

… The trousers.

Tie dye, ethnically embroidered, saggy assed, drop crotched goddamn hippy trousers.

Fine. Fine fine fine.

Fine - IF She only wore them in the house.

She has, however, been proudly parading them around the Parsons Green dog park, probably in the desperate hope that someone will ask Her where She got them and She can go ‘oh yah I got them in Goa actually’ (instead of ‘I spend my Saturday nights bidding on sad little bobbly sweat-stained second hand items on ebay’) and then all the Parsons Green-ites will go ‘Wow!’ and want to be her bezzie mates. They might even stop mocking her ham hands behind her back.

Now I have no problem with people and pooches mocking Her. None at all. Should be encouraged. Go on the National Curriculum or something. But… when we arrive at the dog park I am attached to Her by a lead. There is no disassociating myself from Her. There is no ‘no, no I’ve never met her, don’t know who she is mate… yeah, I know, trousers are bloody awful.’ She also refuses to let me off the lead around the corner so I can trot into the dog park independently. So, by association, it is me that is wearing the ethnic pants, it is me that is revelling in tie dye and it is me that has a trouser crotch that is swinging around my knees.

There is only one thing to do - create a diversion. Create a diversion of such epic proportion that no one will notice the hippy pants.

Fenton, I thank you.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bmpONxJ7JSw

On our trip to Richmond Park today I am going to take a good run at some easily spooked particularly frisky looking deer. I am going to yap and yowl and speed after them and in the commotion everyone will forget about Her ill-advised clothing.

And if I become an internet sensation with a legion of adoring fans, an interview with that cheeky little Graham Norton and my own line in hair products… so be it.

I shall use a few quid of my earnings to buy her some new trousers.

And maybe some gloves.

I stand here staring up at Her, nudging my teddy towards her feet. She’s watching reruns of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and eating cornflakes out of the packet. It isn’t even Kellogg's. It’s Tesco own brand.

According to all the available literature by now She should be able to understand simple commands (I need food. I need to go to the toilet. Pet me. Stop petting me etc…)

In fact, by now She should really be moving on to an understanding of more complex combinations of commands (Pass me the Sunday Times Style Supplement. This liver is over-cooked make me another batch. Please change the TV channel I find that man’s eyebrows disturbing etc.)

But here she is, in last season’s denim, dropping bits of cereal down her front.

I realise I’m going to have to go back to basics. I do my best ‘please throw my teddy’ face and then amplify every aspect of it by 100% - I let me mouth drop open, loll my tongue through my teeth, squeeze me eyebrows together and look painfully excited (I’m amazed I don’t pulled a muscle.)

She looks up, picks up my teddy and throws it across the room. Yes. YES! SHE’S GOT IT! Quickly (before she forgets what is going on) I repeat the sequence and YES YES YES again she throws the teddy!

Now I know it’s nothing to boast about and I certainly I wont be telling this story to the other puppies in class but I am so proud of Her today. That and the thought of the number of calories these facial contortions must be burning is keeping me sane through this pantomime.

Maybe, as a reward, I will climb on her lick her all over her face. I’m sure she would really like that. I might even pick up some cornflakes in the process.

Open letter to India Knight

Dear India,

I have looked you up on Wikipedia.

This is no more weird or stalky than Her using photographs of me to make a calendar.

At least I haven’t blown up a picture of you rolling in fox pee in the park and named it ‘Little Miss August Full of the Joys of Summer.’

Or maybe I have.

That aside, I understand that being a country of over 1.2 billion people with one of the world’s fastest growing economies and a fantastic line in spicy food must be time consuming for you.

I am amazed you find the time to write for The Times at all.

Now…Towards the end of last year you published at article entitled ‘I think I’m in love.’ It troubled me. It troubled me more than being stared at through the kitchen window by next door’s cat (it is always there – it is ALWAYS THERE.)

After reading this article I felt, for your own sake, it was of the upmost importance that I penned this open letter to you.

Like other recent open letters (O’Connor – Cyrus, Girl Called Jack - Edwina Currie etc) this has nothing to do with my own ego or my craving for attention.

Nothing to do with that.

At all.

Your best interests at heart.

Only ‘cuz I’m worried about ya kid.

Just so we’re clear.

In this article you made some rather disturbing statements about dogs:

‘Dogs… are enthusiasts. They love everything….They love grass. They love leaves (“Woah! Leaves!” they seem to say, every single time). They love sticks (“Sticks! Cooool!”). They love running and jumping and eating and having naps… and if they could talk, they would say, “Man, today is a great day,” every single day.’

Right.

Obviously we haven’t met and so I can’t expect you to be up on my own particular brand of eyebrow raised disdain for all the ‘exciting’ things you listed, and it would take me past my dinner time to address them all, so let me give you a just few pointers:

I am a dog and yet….

I do not love everything. I do not love being given a carrot as a treat (I know there is peanut butter in the fridge you selfish woman).

I have never said ‘Woah!’ in my life. The phrase died in 1991 after Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey. Let it rest in peace there.

If I could talk I would not say: ‘“Man, today is a great day.” I would be hosting my own show on BBC Radio 4.

India I could go on and on like, if you’ll excuse me, a dog with a bone. (Which I would actually be excited about. Much more excited than if presented with a stick. Or grass. Or leaves. ….Leaves? Really!?)

I think, perhaps, your misguided perception of us canines does not really come from watching your new pet pooch Brodie. You have projected these things onto him. I think it would be healthier if you were honest and admitted that in all actuality it is not Brodie but you who loves sticks. It is you who loves leaves. It is you who loves grass and using outmoded phrases from the early 90s. It is you who wakes up and thinks ‘Man, today is a great day!’ It is OK India. It is OK to be this way.

It’s not your fault.

IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT.

I know that cultural expectations have pressured you into pretending to have a dry sense of humour and writing intelligent social commentary for newspapers when all you want to be doing is jumping up at strangers and chasing a tennis ball. But it is OK. It is OK India - you can run, you can jump, you can pee in people’s shoes if that’s what you want!

So while Brodie is shredding that Jaegar dress and plotting how he can buy things from your Amazon account (do they sell kittens?) you go out there and chase that ball/ your tail/ the postman/ your dreams. And if you come back when Brodie calls and don’t chew the tassels on the carpet when he’s out then you’ll be a Good Girl and maybe he’ll give you a treat.

Maybe it’ll be a carrot.

See how ya like that.

Buggerit It's Monday

It is Monday. I am watching Her do upwards dog on Her yoga mat. Her saggy leggings and look of panic should be enough to cheer me up. I should be running around her, getting in the way and licking her face when she is trying to be Zen (if that is indeed possible in those leggings.)

Instead, I sulk. I sulk because it is Monday. But mostly I sulk because today is a day of only one breakfast.

For the last three days I have had two breakfasts.

There is little more a puppy could want. Three would be unsophisticated but two, TWO breakfasts are all I’ve ever desired in life… (Ok that is a lie, the A/W Barbour puppy coat and a Paul Smith collar would be nice too but you get the point – two breakfasts is a very good thing.)

Now normally She leaves a note for Him: ‘puppy fed.’ Simple. A note both useful and reflective of Her mental capacity.

However, for the past two days She has been giddy and glassy eyed and has forgotten to put out the ‘puppy fed’ note… And He has dutifully given me a second breakfast. I had presumed She was rabid and had been giving her a wide berth but apparently this was not the case. According to the growing number of cards on the book shelf (at least they cover up Her embarrassing collection of Science Fantasy and Philippa Gregory novels,) He and She have recently gotten engaged and She, in Her joy, has turned into a pop-eyed, squeaking skippy thing that can barely stand still let alone formulate sentences.

I found the discovery of their engagement rather underwhelming until a fat spaniel in puppy class pointed out that when they got married He, She and Me would finally all have the same surname.I would no longer be a pup with edgy artsy cohabiting owners. I would be a bona fide, double barrelled, fish cakes for supper kind of dog with a country house in Devon and possibly a butler. … I presume all this comes with having married owners. Especially the butler. I am pinning all my hopes that this is true and shall refuse to believe otherwise (no matter what that mouthy Italian Water Dog says.)

It may even turn out to be better than having two breakfasts.

(…But only if I really do get a butler…. Who I shall call Colin…. Who opens doors for me and tips his hat in a jaunty and slightly flirtatious way. Yes that would be better, even, than two breakfasts.)

[wpvideo hSN9YIs7] Something has been troubling me for some time now.

It has been causing me such awful anxiety that last week I ripped off one of Squeaky Moo’s arms and kicked her down the stairs. She didn’t mind. She understood I was frustrated. Anyway she is from Poundland and is only my 7^th best toy so she should be thankful I paid her any attention at all.

Then finally, last Sunday, I cracked.

With a quiver of emotion in my voice (which actually rather suited me) I confessed to a stocky blood hound called Suki. I knew Suki wouldn’t judge me (she can barely say her own name without unfurling her tongue to the ground) but her response filled me with hope. Quickly the whispers passed through puppy class. Shame and fear were shaken off puppy shoulders, joy abounded and pups peed freely against the agility course apparatus.

Oh good lord I thought it was just me! Oh wow. You too? What the..? I mean why do they do it? It comes out for a reason - I mean just leave it there. Seriously. You can really just leave it there. Please. Please. Just leave it there. No no no no don’t !Ooh god no don’t pick it up what’s wrong with you!? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!? Oh no. No no no don’t carry it with us just put it down. PUT THE POO DOWN. No. NO! Bad human. BAD HUMAN!

We had all experienced the same thing. I thought it just poor deranged Her. Picking up my poo at 6am in her high viz and brogues (dressed half for work, half for a run – one or the other dear – and just because you put an oversized coat over it doesn’t mean people don’t notice.)

But no - each and every one of us had been going through the same trauma. Now we are no closer to finding out why they insist on doing this but it has led me to conduct a few little experiments.

I have been dropping things to see if She will pick them up. I drop my ball at Her feet. She picks it up. I bring over the remote control and drop it (I actually really want her to turn off The Great British Bake off – it’s making Her drool and that Paul one gives me the fear) – and she picks it up.

So this morning I took teddy for our walk. Strolling along the Thames path I wait until there are plenty of people about and then drop him. I give a little shimmy and walk on. Yes. YES! She picks teddy up and has to carry him for the rest of the walk. People stare. There are a few sniggers. ‘Look look! She’s carrying a teddy bear! Oh dear that’s a bit sad. Isn’t she too old for that? And why is she wearing brogues with her gym kit?’

I am still mortified She insists on bagging anything that drops from my rear end but oh my, watching Her stroll through Hammersmith carrying a teddy bear to the ridiculing whispers of passers-by certainly evens things out. Now I just need to figure out what else I can make her carry.

'Look there's a woman carrying a signed poster of One Direction!'

'Look there's a woman carrying a floral bathmat in last season's colours!'

'Look there's a woman carrying a Great British Bake Off magazine with a photo of Paul Hollywood on the front.... RUN!'

Oh the possibilities are endless!

Excuse me, could someone please explain...

Could someone please explain why I have lost 6lbs (of fur) and smell of lavender?

‘A light trim, keep the shape and not too much off the top’ is what I asked for - not, ‘let’s get military on this.’

Now that I have been stripped of my sophisticated salt and pepper wire topcoat I am horrified to find that my undercoat is… well… ginger.

I’m telling myself it’s a fiery Celtic auburn but yesterday I was sniffing in a basket of oranges at the market and was disgusted to realise I blended in perfectly. (I was also disgusted that She didn’t know the difference between Valencia and Navel but really I should lower my expectations of her and just be happy when She gets my name right.)

There is, however, one fabulous positive of my new ginger status - I also blend seamlessly into the floorboards in the hallway….. Tonight I intend to lie there, camouflaged, and when She walks past I will roar wildly and leap up - scaring the (badly fitting) pants off her! … Her terrified screams and flailing limbs will make my gingerness almost worthwhile.

I do like to find a positive in every situation.

Sausage Face?

[wpvideo 8eGFDhx6] Wee Mags

The Magatron

Whiney Pants

Yogurt breath

Sausage Face….

…

SAUSAGE FACE!?

This is what I have to put up with.

My name is Maggie and, yes, sometimes my breath smells of yogurt and yes sometimes I whine (For legitimate reasons only and I do have to insist that the whining comes from my throat and not, as described, from my pants…. Someone needs to buy the girl an anatomy book.)

But Sausage Face??!

This is abuse.

Also, she has started ‘doing’ my voice.

Today I think I was supposed to be Mexican but really it sounded Welsh. Yesterday it was like I was doing a terrible impression of an East End barrow boy: ‘awight darhlin’ wood yow like to buy some ‘addock… five paaahnds only a pony.’

Reidiculous. I don’t even like haddock. Or ponies.

For revenge from this gut churning humiliation I followed her round the house for half an hour repeatedly squeaking my pet snake.

She seemed amused and then quickly became irritated to the point of panic… which is pretty much how I feel when I have to listen to her do these goddawful impressions.

I think I have made my point.

The humanity

It is Monday. Again.

I lie here disconsolate and sighing and, what with them busying themselves with bicycle pumps and truly fascinating conversations about who’s bircher museli pot has more cinnamon, they fail to notice my anguish….

After a weekend of long walks, muddy paws and bonding, this abandonment feels especially cold. I even bloody pretended to enjoy chasing the luminous yellow ball they kept chucking down the river path on Sunday. She was so pathetically eager every time she threw it [badly] and cooed ‘fetch Maggie fetch puppy good puppy,’ I didn’t have the heart to do what I wanted and drop it in the Thames. Finally, seeing it stolen by a whippet who sprinted off with it, watching her thunder down the path chasing said whippet and calling ‘excuse me oh excuse me sorry sorry’ to no avail, filled me with a warmth and cheer I haven’t experienced since I first discovered the chewable tassels on the hall carpet.

Still. They are leaving. And I am sad.

I take some comfort in the fact that his shirt really does not go with his trousers and that her cycle gloves and leather jacket make her look like an extra from Michael Jackson’s Bad, but not even that can really alleviate the funk I’m in... Apart from maybe plotting their downfall... and chewing the hall carpet tassels... and weeing under the bed.

Yes, that is what I will do. … Maybe this isn’t going to be such a awful day after all.

Quick! Look cute!

It continues.

I climb on the bed and no one says 'no' or 'down puppy' any more.

I am suspicious.

I have ventured up to the pillows and been shooed back to the end of the bed but now... now there is no cold floor while they read their trash novels. No banishment to the plastic covered fake wood floorboards (I made the mistake of peeing on them once and the flood practically engulfed me. Horrifying. Real wood would be so much classier not to mention more absorbent.)

So, while they drone on about Caitlin Moran's latest article 'why wearing DM Boots past the age of 40 is a sign of intelligence [not a cry for help]'', I lie here... looking cute.

I figure the cuter I look the less likely I will be dumped back on the floor - so I wriggle on my back, flop my paws about like an idiot, tilt my head to the side and gaze at them adoringly... All the while plotting how I can usurp them from their pillowed thrones.

It is Monday morning.

She is wearing the hideous high viz. This is worse than the wax jacket but at least she doesn't insist on wearing it while we are out on walks. She has put bright yellow bands around her ankles and a helmet on with a picture of a fox printed on it. I presume this is in some reference to being an 'urban fox' - someone should point out to her just how hilariously the high viz undermines this image.

I, however, have other things on my mind. I know what this disastrous fashion combination means. She is leaving.

Obviously I don't care about this. I am a happy care-free independent puppy and far too entertained by life to worry about her comings and goings. In fact it's a relief when she takes the high viz down from the peg on the wall - it means I don't have to squint when I walk in the room.

But Teddy….. Teddy gets so upset. He mopes about, won’t eat his treats or play with his toys and just lies in the hallway sighing heavily until one of them returns. This is teddy. Not me. Yes. Teddy.

So this morning I helped Teddy express his pain by wedging him under the front wheel of her bicycle. I then sat staring at her saying 'bad owner bad owner' over and over in my head so she knows what she has done.

If she moves her bike she will kill Teddy and she will feel so bad she will have to stay at home and play with me. If she takes pity on him she will not move her bike not go to work…. and will have to stay at home and play with me. (Either way I’ll make her take the high viz off first at risk of blinding me… and just because it is… really… so hideous.)

I understand that in one of these options Teddy doesn’t come off so well and either way I win but really I am doing this for Teddy. Not me. Yes. Teddy.

Worth Pawning?

They insist on putting down only old newspapers in my bedroom at night and while I am grateful for some reading material while I'm on the loo [who isn't?] it has put me at a serious social disadvantage. Last week in puppy class while everyone was discussing riots in Brazil and Tamara's wedding I bounced in berating David Beckham for wearing a turquoise sarong... Only to find out it was a photo from 1998. Mortified.

So... while browsing the old news the other day I spotted a picture of ginger racket swinger Andy Murray and his border terriers. The borders had his Olympic medals around their necks and the article said that the combined cost of the medals was around £850.

Jolly good I thought and went off to rummage through the household medal box. On biting down on several of the medals I discovered much to my disgust that they were made of cheap aluminium or (I still shudder at the taste) plastic.

Michael at the Munster Rd Pawn Shop has seen many things but I couldn't bear the shame of presenting him with those... Not even the new Barbour puppy coat is worth that.

So, tonight, I shall instead take fabulous pleasure in peeing on Andy Murray and his smug border terrier's faces.

¿dónde está la playa

It is the Easter holidays.

During this period I will not come when I am called.

I will sit on the other side of the park and stare at Her.

She can make her voice as high pitched and exciting as She wants.

I will not buckle. I will not bend. I will not come.

Stuff Her.

Stuff Her and Her low grade supermarket treats.

Stuff Her and Her embarrassing footwear choices.

Stuff Her and Her sports sunglasses on a Thursday morning stroll… are you doing sport right now? Are you?!

And most importantly STUFF HER for taking me to the banks of the Thames and claiming it as my holiday.

Bailey the Poodle with digestive problems has gone to France where digestive problems are celebrated with Gauloises and brie (I’ve heard everything is celebrated with Gauloises and brie – possibly accounting for the digestive problems.)

Chocolate Lab Coco is off to Australia for a whole year with her family to ‘travel.’ Apparently she’s finally going to have time to write her novel. (I put money on her coming home in 6 months with an ethnic tattoo and puppies.)

And finally, Charlie Spaniel is going to Lanzarote.

I snorted when I he told me and asked if he had packed his Union Jack collar but apparently Lanzarote is where David Cameron and Sam Cam are going this Easter and it’s actually visually stunning and culturally rich…

BUGGER

‘Wow you must be excited’! I chirped sweetly

‘Ya, ya, actually we’re having dinner with Big Dave and Sammy on the Friday.’

‘Oh… Oh wow… ah… you know The Cams don’t have a dog, right?’

‘Ya, they have a cat, um, Larry I think he is, not coming though, not a good flier.’

‘Yeah yeah I’d heard that. … But, um, you know why they don’t have a dog?’

‘Because of Larry yeah? Ole Lazza.’

‘Yeeeeaaaahhhhh…’

‘What?.... ‘

‘Nothing…’

‘WHAT?’

‘Well you know they eat dogs yeah?’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, the Camerons. Dog munchers. Both of them.’

‘What… seriously?’

‘S’why the Obamas never bring Bo to visit. Can’t trust Dave with him’

‘Seriously!?’

‘Yeeeah. Sam Cam is big into puppy ears too. Good for dipping’

‘Oh my… I have…. But I have huge lovely spaniel ears’

‘Yup, yup you do…. ‘

‘Oh oh oh wow… I should buy a hat or or or something’

…‘Yeah, that’ll help….’

And off I trotted.

OK so I could have just said ‘bon voyage’ and styled out my holiday on the Thames riverbed as a ‘staycation’ but firstly staycationing is so 2012 and secondly, well hey, it wouldn’t have been as much fun.

Today is a day for learning...

On my morning walk by the river I trotted over to say hello to Charlie Spaniel. Charlie has two dads which is wonderfully on trend and I have considered writing to Dave and Elton to see if they will adopt me but the thought of having to listen to Candle in the Wind on repeat at dinner parties makes me feel rather ill. I think I might actually pass as having two dads as from the way She walks most people assume She is a man anyway. I am also pretty sure I once heard her answer to the name 'Matthew.'

Anyway Charlie, in the midst of his morning ablutions, explained to me that peeing on something makes it belong to you. I don’t like to have things explained to me so replied ‘I know you are but what am I?’ which apparently isn’t an appropriate use of the phrase but when my main source of conversation is Her I don’t know how I am expected to cope…

When he left I tried out Charlie’s theory by peeing on a patch of wall. The wall then smelt of me - so obviously it belonged to me too. Well this is just wonderful! I proceeded to pee on anything I liked the look of….

I am now the proud owner of an Aston Martin DB9 with cream leather interior, Fulham Football Club (I shall immediately reinstate the Michael Jackson statue to prove that I have a sense of humour – no matter what that tubby Labrador in puppy class says - and no I wasn’t named after Margaret Thatcher - and no it isn’t funny to tell people I was,) and a small but rather jolly woman called Eileen.

I, however, now belong to Charlie Spaniel but I’m hoping the oatmeal shampoo will wash that off...

Today?... Today I need a hug.

I would like to be spouting acerbic opinions on the waxed jacket she insists on wearing on EVERY walk (this is Hammersmith not the murky muddy wilds of the Yorkshire moors) but I shant. My teeth hurt. And I need a hug. I do not like this pain. I cannot eat my dry food. She has tried other options but there is only so much scrambled egg and cottage cheese one puppy can deal with in a day. I tipped the last bowl over her foot to express this point. She understood and gave me a hug. For this I will forgive her the waxed jacket...

Sometimes all you can do is smack yourself repeatedly in the head with a knotted rope

[wpvideo G3V2Kx3K] It's Monday.

I have been given a new toy.

It is a length of rope tied in a large knot. It must have cost all of £2.50.

These frivolous people spent their money this weekend in coffee shops (did anyone offer me a latte?) on Sunday newspapers (I shredded the Sports section so they would know just what I thought of being made to watch the Lions tour matches) and on vast weighty bags of food from Tesco ( I was made to stand outside while 'the other one' held the lead and got me to do tricks to entertain passing children. The unbridled humiliation and sticky fingers petting my fur still haunt me now.)

The only way I have been able to deal with the repressed feelings from this weekend is to bash myself in the head with this cheap toy.

... Actually...

This feels quite good.

Pardon?

Today I was summoned upstairs.

They were both sitting on the bed and grinning like loons. She was giddily swinging her legs. She is over 30 and this is in no way appropriate but I held back from passing comment because I could tell something sinister was afoot...

Several weeks before this I had tried to scramble up on the bed and was told 'no' and put back down on the floor. I had tried again in the knowledge that my overwhelming cuteness was hard to resist. They again said 'no' ... So I found my teddy with the squeaky bum, dragged it back upstairs and lay under the bed squeaking it loudly until they gave up trying to read the Sunday supplements (I swear she only looks at the pictures anyway) and took me for a walk.

Today, however, they appeared to be encouraging me to jump up on the bed. I sat and stared at them suspiciously. He walked over, picked me up and plonked me on the covers while saying 'good puppy' over and over.

So I am sitting here.

I am perturbed. But I am comfy.