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…?

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...

[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.

shhh....

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...

Where's my chips?

Garçon! I say, garçon! Another fillet steak!