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.)

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.

[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!

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.

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.

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.

photo3.jpg

Today I shred. At speed.

Where's my chips?

Garçon! I say, garçon! Another fillet steak!

I am Maggie. Hear me roar.