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.)

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.

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.