POSTSCRIPT to ‘The Diary of a Dog’FencingandMats
As some time has passed since my great scribble project, I am sure you’d like to know the current state of play. Well, first of all, spring still hasn’t arrived, even though British Summer Time has; and even the swallows have returned! The winds have been icier and more cutting than in January, and it is always raining, and if it’s not, then it’s drizzling. Yuk!
I feel so healthy and full of beans that it’s spurt or bounce everywhere, and it’s up and out at every opportunity. I can even, finally, run Willow into the ground. In the rear department, my tail usually resembles a demented windscreen wiper. Of course, it goes without saying that my face is constantly split in half with a smile, for life just couldn’t be better. Our bundles, always instigated by me I might add, are really energetic; and we’ve taken to sharing our beds.
Wills has given up mining and taken to hunting instead. Her main areas are the canyon behind the stables and the laurel hedge: her bag to date being five bunnies. That hedge is worrying Bertie, for it is the Belgium to his Maginot Line onto the road, and he gets very twitchy. Incidentally, he’s still not twigged how I can get through the front gate defences.
Rather like the bog rolls of yore, I’ve taken to gardening. The warehouseman is bashing into it for its annual wash and brush up, and the quad bike is working overtime. He doesn’t seem to appreciate my efforts to help a little bit. In fact, he gets quite shirty; but, happily, it’s Wills who gets the flak. These being a classic case of “give a dog a bad name” of course.
It goes without saying that the change of times is playing havoc with my toilet arrangements.
No more crashing into the board fence either, for the adventurous pussy cat, who caused us such angst, was wandering in the road and a car ran it over. That’s one aggravation less for the other is too timid to venture out alone.
Domestically, we still ricochet from one disaster to the next; the latest being yet another go at cooking tapioca – when the precious and irreplaceable little blue Poole Pottery container shattered in the intense heat of the top oven. He followed that by making a second batch, which came out all lumpy. He’ll never learn, of course, he’s too senile for that, and why this perseverance with tapioca I ask? He decided that the printer had shot it, so bought a new one, but then the old one got over its sulk, and is now working again, but only AFTER he’d unpacked the new one and burnt all the packaging! He did turn over the utility room and, like Dr. Livingston, finally located the source of the worst icicle though. The remaining one is a mere zephyr.
On the squeaky ball front, there was an atmosphere so Bertie bought Willow one. It’s smaller, squeakier and ovoid-shaped – just perfect to take for an extended run which I do all the time; for Wills may well snarl but she’ll never actually fight for it – so there’s now even more of an atmosphere.
Yesterday I took it for our morning walk and it obviously loved the burn-ups, for it squeaked away like mad all the time. Then he pulled a fast one on us by buying her an even nicer squeaking bone which, obviously, I instantly purloined. Now there is a dilemma which squeaky to claim? Think I’ll leave her the ovoid and concentrate on the bone; or perhaps the bone and let her have the ovoid. Wills is being very difficult about the whole thing. The original squeaky ball, of course, is absolutely last week and lying unloved in a corner of the kitchen.
Well, that’s about it Ta ta.