Begging

Mum says I should stop begging. I heard her complain to Uncle Hugh that I’m obsessed with food these days and that it’s his fault “if you’d stop throwing him bits of your food whilst you’re eating he wouldn’t beg. Sam never begged…” Then she goes on about how her old dog, Sam, never begged, was never naughty, always came when she called him, never had fleas, never stole her socks, didn’t attack Rottweillers, nah nah nah nah….. HE WAS A LABRADOR! Labradors are notoriously biddable. They don’t have a mind of their own. Not like us terrier types.

Anyway, back to begging. It’s not begging really. I’m not asking for food. I just sit and wait for food to drop on the floor. What’s wrong with that? If I didn’t hoover it up, that sucking Dyson thing would have to. She moans about me begging, but she moans about having to suck the floor too. She would have to suck it more often if I didn’t hoover up all the bits.

People beg. I know they do. But when people do it, they’re called ‘bloody beggars’. That’s what mum calls them. Mum once took me to the Saturday farmer’s market in the local town where we live in France (she kept saying “never again, never again” – she didn’t seem to like it when I peed on the stalls and had a big argument with a German Shepherd - but it’s what us dogs do). Anyway, there were some ‘bloody beggars’ at this market and they seemed pretty happy to me. They wore Nike trainers and Gucci sunglasses. I know ‘cause mum complained about it to Uncle Hugh. I thought mum liked Gucci, or is it Pucci? Or Nucci? Anyway, if humans can beg, why can’t I?

She’s started locking me in the lounge now when they eat in the kitchen. It’s not fair. Mind you, when she goes back to the UK, which she has to do from time to time, Uncle Hugh will let me beg. Uncle Hugh lets me do anything I want. I like Uncle Hugh.