Henry The Dog Blog

I may be gone some time........

2009-03-28T15:20:00.004+01:00

Well it’s ‘au revoir’ folks for a while. My mum explains it all on her blog here Henry the Dog's Mum. I think things aren’t going too well for her and UHugh, but they could be much worse. I’m going into the kennels whilst she goes over to the UK, but even when I get back I may not be able to blog for a while.

In the meantime, I want to thank Dumdad from The Other Side of Paris for two more awards.

As you know, I don’t normally pass awards on, but this time I’m going to make an exception. I’m going to pass them both on and bugger the rules that are attached to each award. It won't hurt for once to break them.

All my human bloggers have got cupboards full of trophies, and all well deserved, so you don’t need any.

So, I’m going to pass these awards on to all my doggy pals – and if I forget any of you, pop along and pick them up anyway

The first one is the Premio Dardos Award. Premio Dardos apparently means “prize darts” in Spanish. It is given for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing. That can't be me - it sounds much too grand, but hey, what the hell. I AM grand. And so are my doggy pals.

The second award is this one.

The premise of this award is blogs that one couldn't miss each morning.

So they BOTH go to:

Life of Stubby Stubby’s a real ‘eco warrior’ and very good pal.

Clive who is a true hero, a working dog who brings a ray of sunshine into the life of ‘Little Man’

Frankly Speaking – my friend Frankie Furter – a little Daschund who does stuff for charity and makes me feel humble.

Minnie-Moo – the rescue lab, who’s simply great fun and quite a babe.

Detroit Dog – because they do good things for dogs and it was one of the first blogs I started to follow

Ruby Isabella Jones – I love her philosophy, and she’s also a babe.

Scruff the Wonder Dog – a new find, and mum thinks he’s cute.

Baby Vodka – mum says he’s the cutest mini schnauzer she’s seen (other than me of course)

Finding Sirius – a lovely blog about a rescue dog & other rescue dogs & worthy causes – you must pop over there and have a look. The photographs and stories are enchanting.

NONE OF YOU HAS TO PASS THE AWARDS ON. They’re simply for you to keep in your trophy cupboard.

Ok, so I’ll be off.

Au revoir & HOPE to see you again one day soon.

(I'll be lurking)

Life in the year 3000

2009-03-25T09:44:00.003+01:00

Mum and Uncle Hugh were talking about some strange stuff last night whilst they were drinking their grape juice at the bar. It’s not really a bar. They call it ‘the bar’ it’s just a wooden sideboard thingumajig that they put their drinks on whilst they stand chatting. I think it represents a pub they used to go to in the UK on a Friday night and ‘prop the bar up’ as Uncle Hugh used to put it. They don’t have pubs in France. Not in these parts.
Anyway…I’m digressing.

So, as I was saying, they were talking about strange stuff. They were talking about what life might be like in the year 3000. It made my doggy brain a bit dizzy thinking about it, because we’re only in 2009, right? So 3000 seems like a long way away. Considering I can only count up to 10. I wonder if we’ll still be living in France? I mean, I’ve only been alive for (nearly) four years and I’ve already lived in three countries, so I doubt it somehow knowing my mum. I reckon by the year 3000 we might have lived in quite a few more places.
Anyway….I’m digressing again.

They were talking about stuff like time travel, and whether or not it will be possible in 3000. They were talking about virtual reality and how people wouldn’t go on real holidays because there wouldn’t be any point when all they’d have to do is log into the latest ‘Holiday’ software programme. They were talking about cities being built inside pods. They were talking about humans being microchipped at birth. What’s new about that? I was microchipped not long after I was born. That’s hardly rocket science n’est-ce pas?

I started wondering about what life will be like for a dog in 3000. Maybe we’ll have flying beds. I could sit in my bed and press a button and it could fly from the kitchen to the lounge and back again. That’d be fun. Maybe they’ll invent special toys that never wear out and would morph into something different whenever I get bored with them. Or maybe we’ll be taken on virtual walks and play with virtual toys. That wouldn’t be much fun, but young dogs wouldn’t know any different would they? Not if they were born in those days.

What do you think life will be like in the year 3000?

As long as I’m not expected to eat virtual food, I think I’ll cope.

Mum found me cuddled up on the sofa yesterday:

I asked her to tickle my tum:

Then I had a stretch:

A grand day out

2009-03-23T09:30:00.008+01:00

It was Mother’s Day yesterday in the UK so I decided to celebrate it here in France too and took mum out for a picnic.

Ok…ok…it wasn’t MY decision. Not exactly. It was Uncle Hugh’s – but I had been transmitting thought-waves his way. I’d been thinking really hard, “Take mum out somewhere nice” because they’d not done anything together for a while and mum seemed a bit maudlin.

Anyway, I knew something was going on because mum was packing plates and knives & forks and stuff and so I got all giddy because I reckoned it was going to be a PICNIC and when there’s a PICNIC mum sometimes stops being strict and she lets Uncle Hugh give me titbits. So I ran round and round in a hyper way, and mum called me “Crazy Dog” and blamed it on the Haribo Jellies that Uncle Hugh had given me the night before.

Then we all piled into the car and I was a bit miffed ‘cause when Uncle Hugh is in the car with mum, I’m relegated to the back seat. I don’t like the back seat ‘cause once mum had to brake really quickly for a bad French motorist and I flew off the seat and shot under the passenger seat and bumped my head. Now mum always puts my bed on the back seat (for “padding”) and makes Uncle Hugh put his passenger seat right back, so I can’t slip under it, then she puts a pillow in the space between the drivers seat and the back seat. Bloody palaver. If she’d just buy one of those posh doggy safety seats, it’d do the trick. But mum’s skint at the moment. But she wasn’t once…..I’m digressing.

Then we set off.

We ended up in this lovely place, where we went for a long walk by the side of a canal, and there were loads of new smells. I get excited about new places because there’s always new stuff to sniff.

Then we had to find mum somewhere to pee. She found a big bush.

Then we found this picnic spot and there was a boat called Henri. Honest. We all laughed. Here it is:

It was a great picnic. I found some really old bread and meat that had been left by another picnic, some time ago judging by the smell of the meat – mum said “DROP!” in her Alpha Bitch voice. I swallowed.

There were some ducks too, but they were scolding me in a very strange language, and it wasn’t French, they were going “NYAKNYAKNYAKNYAKNYAK”. Naughty little buggers. I would have given them the finger if I had one.

On the way back mum got a bit lost but she's glad she did because she found a lovely little village, where we had a stroll. It was great. There were tons of dog poo on the pavements. Mum stood in some and said "Shit!". Quite appropriate n'est-ce pas?

Here's that lovely little village with the poo:

Here’s a butt shot for my lady fans – I’m not keen on water – I was a tad wary.

Here’s me waiting for titbits.

Here’s another gratuitous butt shot.

Yep, it was a grand day out

Not going to the kennels this week

2009-03-21T11:43:00.005+01:00

I’m not going to the kennels, I’m staying here this week. Mum has just let me know and I’m really chuffed, because it means I can have ‘Fingers of Fun’ and Haribo Jellies with Uncle Hugh this evening.

The trouble is, I’d not planned to post anything on my blog other than to say ‘Goodbye Folks’ so now I’m a bit lost for words, which isn’t like me. So you can either go over to mum's blog and see what she has to say on the matter or you can simply enjoy the photos.

Me having a rest:

Mum discovered this one of me as a pup - she found it on UHugh's old mobile phone, it's the only one she has:

This one is proof that even cats love me.....

Right I'm going for a walk now with mum. See you Sunday.

I've been poorly and Mum nearly choked.

2009-03-19T12:28:00.006+01:00

That's me looking a bit sorry for myself. I'm alright now.

I’ve been vomiting. Well, I’m a dog, so it happens from time to time. We dogs tend to eat stuff that we shouldn’t. In fact, when we vomit we even eat that – sorry folks. Too much info, I know. But eating stuff we shouldn’t is what we do best. Mum always says “DROP!” in her very firm Alpha Bitch voice if she sees me eating stuff that I find when we’re out walking, but I’ve worked out that when she says, “DROP!” if I swallow at that point, she simply sighs and says, “You little bugger.” So, I tend to get away with it unless it’s too big to swallow, then I have to drop it. Then I get praise but she doesn’t give me a treat to compensate for dropping the tasty morsel, so I sometimes wonder if it’s worth doing as I’m told.

Anyway, as I said, I’ve been vomiting because I found some really old stuff that smelled quite strong and made me think of very dead things.

Luckily, mum’s house has tiled floors.

So, I ate lots of grass and vomited that up too. Uncle Hugh said “Yuk!” Mum said “Fook!” Mum cleaned it up. Mum always does.

Then mum nearly choked. Uncle Hugh gave her a piece of ham and she started chewing then all of a sudden, she stood up and said, “I’ve got a problem”.

Don’t tell her, but I laughed my socks off. I know it wasn’t supposed to be funny but her face went all red and she started shaking and panicking and flapping her hands around like something injured whilst saying to Uncle Hugh
“It’s stuck, it’s stuck. It feels as if it’s hovering between my ossofoguss and my windpipe (what’s an ossofoguss?) if it goes the wrong way do you know the highmlick manoover?” (what’s that?) I think mum’s been Googling stuff again. She tends to have stuff wrong with her after a session of Googling.

Anyway, Uncle Hugh says, “Of course I do, stop panicking. Here, eat some bread.” And I’m wondering why eating bread would help. So she starts eating bread and drinking water and her hands are shaking and she’s saying, in a rather screechy strangled voice, “It’s still there, it’s not going, it’s getting worse….” Then she coughed and this great big lump of ham shot out of her mouth and onto the floor, and I thought “Yum!” so I ate it.

They both looked at me as if I were some kind of grotesque monster and I’m thinking “What?” I mean, I reckon it was fair game. She didn’t want it, did she? It had been upsetting her. She seemed glad to have got rid of it.

The Law According to Henry – if it falls on the floor, it’s fair game, unless mum says, “LEAVE!” first in her Alpha Bitch voice.

Now for a cute video of me trying to get mum’s attention whilst she was on the computer yesterday morning. I was hungry after all that vomiting.

Trying it on? Moi?

2009-03-16T10:24:00.006+01:00

Trying it on? Moi?

Mum says I’ve been “Trying it on” a few times since I got back from the kennels all shorn and cute. How COULD she? I’m not like that. Would I?

Ok, I concede, perhaps I HAVE been trying it on – a tad.

As you know, a couple of weeks up to my going into the kennels my fur was very long and dense and we had a few warm sunny days. Hence, quite a few times into my daily walk (usually on the way back) I’d get all overheated and feel a bit light-headed. So I’d fling myself down into some shade and refuse to budge. When mum tried to get me to move I’d give her my “How could you torture something as cute as me?” look.

Result? Mum would telephone Uncle Hugh and he’d come in mum’s car and pick us up. I’d get a nice cool ride back home – the aircon blowing a lovely cool breeze on my hot brow. Result!

Well. As you know, my coat is now shorn and whilst it’s been sunny, it’s not been that warm, so I’ve not got that as an excuse. BUT – mum walks fast. Mum is also walking faster than usual – something to do with making up for eating and drinking like a pig in the UK. Was she???? I must read her blog. Anyway, she walks fast, and every walk is at least four miles. She’s got really long legs, mine are short. Plus, I’m running all the time. So I reckon it’s more tiring for me…..(I’ll get to the point eventually)….. So, the last couple of times when I got a bit tired on the way back from my walk I thought that if I looked all hot and bothered and sat down, she’d simply ring Uncle Hugh and “Hey Presto!” little silver car with aircon would come and pick us up.

Wrong! Instead, mum gave me her ‘Knowing’ look and said “You little bugger. I know what you’re doing” at which point I tried to look all innocent and simply panted more, hoping I could fool her. No. It didn’t. A rather hefty tug and a brusque “Walk On!” got me going. I don’t think I’d better ‘Try it on’ again. She’s not daft. Well, not all the time.

Mum and me get excited about different things when we’re out walking.

This is what I get excited about.

Flat, dead frog. It didn’t smell that exciting because it was a bit too fresh. Maybe in a few days time.

This was a bit of used kitchen roll, which smelled of baby sick. Wonderful!

This is what mum gets excited about:

Boring.

This is me trying to get at mum’s socks whilst she’s trying to put them on. I can’t resist socks.

(PS: the weighing scales have been out since they went to the UK - they are slack aren't they?)

I reckon I'm the only dog on this planet with a Dummy

2009-03-15T12:14:00.005+01:00

But I might be wrong. I'll await verification of that from the wonderful Dumdad from The Other Side of Paris who awarded me this very prestigious Dummy. Apparently it's the blogging equivalent of an Oscar, so I am well chuffed.

Mum only told me about it yesterday evening, and this is how I reacted (actually I was also getting excited about Uncle Hugh's 'farting hands' - they always make me go a bit hyper). Also, please excuse mum's very noisy and embarrassing laugh (French Fancy, keep muted). I think she was drunk:

Yes, Uncle Hugh is in his Jim Jams again. He is not a slob, honest:)

Hello again everyone.

2009-03-14T11:44:00.005+01:00

Well, I’m back and I just want to say that I know about Braja, and at first I was really sad. But then I prayed to God Rex, so everything’s going to be fine – don’t you folks worry. And I’m sending her a special photo of me. So that’ll definitely sort it. She’ll be up and about in no time.

As you can see, I’ve been clipped and I reckon I look like a right ‘babe magnet’. If you remember last time mum picked me up from the kennels I looked a bit like this:

Mum rudely said that I stank and then she put me in the shower. This time she said I look good enough to eat. I don’t think you should take that in the literal sense. Mum says things like that, but she never means them. She also says stuff like “I could kill you, you little bastard”, or, “If you don’t come here RIGHT NOW, I’ll wring your neck.” But I’m still here. She’s all bluster. She’s never laid a finger on me. I don’t take her seriously. Well, I do sometimes. But not often. I humour her, mostly.

Well, you finally met my mum. I love her to pieces but she does have a tendency to go on doesn’t she? She talks a lot my mum. And she’s a bit gushing, but she can’t help that. She does try and rein her ‘over enthusiasm’ back, but sometimes she forgets. Anyway, enough of her. I’m the star. On with the game.

As usual, Kennels was brill and I got thoroughly spoiled by James and Jane. There was also an added bonus that their little pup had a really bad cold, and a constant runny nose. So I helped him out from time to time with that, which made Jane go all religious on me. She kept saying “Oh my God” every time I did it. Her little pup’s just the right height at the moment.

Rog wasn’t there. Pity. But I had loads of bitches in my harem this time. One, called Lulu, was a Pomeranian crossed with a Yorkie. Now she was a strange looking thing. She looked a bit like a bedraggled ‘pompom’. But she was quite cute in a dirty way, and she spoke good English.

Lulu taught me about False Friends. She called them “foesamee”. False Friends are French words that seem to be the same as English ones, but they aren’t. And you can get yourself in a bit of a pickle if you don’t know them. She said that there is one false friend that us English folk get wrong a lot. And that is ‘préservatif’. She says that in France it means ‘condom’, which is a bit rude (I found out). Now I know why mum’s friends fell about laughing that morning when mum told them that the jam didn’t have any added preservatives in it.

Here are a few more:

Actuellement – in French means ‘at the present time’, whereas when we say ‘actually’ we sometimes use it to mean ‘in fact’, which is actually ‘en fait’ in French.

Ballot – means a bundle or package, not a way of voting.

Ancien – can mean ‘former’ as opposed to old. It depends where it comes – before or after the noun. I don’t know what a noun is (I’m simply quoting Lulu).

Right, I’m a bit bored now. If you’re interested there are a few more HERE.

Meanwhile, I’m off for a much needed walk because I've not had my morning poo yet. And I'd quite like some bonding time with my mum.

It's good to be home and I'm looking forward to catching up with my favourite bloggers.

I'm packed and ready to go....

2009-03-07T09:32:00.002+01:00

The bag on the left was a present from the lovely Braja. Before that, mum used to shove my toys and stuff in a common carrier bag. Now I’ve got a proper bag, all the way from India. That's my food tin on the right - the most important thing!

As I said, I’m packed and ready to go. Well, I’m packed, but I’M not ready to go. I’d rather stay here cuddled up in mum’s ironing.

Mum grumbles that I always sit on her ironing. I guess she’s right. It smells nice. It smells like outside.

I’ll be gone until 14th March, but mum will be blogging about her new experiences in the UK – so expect a lot of moaning…..only kidding. To be fair to her, she seldom moans. But she does rant from time to time.

Au Revoir and see you soon.

MUM’S BLOG: Henry the Dog's Mum – why not drop in and say hello?

My mum's a dummy!

2009-03-04T16:00:00.004+01:00

Are you a dummy like mum?

Mum bought this book to try and learn stuff so that one day folk might think she’s intelligent. It’s not worked, she’s in a right tizz. Uncle Hugh’s in Switzerland so I’m having to put up with her all by myself and she was almost CRYING this morning after reading it. Her face looked all hot and red.

“This is for Dummies,” she cried, “and I still don’t understand it. That means I’m less than a Dummy. What’s less than a Dummy? Billy no brains? I don’t think there’s anything rattling around up here, Henry. I think it’s empty. Tell me you think I’m smart, please….” and she started blubbering.

Well, what could I say? Nothing, of course. I just looked at her. Then she had the cheek to say, “Stop looking at me as if I were an injured puppy!” Honestly, it’s not even PMS time. If it was, I could understand, but it isn’t.

Why does she want to know stuff about Physics anyway? And what did she really expect? That she’d read it and ‘hey presto’ she’d turn into a Rocket Scientist? I wanted to say, “Wait until Uncle Hugh gets home and he’ll explain all the stuff you can’t understand.” Then after thinking about how that simple, harmless sentence might have been received, I thought that perhaps it’s a good job I can’t speak.

I think she might be a bit anxious about going back to the yUK this Sunday. She might be worried about how she’ll fit back into a 9-5 office role and wondering what it is she’ll actually be doing. I don’t know. I do know that she’s stressing that she hasn’t got any ‘work clothes’ anymore. Honestly mum, you do stress about some daft things.

I’ve been wondering about my blogging when I’m away. I can’t imagine having much to blog about. Between you, me and the gatepost it’s fairly mundane in the kennels. All the stuff that goes on is very doggy, and not stuff that you humans would understand. I don’t think you’d appreciate me explaining all the vagaries of my doggy pals, especially when most of them simply don’t apply to humans. It’d be like talking gobbledegook to you. Most of my posts have been inspired by my life with mum and Uncle Hugh. There’s only so much you can explain to humans about the complexities of scent, and stuff like that.

So, I’ve been thinking about encouraging mum to blog whilst I’m away. I think it would be cathartic for her – so that she could get stuff off her chest whilst she ventures into her new life back in old yUK.

Obviously, she wouldn’t take over from me. After all, I’m the star. She could have her own blogsite that I’d link to where you folk could visit, and then I’d start blogging again when I get back. I’m having a think. Your comments/suggestions would be appreciated.

We went for a walk when she stopped crying and it was pissing it down. It’s all right for mum, she had her waterproofs on, I simply had my fur – here are a couple of photos of me looking very wet:

And here's one of me yesterday when I stopped mid-walk and refused to go any further because it was TOO WARM! Honestly, this weather.

It's hailing at the moment. Doesn't know what to do with itself.

Dishing the dirt on mum

2009-03-03T11:00:00.006+01:00

A few days ago, our good friend French Fancy did a post about her Waste Bin. Sounds like a strange thing to do a post about but we bloggers do post about strange stuff sometimes, don’t we? Anyway, as mum was reading it, she started chewing her bottom lip guiltily and she gave me a few sidelong glances as if wondering what I was thinking, then she went straight into the kitchen, had a look at her bin and said “Oh fook!” whilst shaking her head.

I sneaked in afterwards, had a good look at it myself, and took a few photos. No wonder she was shaking her head. Though I say it myself, being a dog and all, and not minding dirt, IT IS FILTHY.

And no – that is not poo on it below, I had a sniff, it is a bit of curry.

Please don’t think my mum is dirty. She isn’t. Her surfaces and floors are clean and tidy, (though ‘tis true that she does not get into those corners that often, she’s not mad keen on dusting, and there are an abundance of spider’s webs lurking in the beams) but her drawers and cupboards are a mess “..what you can’t see doesn’t hurt…” is her favourite saying when Uncle Hugh complains about the state of them (but does nothing about it himself) and her ironing is presently taking over the spare room. The toilets, however, are so clean I could eat my dinner out of them (mum’s got this ‘thing’ about loos and scrubs them every day). But for some reason the bin has been sorely neglected.

I think that over the next couple of days, it will either be cleaned and bleached to within an inch of its life or it will be replaced. I have a feeling that replaced is going to be mum’s chosen option because mum often takes the easy way out. She’s thrown a few saucepans away in her time because they were too ‘burnt on’ and she couldn’t be bothered to wash them. However, plastic is tight at the moment, so she might end up cleaning it instead.

Mum doesn’t like housework, but she does it because she has to nowadays. When she was working in the UK she had this nice lady called Kath who used to come and do it for her but what made me laugh was that mum used to run around the house tidying it up like crazy before Kath arrived. I could never understand why she cleaned it in readiness for the cleaning lady. Go figure!

Mum’s most hated things are washing pots and ironing. She has a rather unhealthy, fervent attachment to her dishwasher. In the past I’ve known her put it on for only three plates and a mug because she DETESTS washing up. Apparently, it was her ‘job’ when she was a girl and it damaged her for life. I would be SERIOUSLY worried if she had to choose between me and the dishwasher.

Honestly, her carbon footprint must be humongous.

As for ironing. She hates it so much I don’t understand why she doesn’t just throw her clothes away when they’re ready for washing and buy new ones. It would take all the angst out of it wouldn’t it? Or, she could simply wear stuff without ironing it. Do those creases look so bad? They certainly don’t bother me.

A few more things mum hates: washing the car - I think I told you before, she never EVER washes it, she just buys a new one eventually. She always has silver cars because she says they don't show the dirt. The inside is the same. Filthy. Uncle Hugh calls it her 'skip'.

Mum doesn't like changing the duvet cover either. She'll change the sheets and the pillow cases regularly but refrain from changing the duvet cover until she absolutely has to - hence there are never any pretty matching pillowcases and covers on mum and Uncle Hugh's bed.

Mum hates doing windows too. They've lived in this house in France since December 2006 and she's only done the big window once (picture of me looking through it below) and the other windows - never. They are surprisingly clean, perhaps it's the clean air around these parts.

What mum does love - vacuuming. She says it gives her a feeling of satisfaction seeing and hearing all those bits being sucked up. I'm a bit wary of our vacuum. It's quite powerful and long and snake-like and I have visions of me being sucked up it and never finding my way back, so when the vacuum's out. I make myself scarce.

What’s your most hated chore? I don’t have any chores, because I’m a kept dog. Not a working one, like some.

Here are some more photos of me from behind because I got so many folk admiring my butt last time I thought I’d keep my ‘fans’ happy.

Me noseying out of the main window with my friend "Buddah guy", who's about my size.

Van Gogh's Ear, Rugby and Spring

2009-03-01T08:32:00.006+01:00

I’ve been given an award by Detroit Dog who I admire because they’re really into animal rights and welfare and actually do stuff to help as opposed to merely talking a good talk. I think it’s a bit bizarre being given an ear as an award when I’m usually given ears as a chewy treat (no, this one isn’t edible, I tried), but then again you can’t get much more bizarre than a blogging dog n’est-ce pas?

“The Van Gogh's Ear Award is for blogs that are making a difference in the blogosphere," its creator said, "We are all artists in our own way, be it art, photography, writing, philosophy, comedy, or blogging, and we all go a little crazy sometimes.... Always remember you're unique. Just like everyone else."

I can’t believe that my blog actually makes a difference, all I do is tell you stuff about my day or my mum’s day, and sometimes I don’t do it that often – you’re right Braja I’ve been a slack bastard for not posting since Thursday but I blame that on Rugby and Spring. More later.

Anyway, I want to say thanks for the award, it makes me feel all humble and shy when I get awards because I honestly don’t feel worthy. I certainly don’t feel like an artist. I can’t paint or draw for toffee and I certainly wouldn’t inflict my poetry on you.

However, blogging has enriched my life. Well, I mean other folks’ blogs have made my life richer. I’ve learned so much whilst I’ve been blogging. My knowledge really has expanded. I still wouldn’t be able to develop a cure for cancer or create anything worthwhile but I reckon I’d get a few more questions right on “Who wants to be a millionaire”. And I’ve made so many friends. I feel as if I’m part of a community. I was a bit isolated before when it was just mum, Uncle Hugh and me.

Right, on with the game. Ha! No pun intended. I mean, I did mention Rugby above. Well, Rugby and Spring are the reasons I’ve not blogged since Thursday. More about Spring in a sec. I’ve been watching the Six Nations with mum and Uncle Hugh. Rugby Union is the only sport they like to watch. I’ve tried to ‘get’ it, but I don’t. What is the point of thirty guys running around on a field, getting progressively more muddy, throwing and kicking an odd shaped ball around and beating each other up in the process? I ask you? What IS the point? Between you and me, I reckon mum watches it because she likes the guys. She pretends she’s interested in the actual game, and she’ll talk a technical talk, then suddenly she’ll say something like “Wow, look at those thighs…” and Uncle Hugh’ll give her a sidelong glance and we’ll give each other a knowing wink.

Another thing, Spring really has sprung here. Look:

So mum’s been taking me on lots of walks. We’ve walked and walked because the weather has been so lovely. Yesterday it was too hot. YES – too hot. For me and my shaggy coat anyroad. I actually flung myself down on the ground in a bit of shade and gave mum my “I’ve had enough” look, so she had to ring Uncle Hugh and he picked us up in the car and drove us back. It happens when I’ve got too much hair and the sun’s shining. I’m only little, so I get overheated really easily, which is why I need clipping. Mum felt guilty, I could tell. AND SO SHE SHOULD. She’s a terrible mum sometimes.

Well, we got back and when I’d cooled down mum and Uncle Hugh stood in the garden drinking their grape juice whilst the sun when down and I had a mosey round. Here are a few photos of me moseying.

Below are a couple of video clips of me on my walk – mum says I’m full of testosterone at the mo. I don’t know what that is but she says it’s what’s making me kick my back legs when I’ve peed. I only do it in the spring, apparently. They’re only short clips Lee. Seconds, literally. Have a lovely Sunday everyone. I think we might be having a Rugby free day today. Thank goodness!

A bit of a rant - don't read if you're 'pro' fur!

2009-02-26T09:26:00.006+01:00

Magnificent isn’t he? Some folk would rather have his skin turned into a coat, or a hat, or some fancy boots. Surprise, surprise these magnificent animals have been virtually wiped out in the wild – prized by poachers for (amongst other things) their hide.

This is a bit of a rant, and also a question attached that you might be able to answer for me (and my mum).

(If you are ok with people wearing fur, please don’t read any further, because I don’t want to offend you. Actually. No. I’ll stop being ‘nicey nicey’ Henry for a moment. If you are ok with people wearing fur for vanity then I DO want you to read on, even if what I have to say DOES offend you. Perhaps I could listen to your point of view if you want to give it, and I may be convinced that wearing fur isn’t so bad after all.)

The question: Why is it suddenly acceptable to wear fur again? Mum has noticed over the past couple of years or so that there has been an almost insidious change of attitude to the wearing of fur – or has it been changing for a long time and she’s only just noticed?

Here is a photo of Lily Allen wearing a white fox fur and a few other Celebs who mum thinks should know better:

And here’s the article that went with Lily wearing her fancy hat Lily wears her fur with pride! . Notice how so many of the comments that criticise her for doing so have been rated down by the readers (perhaps Daily Mail readers are particularly ‘pro’ fur).

Mum was in London last Sunday where she had to stop on her way back from Singapore, and where it also happened to be the start of Fashion Week. She said she was appalled at how many skeletons were stalking around with fur hats, fur coats, fur trimmed boots, coats, skirts, jumpers, fur scarves, fur everything. She says she was literally stopped open-mouthed in her tracks by a small group of fashionistas whose bones rattled past liberally draped in enough fur to clad a small pack (or whatever) of ermine.

Fur, feathers and the future at London Fashion Week

Mum remembers a time when folk wouldn’t dream of wearing fur.

What’s happened? Why is it acceptable now? Did the ‘anti fur’ brigade end up pissing people off with their extreme antics? Did it drive folk back into the arms of the fur trade?

There seems to be a new attitude these days that you should be able to do what you want and wear what you want (particularly celebrities), because we’re all tired of extremists trying to dictate to us what to do with our lives. Fine, I’m ok with that. But how far do you go? Perhaps I want to gnaw on people’s legs for the fun of it from time to time. Or wear human eyeballs as earrings. Is it now ok to do that? Freedom of expression and all.

Dogs are being killed in terrible ways for their fur. I won’t go into detail because it gives mum sleepless nights thinking about it. It gives me nightmares. My fur is quite soft and silky. Perhaps Lily Allen would want to rip my hide off my back and wrap it around her thick head too.

I know mum wears leather, but she would argue that it’s a by-product of the meat trade. We aren’t opposed to making use of the whole of the animal if it’s being killed for food. I don’t want to go veggie. I respect folk who do go veggie. But it would be wrong for me to go veggie. I was made to eat meat. That’s how I’ve been designed. We are, however, very opposed to folk who don’t mind animals being slaughtered for the sake of vanity.

We’re both quite sickened by it all. I know I don’t normally do ‘serious’ but this time, I had to.

Here is me looking like a fur rug. Wouldn’t it be tragic if that’s what I became?

I'M BACK!

2009-02-24T19:43:00.003+01:00

I’m back! And the first thing I want to say is a big THANK YOU to everyone for all your comments on my last post. It brought a lump to my doggy throat reading them, and made me realise how simply lovely you all are (Mickle, I do hope Zebby’s feeling better).

I wish I’d been able to keep blogging whilst I was away, but James & Jane at the kennels were having problems with their connection and were offline most of the time so even when I sneaked onto their computer I couldn’t get onto my blog. On top of that, I was simply SO busy with life in the kennels, I was rushed off my little paws. More about that later.

It was GREAT seeing mum again and I got a tad hysterical to be honest – as is my way, but the first thing she said to me was “You’re bloody filthy, you stink and you look like a hairy yeti.” Honestly! What a thing to say after not seeing me all that time. She stuck me in the shower as soon as we got home and attacked me with a pair of scissors. It’s not my fault that I was smelly and hairy and had lots of debris stuck in my coat. Claire couldn’t clip me whilst mum was away (because she’s had a new pup) and they couldn’t fit me in anywhere else until March, so I’m stuck with being a hairy yeti for the mo. (You guessed it, the photo above is an old one of me, before the hols)

I feel a bit sorry for mum and Uncle Hugh. They didn’t have such a good time. Mum reckons that she must have unwittingly “...pissed on a Leprechaun…” some time this year because she said, “…Luck isn’t my middle name at the moment…” well, I could have told her that, ‘because it’s Lucy. Anyway, it turns out that they ended up with a bad tummy for half of the holiday and were thoroughly miserable. Normally mum has a really strong tum, and she can eat anything. Uncle Hugh used to say it was ‘iron-clad’, but this time she said she had diarrhoea so badly she says she could have “…shat through a straw…” at one point. Eloquence personified my mum is. Actually, I can’t imagine why she’d want to do that – shit through a straw. I reckon it could be messy and would require an colossal amount of precision, which mum doesn’t possess. I know what it’s like to have diarrhoea – it’s not fun. It doesn’t half make a mess of my bum hair, but I don’t think that was mum’s problem – maybe Uncle Hugh’s though. Anyway, I’m digressing.

So, they had a crap time for the second half, but apparently the first half was great, in Singapore, and they laughed lots and had fun.

As for me, I had a BRRRILLIANT time. I made a new friend called Roger who is a Great Dane – so we looked kind of odd together. He’s also a eunuch, which is why they let me play with him. I’m ok with male dogs who’ve lost their balls. They don’t make my hackles go up, so I’m allowed out with them. I got on so well with Rog, we swapped email addresses.

He was a right scaredy cat to start with. I felt sorry for him when he arrived because it was his first time at the kennels and he was terrified so I took him under my wing straight away (as much as a Mini Schnauzer can take a Great Dane under it’s wing, which is not at all actually, I’m being hypothetical). As it turned out, Roger is terrified of everything.

He’s a great big lad. I’m talking huge, but he’s so scared of stuff it made me a bit mischievous and sometimes I’d creep up on him and make loud noises behind his back so that I could watch him jump out of his skin, like I do with mum. I know, I know, I’m cruel, but it WAS funny.

His mum and dad brought him in with seven cuddly toys, a comfort blanket, three beds (morning, afternoon and night) and a CD player so that he could listen to his favourite ‘Whale’ music to help him sleep. His mum’s into stuff like crystals, candles, aromatherapy, meditation and all things ‘spirity’ – she’s what my mum would call a hippy (but in a nice way).

My main problem with Rog was that we’d be in the ‘exercise’ field and I’d keep losing him. Then I’d realise that he was actually standing right next to me, but I’m so tiny and he’s so tall, I’d be looking through the gap between his legs whilst wondering where he was. In the end he learned to stand back a bit, so that I could see him.

I made lots of new friends as well as Rog, and there were some regulars too, but it was Rog who stayed the same length of time as I did and he’s the one I’ll be keeping in touch with. We’re like the proverbial chalk and cheese and he really is a big girly, but I liked the soft lad, pity there’s no photo, maybe next time.

I must say, I’ve REALLY missed you all, and I’m REALLY looking forward to catching up with all your blogs, but it will take me some time, and I can’t do it this evening because I’m having some quality time with mum and Uncle Hugh – I’ve missed them more than anything and being away from folk you love makes you appreciate them even more, don’t you think?

Love Henry XXXXXXXXXXX

PS: here are a couple of photos that mum took whilst she was away, the cows are for my lovely Braja (we missed you xxxx).

The view from mum's hotel window in the second week, pity she was too busy pooing to enjoy it!:

The atrium of the hotel in Singapore from the 19th floor - made mum's fanny twitch!:

A calf and some cows for Braja, in Langkawi, Malaysia

I may be gone some time.....

2009-02-03T16:22:00.005+01:00

Yep, this is my last post before I go on holiday and I really don’t know if I’ll be posting whilst I’m in the kennels. I can’t be sure, so I’m not going to promise. I hate breaking promises.

So, I thought, as there are a few bloggers at the moment revealing a fair bit about themselves and their lives I’d leave you on a light note by giving you a few more little facts about me and my life too. A few little titbits for you to nibble on. Not too much. Just enough to keep you keen - keep you thirsty for more. I like to maintain a bit of mystery.

1. I was born on 10th April 2005, that was a Sunday – and you know what they say about Sunday’s child don’t you? “Bonny and blithe and good and gay” of course. I am very bonny, blithe (don’t know what it means but it sounds nice) and good. Though I’m not gay. I like lady dogs. I’m also an Aries and a Rooster. Not that I believe any of that crap, but it’s good, clean fun isn’t it? If you follow astrology you’ll know that I shouldn’t really be compatible with Mum, ‘cause she’s a Cancerian Dragon lady, but I love her to bits – so it just goes to show how silly these star sign thingies are doesn’t it?

2. I was born and bred in East Yorkshire and mum took me to live with her on 5th June 2005. Mum lived in South Yorkshire at the time. It wasn’t far to travel. Below is a photo of my first little toy that I took away with me that day. Mum still keeps it safe and won’t let me rip it to bits now that I’m a big boy. Mum’s very sentimental.

An Aside - I remember mum coming to collect me and sitting me on her knee as we drove home. I wasn’t scared to leave my doggy mum or my other brothers and sisters ‘cause I’d had enough of the irritating little sods by then and was thankful for the peace and quiet. I remember Uncle Hugh said “I hope he doesn’t vomit or poo or anything. Shouldn’t you put him in that box just in case?” Well, I was rather insulted at the time. It got me wondering what they were used to and what type of house I was going to if they thought that dogs regularly pood, peed, vomited or whatever whilst travelling in cars. I knew they’d certainly never had a Schnauzer. In my view you only pee, poo or vomit in your immediate surroundings if you’re really, really poorly and you’ve no alternative.

3. Mum was initially looking for a West Highland Terrier, or a Wire Haired Jack Russell. Then Uncle Hugh flew into an airfield at Sherburn-in-Elmet one day, spotted a guy with some Mini Schnauzers, and decided we were a cute breed. As luck would have it, the guy with the Schnauzers said his sister had just bred some – the rest is history. Sadly, the guy is now dead – he died in a plane crash – an old Hurricane. RIP.

4. I have a really good pedigree with lots of champions in my ancestry. I’ve even got a posh name. But mum being mum has lost everything to do with my birth and my pedigree. It all got lost when they sold their house in the UK and moved to Switzerland. She thinks she could get copies of stuff if she wrote to the Kennel Club in the UK, but she’s not that fussed.

5. I used to HATE going walkies when I was a pup and used to fling myself on my back and refuse to move whenever mum put my collar on and clipped my lead to it. I liked being carried best. So mum used to carry me everywhere to start with. Then she put her foot down, and when mum puts her foot down you simply have to do as you’re told. Believe me.

6. I used to go to work every day with mum. At the time, mum’s work offices were on an airfield, so I think that’s why I got used to loud noises because there were some noisy jets used to land and take off and helicopters and stuff. All the folk there used to call me “Baby Henry” and spoiled me something rotten.

7. I once got trodden on by one of Uncle Hugh’s grown up pups and sprained my paw. I made a right racket. I was really tiny at the time, and I know it wasn’t done on purpose but mum was mortified and it caused a bit of friction for a while.

8. I had really bad colitis when I was five months old and mum left me in the car for ten minutes whilst she popped into the supermarket. Well! I suddenly had the most terrible tummy pains and felt really sick and no matter how much I whined, mum didn’t come back to let me out so I ended up making a right mess of her car. I’ll never forget her face as she opened the door. She said “Oh Jeez Henry, were you doing summersaults whilst you were busy puking and pooing?”

9. I've still got my balls, but I'm not sure what they are for. I'm hoping that one day I might find out.

And last, but not least

10. Mum tried to drown me when I first moved to Switzerland. Honest. She did. Just because I rolled in a very sloppy, fresh cowpat. She grabbed me and thrust me in a fast flowing freezing river and shoved me right under. I told Braja about it. I looked up through the water and all my life flashed before me. All eleven months of it. I remember thinking “Mummy why are you trying to kill me?” She swears blind she was doing it for my own good, but she always says that after she’s been particularly sadistic.

Ok, I’m off now. I’ll be around until Thursday morning, and then I’m away until 25th February. I will try to post. I will try to keep up to date with folk’s blogs, but if I can’t please don’t forget me. I WILL BE BACK…….

Here are a few photos to remember me by :

Global Gloom - I have the antidote

2009-02-01T13:52:00.007+01:00

That’s my antidote to the global doom and gloom – give it the finger. If I could, I would, but my paw won’t let me, so mum’s done it for me – my reaction is to give it a raspberry instead.

There really is a pervasive gloom spreading around the globe and I’m heartily sick of it. I think we should all make a concerted effort to try and change it. It has impregnated even the most optimistic of folk. I was on my walk with mum yesterday and we met up with Claude the fat yellow lab (mum took a photo but it’s crap – all fuzzy – she says she’ll try harder next time). Claude has issues and is rather unconventional as regards his views on housetraining, hence his many mums and dads in the past, BUT he has always been upbeat. Yesterday, however, he was morose and maudlin.

“I’m so depressed,” he said, “it must be the Credit Munch.”
Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I stood and looked at him open mouthed.
“What the bloody hell has the Credit Munch got to do with you?” I asked.
He looked a bit taken aback.
“The Credit Munch is affecting everyone, Henry. It says so – on TV, in the papers, folk are talking about it all the time.”
“Ok then, tell me EXACTLY how it’s affecting you.”
“It’s making me depressed.”
“Why?”
His eyes glazed over a tad as his brain started to whirr, rather weakly, pondering the question.
“Because it is,” he said eventually
“Be more specific. Have they stopped feeding you as much?”
“No.”
“Have they changed your food?”
“No.”
“Have you had your toys taken away from you?”
“No.”
“Have they stopped petting you?”
“No.”
“Have they changed your bed, or your sleeping arrangements?”
“No.”
“So, birdbrain, why is your life any different to what it was when I first arrived in 2006?”
“It isn’t.”
“SO WHY ARE YOU DEPRESSED?”
I shouted, feeling all angry.
“Because……” he trailed off, gave a Gallic shrug and said “Phuh!”

That’s when I realised that emotions really can be infectious. Mum was reading about something similar in the New Scientist recently – that mag she gets to make folk think she’s clever – How friends affect your mood

Now there are people who have been seriously affected by the Credit Munch, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a way out either. It doesn’t mean there isn’t any hope. There’s been a Credit Munch before, there’ll be one again.

Mum and Uncle Hugh are more upbeat. They’ve decided to approach their problems in a really positive way – by viewing them as an exciting challenge as opposed to an impossible task. Mum says nothing is impossible, it sometimes just feels as if it is. As Uncle Hugh said two days ago “Whilst ever I’ve got a brain that’s still functioning I’ll find another way to earn a living.”

So I’m going to start a wave of optimism right here by listing things that are still good:

I’m still breathing.
My heart’s still beating.
I’m still seeing.
I’m still smelling.
I’m still walking.
I’ve got folk who love me.
I’ve got my toys.
I’ve got my bed.
I’ve got my food.
I’ve got my friends.

I can still enjoy the simple pleasures

Life is good – when you consider the alternative.

As mum always says to Uncle Hugh “Whilst ever I can pick up a bottle of fizz for less than a fiver, I’ll be happy.” And she still can at the mo. (Mum's easily pleased).

Credit Munch – bollocks to you! I will not succumb.

Can we get out of this gloom? YES WE CAN! Let's start right now.

Inondations - that's "floods" to you and me

2009-01-30T08:58:00.007+01:00

Whilst some of you lucky folk were having heatwaves, Lee, whilst some of you were holidaying at the seaside and being literally pampered to death, Braja (I did offer to do my ‘Super Dog’ impression and rescue her from the torture, but mum said she was enjoying it), us folk in this part of Europe have been having stinking weather. Gales and driving rain.

Last weekend in this part of France we had "bohcohdanondaseeons” – that means lots of floods to you guys who don’t speak French as well as me. And we had terrible wind at the weekend. (No, I’m not going to make a funny pun, that’s the type of thing puerile Uncle Hugh would do). That photo above is of a restaurant that mum & Uncle Hugh sometimes go to for Sunday Lunch. There’s normally a lovely patio, beautiful gardens and a car park at the back. I reckon there won’t be a Sunday lunch for a while n’est-ce pas? Here's a close up:

And this is photo is of the fields we pass on one of our walks – no longer fields.

Mum’s not keen on rain and she hates wind. I mean, REALLY hates it. She hates it so much it was one of the (many) reasons she was really happy to come and live in this part of France because we don’t normally get any. I think I’ve said it before – it blows her hair into her lippy and gets her all vexed. I don’t think it’s just that, I think it scares her too. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know how anyone can be frightened of weather – a mad axeman, yes, but weather – no. Unless, of course, it’s that extreme kind that they find in some places of the world. The type of weather those guys in The Big Storm Picture go and chase. Mum calls them ‘bloody nutters who want their heads looking at’; I think they’re dead cool. But honestly, here in France, we’re unlikely to get it as bad as they do there (and before you start, yes, I do know about that freak hurricane in 2000 that wreaked havoc over Europe, but it’s not a regular occurrence, is it?)

Anyway, this bad weather caused power cuts all over. We had no electric all morning on Sunday, and mum was having anxiety attacks thinking that she wouldn’t be able to use her dishwasher or her hair straighteners. I mean, I ask you, how can life continue without one’s hair straighteners? (Henry rolls his eyes, shakes his head and sighs) At the time of her anguish, I did think that there are folk in the world who haven’t even GOT electricity. Who’ve never heard of a dishwasher or hair straighteners, but who still manage to survive. Honestly, she is a bit of a wussy girl sometimes.

Our electricity came back mid-morning, but three days after and there were still lots of folk without it. As I said before, things take a long time in France, you see, they have to stop for two-hour lunch breaks – it’s obligatory. Nothing comes between a French workman and his ‘plat du jour’. Nothing! Mum has often joked that the worst time to have a house fire in France is between the hours of 12 and 2.

We still managed to go out for a walk though. Nothing comes between me and my walk. I INSIST on having my walk. Except that when it’s really ‘bucketing’ down, as mum puts it, the walk only lasts about ten minutes.

Here’s a little clip of me getting all excited about my walk (it's very short & you get to see mum's grey socks & messy kitchen):

Likes and dislikes of a Celebrity Pooch

2009-01-28T09:26:00.006+01:00

I was inspired to do this post by my pal Stubby, because now that I’m becoming famous (it having been leaked that Victoria Beckham is my number 1 fan) some folk are wanting more nitty gritty personal stuff. I don’t mind – it happens when one is on the road to celebritydom. Yes, that’s me on the cover of Vogue (thanks Braja). When Armani signs me up, I’ll be earning more than £10 a month and will be able to support mum so that she won’t have to go back to the UK.

So here goes for you folks who are hungry for more insight into my complex character and celebrity lifestyle.

Food
Loves: Whatever mum and Uncle Hugh are eating. It always tastes better than anything else.
Dislikes: Grapefruit – it kind of makes my nose wrinkle and my eyes screw up tight.

Place to sleep
Loves: On mum’s knee (pictured below)
Dislikes: Actually, I can sleep anywhere, but I guess if I had to choose somewhere that I like least, it would have to be in the back of Uncle Hugh’s flying car, and that’s not because I’m afraid of flying. It’s just that it sometimes gets REALLY bumpy and sometimes I float, which can be a bit disconcerting!

Toy
Loves: My tennis ball and my new squeaky tug that I got for Christmas (pictured below)
Dislikes: Toys that won’t fit in my mouth – what’s the point?

Time of day
Loves: Walk time – of course. It means I get to spend time with mum and smell lots of interesting stuff, like fox poo and things that died a long time ago.
Dislikes: The boring bit in between breakfast and walk time when mum and Uncle Hugh are sat at their desks on their computer and not taking any notice of me. That’s when I start ‘playing up’ to get their attention – here’s a little clip of me doing just that.

Body position
Loves: Curled up all snug.
Dislikes: When mum puts me on my back and cuddles me as if I were a little pup. MUM I’M A BIG BOY NOW!!!

Temperature
Loves: Between 0 and 55 degrees - perfect!
Dislikes: Summer when it’s too hot to walk. NOT good.

Activities
Loves: Eating, walking, peeing, sniffing poo.
Dislikes: Going to the “The Vets”, of course.

Petting
Loves: My chest being tickled.
Dislikes: My head being patted - grrrrrrr

Animal
Loves: Lady dogs, of course.
Dislikes: Most big male dogs (my blogging pals excluded) – they make me feel all prickly and want to show them who’s boss.

Grooming
Loves: NOTHING. I hate being groomed – period! It should be outlawed. Mum tries to do it from time to time but I sulk so much and look so pitiful (I’ve perfected the art of looking pitiful) mum simply cuts the lugs out of my fur when they appear. However, I have no choice but to succumb when Claire, my groomer, cuts my fur off. Otherwise, I’d melt in the summer.

Game
Loves: “Farting hands” – even though they scare me stiff and make me run away, I still run back for more – I can’t help myself. I also love “Kill Uncle Hugh’s Slipper”. It makes me all giddy.
Dislikes: Football – those bloody balls are simply TOO big.

People
Loves: Anyone who likes dogs.
Dislikes: Naughty human pups – they need their backsides nipping.

Noise
Loves: Thunder and fireworks.
Dislikes: “Farting Hands” – I know, I know – I voted it as a game I love, but let’s say I have a love/hate relationship with it. I get borderline hysterical.

Book
Loves: Anything to do with Harry Potter. I’d love to be a dog Wizard. Now that would be cool. I could turn everything into food.
Dislikes: I’ve only read Harry Potter stuff, so I can’t really say.

So, there you are – for all my fans out there – hope it quenches your thirst for more minutiae of my celebrity lifestyle.

Actually, at the moment I’m in the doghouse. Mum discovered me eating something I shouldn’t have been eating and it gave me a bit of a poorly tum. I won’t go into detail – some of you may be in the middle of breakfast – but it was very old and very dead. Normally, I’m very good because mum has taught me NOT to eat stuff like that, or roll in things that are slimy or stink (like fresh cow poo), but sometimes….just sometimes….the dogginess in me simply takes over!

Are you a creature of habit?

2009-01-26T09:36:00.006+01:00

Are you a creature of habit?

I got inspired to write this post by Profoundly Inarticulate, because it made me realise that my whole life and the whole life of mum and Uncle Hugh is governed by rituals and habits and routines. Mum is the worst when it comes to habits and rituals and routines. Uncle Hugh said she would be really easy to assassinate, if she were President, which she isn’t – ‘cause that’s Mr Obama. I think he was just making a point.

Every morning, it’s the same. Mum and Uncle Hugh get up at different times. Uncle Hugh (7.00), Mum (8.30). Uncle Hugh’s morning ritual is to have a big mug of tea in his old, trusty mug that he’s had longer than I’ve been alive (the one on the left of the photo), and then read his book whilst I snooze in my night-time bed under the table with my head on his foot. Then mum gets up and has a big mug of coffee in her own mug (the one on the right) that she’s had since she moved to France (her old one broke in the move and it made her anxious until she got a replacement). Then she reads or catches up with some blogs whilst she drinks her coffee. After mum has had her coffee in that mug, she has to have a tea in another mug – a plain white one. They take their mugs wherever they go. Even on holiday. Yes, they are sad bastards.

Then, they have breakfast, whilst I beg. Then I have breakfast. Then I snooze in my mid-morning and afternoon bed whilst mum and Uncle Hugh do things on their computers and talk to folk in the UK

Than Uncle Hugh and mum shower (not together).

Then Uncle Hugh goes to do things with his flying car.

Then me and mum go for a walk.

Then I come back and snooze in my afternoon bed whilst mum does more stuff on the computer for Uncle Hugh.

Then mum goes to the Supermarket to buy stuff for dinner and takes me with her for a ride. Whilst there, mum ALWAYS parks in the same place. ALWAYS. It’s nearly always free too ‘cause it’s about a five mile hike from the Supermarket itself. But mum doesn’t seem to mind the walk. It means that HER space is nearly always free. It’s a little space right at the end of a parking row and it’s a big space so it also means that mum’s car doesn’t get dented by people opening their car doors. (Borderline OCD if you ask me – this parking obsession thingy).

A digression - it’s obligatory in France to open your car door onto someone else’s car door and leave a little dent. Same as when you’re parking, it’s obligatory to ‘kiss’ the bumper of the car in front or behind. That means you’re parked. Mum doesn’t like this French custom. In fact, mum hates it. Which is why she chose a parking space far, far away from anyone. Now don’t think that mum is ‘precious’ about her car. Far from it. Mum doesn’t give a damn about her car. Mum’s car is the messiest, dirtiest car you’re ever going to see on the road. Mum never, EVER cleans her car. That’s why she always has silver ones – she says they never look absolutely filthy. Uncle Hugh says that mum would rather buy a new one than wash one. However, saying that, she hates those little dents that sometimes happen when folk open their car doors.

Mum always drives to the Supermarket on the big roads, and always comes back on the little ones (the scenic route she calls it). She never, ever does it the other way round. Why? (Again, borderline OCD methinks).

Then after mum gets back from the Supermarket, Uncle Hugh gets back from the aeroclub.

Then they open a couple of bottles of grape juice and start drinking that whilst Uncle Hugh cooks.

Then they eat , whilst I beg.

Then I eat.

Then it’s more drinking and ‘play with Henry’ time.

Then mum sits on her sofa, Uncle Hugh sits on his sofa, and I sleep in my evening bed whilst they watch TV or read.

Then we all go to bed after nighttime pee, which me and Uncle Hugh do together.

Then it starts ALL OVER AGAIN, the next day.

Why do folk have routines? Do you have one?

I can’t imagine mum or Uncle Hugh ever varying theirs.

Even when they go on holiday. I’ve heard mum talk about how they quickly set up a routine – when on a City Break, Uncle Hugh finds a bar to sit in whilst mum goes sight-seeing and she walks and walks. Or, if they’re doing a ‘beach holiday’, Uncle Hugh finds a bar to sit at whilst mum finds some shade and reads or walks and walks. Especially when on a ‘beach holiday’ they find themselves eating lunch and dinner at exactly the same time every day. After one holiday mum said that the folk at the resort were setting their watches by them. “I’m sure they were. Whenever they saw us heading for the restaurant in the evening I saw them glance at their watch just to check it was 7.30.”

Other little idiosyncrasies of mum & Uncle Hugh – they have ‘their’ side of the bed (and I know other humans do that too), they have a sofa each, and they’re exactly the same but even so, they would never swap – unthinkable.

Mum has all her toiletries laid out in her bathroom in the order she uses them and she KNOWS if Uncle Hugh has been in and touched anything.

Uncle Hugh can’t go to the loo for a number two without his mug of tea and a book - too much detail, I know, but hey! I'm a dog.

There are more but too many to list.

I do think you humans are a peculiar species. Saying that, since I first posted this, I've had time to ruminate and I wonder if mum & Uncle Hugh's routines are a result of them living in chaos for many, many years? Perhaps their routines make them feel safe? More secure? I don't know.

Talking of peculiar – here is Uncle Hugh doing ‘farting hands’ and scaring me. He puts his hands together and makes a strange farting noise and he gets me EVERY time. He always makes me think he’s holding something horrid in them - a horrid farting creature. Deep down I know he isn’t, but I can’t help myself. I get all hyper. It's short and it's a bit dark, sorry.

What did Bush's letter to Obama really say?

2009-01-25T11:14:00.004+01:00

There has been quite a bit of speculation about the secret letter left to Mr Obama from Mr Bush. Mum heard something on the news this morning about a spoof one, which really made her laugh, and we've tried all morning to find it, but to no avail.

I was just wondering what you think he might have said in the secret letter. What pearls of wisdom would Mr Bush have thrown Mr Obama's way? What type of advice? Guidance? Counsel?

I reckon the best advice Mr Bush could give to anyone would be "Don't follow my advice."

Apologies to any Bush fans out there. Remember, I'm only a dog.

A trip to the Vets

2009-01-24T11:32:00.007+01:00

I don’t like to say it but I think my mum has a sadistic streak. I wrote about it before, some time ago when I first started doing my blog.

Whenever I’m poorly, she takes me to this awful place called THE VETS It’s a horrible place where a nasty man in a white coat plonks me on a cold, slippery, metal table and then starts prodding and poking my orifices. She usually only takes me there when I’m ill. When I’m so ill I can’t bear all the prodding and poking. It’s downright cruel.

Well, yesterday she took me there even though I wasn’t ill, and I suddenly remembered why. It always happens around the same time every year, and visions of great big needles danced in my head and I thought “NO WAY. NOT THIS TIME. OH NO!” This is me looking shocked:

So, when mum parked outside the Vets and asked me to jump out of the car I decided to roll on my back. That didn’t quite work – she simply picked me up out of the car, plonked me on my feet and attached the lead to my collar. In desperation, I rolled on my back again. She started gnashing her teeth at that point and saying, “You little bugger. Get up!” I could tell I was getting her mad up so I employed another tactic. I started wagging my tail frantically and looking as sweet as I could, still on my back in submissive pose – it gets her every time. She’s a sucker for it – the waggy tail. She started giggling and saying “Come on, GET UP!” but she was laughing so I knew I was winning.

She pulled the lead, saying, “Come on Henry. Come on boy. Let’s go for a walk” in her bright “Let’s have fun!” voice. I knew she thought she could fool me. Well, mum, I wasn’t born yesterday. We were outside the bloody Vets for goodness’ sake. Does she think I’m thick? I remained on my back, wagging my tail and looking cute. She dragged me a few feet, but had started to get an audience at that juncture.

That’s when she simply picked me up and marched me inside. Bummer! I’d forgotten that I was tiny. I wished I was a Great Dane or a Rotty. She couldn’t have swept me up under her arm if I’d been a Rotty could she? All the folks in the Vets were laughing, but their poor pooches weren’t. They all looked petrified. They were all shaking and shivering with fear. Including me.

About five hours later (everything takes an age in France) I’d been prodded, poked and then injected with these huge – nay – HUMONGOUS needles. It was so painful. Honest. I’m sure it was. I can’t really remember to be fair because it happened so fast. But I’m sure it hurt. It must have. Then mum had the cheek to say, “Don't look at me like that. It’s for your own good sweetheart”. FOR MY OWN GOOD? WHY? WHY IS HAVING ME LIBERALLY PUNCTURED WITH NEEDLES A GOOD THING? WHY? I tell you. She’s downright cruel.

Anyway I was thoroughly spoiled yesterday evening and Uncle Hugh gave me lots of ‘Fingers of Fun’

Then I felt a bit sleepy.

This morning I felt a bit sore.

Mum's going back to the UK

2009-01-22T10:01:00.008+01:00

Mum & Uncle Hugh are going back to the UK, but not permanently. Not yet anyroad. They’re going back for two weeks every month starting in March, because they’re running out of plastic and Uncle Hugh needs to sort out his assets (whatever they are – I’m just repeating what I heard).

They talked about it lots and lots yesterday and I found it REALLY boring after a bit. I tried to distract them by stealing their socks, beating my basket up and rolling on my back in a cute fashion, but they simply ignored me. Here’s me trying to distract them:

Here's me being bored:

What is it about you humans that you have to talk about stuff ad nauseam? Why can’t you just take a decision then move on? Life’s too short. Mum was saying
“It could be really unsettling for Henry, spending two weeks every month at the kennels. What if he becomes institutionalised?”

Mum, it’s not a PRISON, it’s James & Jane. I have fun with them. I get to “Hang out with mah bitches. Innit!” (I don’t know what ‘Innit’ means but it sounds cool).

At the kennels, I get to meet other dogs. I hardly ever meet other dogs here – other than Claude the Yellow Lab (who’s got issues) – and that isn’t very often. I’m starved of doggy company. However, when I’m at the kennels James & Jane let me mingle with lots of lady dogs and it is GRRRREAT! I had a ‘harem’ of six the last time I was there. I was in heaven. They were all fawning over me and commenting on my hairy chest. I felt as big as a Great Dane.

They don’t let me mingle with men dogs because I can be aggressive. Mum says I’ve got “Little Dog Syndrome” I don’t know what that is, but I don’t think it’s catching. Fifi, a cute lady Yorkshire Terrier I met last time said I should sign up for “Anger Management” classes. Cheeky madam! Zoë, another cute lady dog who was part of my ‘harem’ said I had too much testosterone. I don’t know what that is either but it didn’t seem to bother her. She was a terrible flirt and wouldn’t leave me alone. It was fab!

So, you see. I’m not worried at all if it means me spending more time with James & Jane over the next twelve months or so.

Mum was talking about taking me with her when she goes to the UK, but then decided it wouldn’t be practical. I wouldn’t mind going to the UK, as long as we don’t ever go to that Rotherham place. I think I’d rather self-harm.

Here is a little clip of me having fun with Uncle Hugh (It’s short, Lee). Mum says some really stupid, obvious things to Uncle Hugh like “Is that your slipper?” When you see the clip, you will know how inane that is. But as I said before, she’s blonde (and she doesn’t know how to take her voice off these recordings). I also think she’d probably had a few too many glasses of that grape juice. Uncle Hugh is in his ‘jim jams’ by the way – they aren’t his going out trousers. Just thought I’d clear that one up before you start thinking he might be a hippy.

Victoria Beckham loves me - official!

2009-01-19T17:52:00.007+01:00

Move over David Beckham, I’m the new guy in Victoria’s life. It’s official. It has to be because Braja sent this photo to me, so it must be true.

I’m so excited I don't think I'll sleep tonight.

I’m so excited because if Victoria loves me, then I might be able to make lots of plastic for my mum to spend because everything is now, officially, “Totally fooked” in the UK according to mum. And that’s where all her money is. I thought it was “Totally fooked” before, but apparently last year was just the tip of the iceberg. Today everything went crazy and 19th January has proven to be the worst day in the history of the UK – so there you go Lee, those ‘Blue Monday’ guys were right after all – at least as regards the Brits anyroad.

SO! Considering that all things ‘brand’ Beckham seem to attract lots of money no matter what date it is, I reckon my future is assured. After all, hasn’t she just been paid lots of plastic to pose in Armani underwear? And didn’t hubby David do an Armani underwear pose too? Well, Mr Armani – what about me? How about Victoria’s favourite dog posing for Armani too? I’ve worn a 'baby-gro' for goodness’ sake – I’m not proud. I’d be quite happy to wear some undies. As long as you don’t tell anyone. I could go under a pseudonym. Any ideas?

Yes – this is the DREADED baby-gro that mum made me wear for a while in November when I was shorn too short in the cold snap:

No, I don’t look happy, but as I said – I’m not proud – if it means me making money for mum then pride be buggered! I don't mind selling out.

Bring on Armani. Bring on the Undies. Bring on the Beckhams!

Say hello to Lady Jicky's new pup, Kenzo.

2009-01-18T09:46:00.011+01:00

Isn't he a sweetie? He's a Maltese x Shih Tzu and when mum first saw his photos she squealed so loudly that she made Uncle Hugh jump.

Lady Jicky decided to get another dog so soon after losing Rosie and Oscar because I think she particularly related to what French Fancy and mum said about leaving it too long between dogs, and how, with retrospect, they both felt that they should have got one sooner. Mum's hoping that Kenzo will be perfect 'diversion therapy' for Lady Jicky. I'm sure he will be.

Mum said that whenever she lost someone close to her in the past, something happened to divert her attention from her grief. Something that provided a new focus and helped her with her bereavement. When her dad died, she met Uncle Hugh, when her mum died she met someone who encouraged her to take up horse riding - something she'd always wanted to do from childhood. That same person also encouraged her to take up squash and running. She soon found that she was so phyically involved with things, she wasn't dwelling on her mum's death. When her brother died, a huge and challenging work project was placed on her desk that she had to concentrate all her efforts on. When her other dog, Sam, died she bought a bicycle - but it wasn't enough. She said that she found it more difficult to get over Sam than anyone, and she truly believes that if she'd got herself a little puppy it would have been much easier.

I think little Kenzo will definitely help Lady Jicky get over Rosie and Oscar. Hopefully, when he can write properly ('cause he's only a wee pup), he can start visiting my blog and the other doggy blogs. Look - he's already got his eye on the computer:)

I think you did the right thing, Lady Jicky. The right thing for you. Everyone's different. We all have to deal with things in our own way, don't we? Some folk don't want 'diversion therapy'. Some folk don't want to be diverted from their bereavement - and that works for them.

Mum says that if anything happens to me, she'd get another Schnauzer, but a black one, so that she's not always reminded of me. I felt a bit hurt when I heard her say that - heard her talking about me dying and getting a 'replacement'. But then again, I was talking about finding new parents in my last post, wasn't I? In case I get orphaned. Mum says she could never find another me, and wouldn't want to. But she says that love is big enough to encompass lots of folk and animals in your life - it doesn't dilute, it simply gets bigger. I think I know what she means.

Welcome to our world, little Kenzo - I'm sure you'll be much loved by everyone.

Houston, we have a problem.

2009-01-15T20:22:00.008+01:00

“Houston, we have a problem” - the very famous transmission from Mr Lovell on Apollo 13. So famous, even us dogs use it. Mum says that when she was flying back to France over the English Channel at 14,000 feet in Uncle Hugh’s flying car, and the engine stopped, she suddenly understood how Mr Lovell and his pals must have felt.

Honestly, she is a right drama queen sometimes. Agreed, it must have been a tad scary, especially for someone who’s afraid of flying, but the Apollo 13 guys were floating around in space. Even at 14,000 feet, which is fairly high, Mum, Uncle Hugh, 'le Fred' and his girlfriend were much closer to the ground. True, they no longer had any power, but they were much closer to the ground. Saying that, I suppose it could be a bad thing – being in a flying car that no longer had a working engine and being close to the ground. Bummer! Better to be floating in space, I guess.

Anyway, I’m digressing. Mum said that after the engine stopped and Uncle Hugh got on the radio and said “Jersey Tower we are a Cessna 210 with complete engine failure. Request emergency landing” she said she thought “Oh dear!” (Actually, what she REALLY said she thought is totally unprintable – I didn’t even know words like that existed). Then she said that she felt like screaming and crying hysterically, but decided that shouting “WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE! WE’RE GOING TO CRASH AND BURN!” wouldn’t have brought anything to the table whilst Uncle Hugh was calmly trying to sort out the vectors with Jersey Tower. Instead, she decided to remain very still and say nothing. And that’s what she did – remained very, very still. Petrified – I think that was one of the words she used when she was telling her English friend, Amanda – along with some other rather rude ones.

Mum said that pilots are trained to do emergency landings and I’ve heard Uncle Hugh talking about glide slopes, rates of descent, high and fast approaches and stuff like that. However, mum says that it’s not really the same because in training if they get it a bit wrong, they can put the power back on, fly back off and have another go. Apparently all these thoughts were rolling around her head as they were doing a spiral descent over the little island of Jersey.

She said that she’d heard of people having their life pass before their eyes when they’re in a life-threatening situation. Not her. All she could think about at one point was that she’d wished she’d had the chocolate cheesecake and that second bottle of champagne the previous night, instead of being good and saying “No”.

Luckily, ‘le Fred’ is a super pilot and professional instructor with over 10,000 hours experience and Uncle Hugh has a brilliant brain and can do mental arithmetic dead fast, so together they saved everyone’s life, which is a good thing. They got the glide slope, the speed and their calculations just right and landed without a hitch. Mum didn’t see any of it ‘cause she had her eyes closed. She even closes her eyes when she’s landing in a plane that works. She said when she finally did open her eyes she couldn’t believe it.

“There were about ten thousand huge fire engines, a thousand ambulances and an enormous crowd of people on the viewing gallery. The firemen looked terribly miffed, actually. Their hoses were literally dripping with anticipation. The poor guys practice all their working lives for a serious ‘crash and burn’ and they rarely get one. I felt almost guilty that we weren’t even smoking. Saying that, if we’d had even a hint of smoke, we would have been drenched. They were chomping at the bit.”

The incident closed the whole of Jersey Airport for about half an hour.

You can actually read about it here. But it's not very exciting. Mum said that the local BBC TV people turned up but Uncle Hugh wouldn’t give an interview. He’s very private, like mum – she’ll never be a Victoria Beckham. She smiles too much and she doesn’t like attention. She said that she supposed it would have been quite exciting for the Island’s media, considering that not much goes on in Jersey. The last time she was there, “Lucky the black cat goes missing at St Brelade” was the headline in one of the local papers.

There you go – we may live in a sleepy, rural part of France but there’s always something happening with the folk in the ‘Henry’ household.

They got the plane mended. I can’t say what was wrong or whose fault it was because it might be investigated. But it’s fixed now. Some very nice men at Jersey Airport fixed it and made sure it couldn’t happen again. However, it took Uncle Hugh and 'le Fred' nearly two days to fly mum back home because she could only cope with VERY short hops – her nerves were all frazzled and frayed.

In the end, they had to ply her with copious amounts of alcohol otherwise – as Uncle Hugh said – “We wouldn’t have got back until February” That’s why I’m back later than I said I would be.

Mum’s a bit mad with Uncle Hugh ‘cause she thought they were going to go in his new flying van, which has got TWO engines. It was only when she’d turned up at the airfield that he’d told her they were going in the flying car. Mum had always told Uncle Hugh she wouldn’t go to the UK in the flying car but she didn’t want to let everyone down. Oh well. ‘Tis done. Life goes on.

I COULD HAVE BEEN AN ORPHAN! OH MY GOD – I’VE JUST THOUGHT. WHAT WOULD I HAVE DONE? WHO WOULD HAVE ADOPTED ME? Any offers Braja??????

The clip below is of me feeling good to be alive - having a good roll in the grass this afternoon and loving every minute of it (Yes, Lee – it is sweet and twee, but it is SHORT). It’s a ‘Henry’ thing. I sometimes do it next to mum when she’s doing her tummy crunches on the floor in the lounge. YES, MUM HAS FINALLY GOT A DIGI CAMERA. So something good came out of it.

In memory of Lady Jicky's sweet Rosie - 2000-2009

2009-01-10T07:39:00.008+01:00

This post is dedicated to Rosie. The very much-loved dog and companion of our blogging friend Lady Jicky. Rosie was a rescue dog and, due to years of neglect, she had lots of problems with her skin and her eyes. In the end, her problems were simply too much for her to cope with. Rosie very sadly died on Thursday 8th January and Lady Jicky is, understandably, devastated. To make matters worse for Lady J, she only recently found out that her other dog, Oscar, is also dying - of cancer.

Lady Jicky and Rosie have brightened all our blogs up with their comments – sometimes sassy, sometimes serious, sometimes thoughtful, sometimes hilarious, sometimes blunt. But Lady J doesn’t have her own blogsite, so I said I would post a tribute to Rosie, my dear friend, my dear little blogging buddy.

I’m not eloquent. I’m not poetic. I don’t do prose. I’m not a writer – not like some of you clever folk out there. So, this isn’t going to be a powerfully evocative or flowery piece, but it is from the heart.

There will be folk out there who have never had a pet and who may not understand the love and depth of feeling that folks can have for their treasured furry (or not) friends. To those, I ask you to stop and imagine how you would feel to lose your dearest, closest and most loyal pal and companion. Pets can be just that to some people. Whoever you are, whatever your experiences or depth of empathy this post carries a message that is relevant to everyone, and at the end of it I will be asking you to do something very simple, which may change your life. So please keep reading.

Rosie was ‘rescued’ by the lovely Lady J almost a year ago. Up until that point, she hadn’t had a particularly good life – Lady J reckons she spent most of it locked in a back yard with her sister. Her sister was snapped up fairly quickly, but nobody wanted Rosie because she wasn’t considered textbook ‘cute’. Luckily, she melted Lady J’s heart and the last year of her life was, finally, a very happy one and she was showered with love.

Actually, Lady J, I happen to think she WAS a cutie – so, you and me both, eh?

Lady J said that when Rosie first arrived at her house she was very fond of her old dog, Oscar, and wanted to sleep with him all the time. Yep, Rosie was a rather ‘fresh’ little lady pug (as I suspected all along) but Oscar sulked initially because his nose had been put out of joint with her ‘intrusion’ into his space. In the end, however, they became inseparable.

Rosie also had a ‘thing’ for Lady J’s husband (honestly, saucy little minx – bet she would have been a right man-eater had she been a lady). She would suck up to Lady J during the day and then as soon as her hubby arrived back from work she’d be dropped like a hot potato. Rosie would wait for him at the door and Lady J would say “Your boyfriend’s home Rosie” whereupon she’d go nuts - and the rest of the evening she’d stick to him like glue, poor Lady J forgotten.

That’s why I was nicknamed “Boyfriend”. Apparently, she used to get just as excited when visiting my blogsite;)

I first met Rosie on November 28th, when she left a comment on my post “What Floats Your Boat?” We found we had one thing immediately in common. Our doggy love of poo:

Hi Henry, I found you via French Fancy where my girlfriend Poppy is. Now , I kind of fancy a French boyfriend and your are it ! My name is Rosie and I am in Australia and its so great you asked about boat floating for my boat floater is Possum Poo! Yes - POO again. LOL Its delish , like little brown chocolates all over the backyard under the trees - free boyfriend! My Mother is not pleased for I have got my brother Oscar onto it - hell that boy has been living here for years and never cottoned onto it!I arrived here this Feb from a Pug Rescue. So - hop in a plane and come over and we shall float a boat together and wash it down with Possum Poo! Kiss Kiss

Well, it was kind of ‘love at first comment’ and Rosie became a regular contributor of fun to my blogsite. I used to look forward to her visits and would have been miffed if she’d ever passed by without stopping, which she never did. As I said, she could be a right saucy minx and often made comments about my furry chest and bushy eyebrows. I would have loved to have met her.

Only a couple of days ago Braja wrote a post about blogging friends being as dear to us as the friends we have physical contact with, and it moved me so much I featured it on my site. Actually, it was posted on the very day that Rosie died. Rather poignant, I think, that on that very day I lost a blogging buddy – my first loss.

My heart, however, goes out to Lady J for she is the one who will be feeling it the hardest, particularly as she has to contend with the fact that Oscar now has a terminal illness.

None of us know how long we’re going to live. None of us know how long our loved ones are going to live. What we do know is that all of us, one day, will experience the death of a loved one, or loved ones. Life is so fragile. So short. So precious.

I’m sad. I never got the chance to say goodbye to Rosie. I can’t remember if I told her that she was a good friend and that I really appreciated her comments and the time she spent reading my blog.

We all too often make time for the prosaic and practical elements of life, but sometimes make no time to say ‘I love you’, or ‘Thank you for being my friend’. If you can find the time to make a shopping list, do the ironing, write your blog, submit a comment on One Minute Writer, shout at your kids, grumble about your spouse, grumble about the state of the nation, then you can find three seconds to say ‘I love you’, or ‘I really care for you’, or ‘I appreciate you’, or ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you’. And do you know what? Now is the only time. Because you have no idea what the next day, the next hour, or in fact the next minute will bring.

What I would really like you to do is this. Think of all the people you love dearly. All the people you care about. All the people who you couldn’t bear to lose. And I want you to take time out today and every day to tell at least one of them how much you do care. How much they are appreciated. How much they are cherished. Because now is the time to appreciate them. Now, when they are alive.

Some of you may already do that -GOOD! WONDERFUL! HATS OF TO YOU! Some of you may think, “That’s cheesy.” or “I don’t need to, they already know.” And I say, “So what?” Tell them anyway.

And if you do turn to your loved one now and say “I love you” and they say “What on earth brought that on?” or “What are you after?” or “What’s wrong with you today?” or “What are you feeling guilty about?” Tell them that you just read something today about loss, and it made you think. Then go away and have a good look at yourself. Why were they so surprised at your outward show of verbal affection?

Do you ever want to be in a position where you lose someone and are left wishing you’d said things when you had the chance?

Because of Rosie, my mum told Uncle Hugh that she loved him today, and he looked as pleased as punch. It made her think she doesn’t do it enough.

Because of Rosie, I told mum I loved her – by looking at her as if she were a goddess, and licking her chin. She looked as pleased as punch too, and it made me think I don’t do it enough.

Thank you Rosie. Ours was a short relationship, but my life was enriched by knowing you.

And Lady Jicky – our thoughts are with you at this time. We cherish you as a friend and appreciate the time you spend reading our blogs and enriching them with your comments.

I’m on holiday now for four days, but hopefully Lady Jicky will be around to respond to your comments – as most of them, I presume, will be aimed at her anyway.

What’s been hard writing this post is using the past tense to describe Rosie.

Lots of love to you all.

Henry the Dog xxxxxx

PS: Lady Jicky is dealing with the comments whilst I'm away. See you all Wednesday. I hope.

My French is merde.

2009-01-09T08:40:00.008+01:00

I had a French lesson with Claude the yellow Labrador yesterday when I was out walking with mum. For those of you who don’t know me that well yet, I decided to start to learn French after meeting THE DREADED CHLOE. Up until then I’d always thought that French folk were thick because they couldn’t speak English – I thought they could only speak gobbledegook. I didn’t know that there was such a thing as the French language. Of course, Chloe put me straight!

I only have sporadic lessons ‘cause it depends entirely on mum and which walk she decides to go on. If she goes on the one that takes us past Claude’s house then that’s when I get to see him because he’s always running loose, despite his mum being English (but his dad’s French so I suppose that explains it). Claude usually joins us on our walk and mum doesn’t mind because i) he needs the exercise (he has a liberal coating of adipose tissue), and ii) mum’s got a soft spot for Labradors.

It’s quite good fun walking with Claude ‘cause it means we can talk ‘man stuff’ and have a sociable pee together. Human men like to pee together too don’t they? It must be another ‘man thing’. Women pee all alone don’t they? I know that mum always pees in her own toilet with the door firmly shut (unless we go on a VERY long walk – then she sometimes finds a bush), but often when Uncle Hugh takes me out at night for my last pee he tends to join me for a pee against the tree at the bottom of our garden – but don’t tell mum, I don’t think she’d like it.

Anyway, I’m digressing. When I walk with Claude, that’s when I also have my French lesson and yesterday he told me that my French was ‘assay mal’, which means ‘quite bad’. He says I sound like an English dog speaking French, and I said “Well…duhhh…I am an English dog speaking French! What do you expect me to sound like?” He said it wasn’t good enough to just speak French, he said I had to adopt the accent otherwise I’d get mocked and get called an “Ongleesh”.

He said my ‘rrrrs’ are all wrong. He said I’ve got to say my ‘rrrrs’ by vibrating my epiglottis. I had no idea until that point that I even HAD an epiwhatever. He said, “Say them as if you’re trying to clear something from your throat.” So I tried and he said, “No, you’re hacking – that’s not the same. Pretend you’re a Glaswegian, they talk from the back of their throat.” A Glaswhat?

I’m starting to think that this French business isn’t such a good idea. I thought it would be easy to learn ‘cause all the little French kids can speak it ever so well, but now I reckon that all the French kids must be REALLY intelligent, ‘cause it’s not easy, believe me.

I mean, did you know that all French words are either men words or lady words? Yes, you heard right. I’m not joking. Honest, I’m not. It got my head in a right little tizzy when he first told me that.

“Don’t talk bollocks,” I said, rather vehemently & copying mum (she says that a lot). He’d forgotten that it wasn’t so long back that I’d been duped by those little minxes at the kennels – I write about that HERE. I wasn’t going to be fooled again. “Come on Claude, you can’t fool me.”
“I’m not fooling you,” he said – trying to look all innocent. “I’m serious Henry, it’s an integral part of the French language. If you don’t believe me check it out on the internet.”
“Oh stop it Claude. The whole world knows you’ve got issues but that’s taking it a bit too far. Tell me this – how on earth can a word be a man or a lady? And who decides what sex a word is? Words don’t have willies or boobies, for goodness’ sake.”

Then he tried to explain but it was SOOOO confusing and hard for a little dog brain to comprehend. I got very baffled about it - I mean REALLY confused. My head ended up all hot and bothered as I tried to grasp it, and I started feeling quite dizzy.
Then I said, “If there are men and lady words then there must be gay ones…”
Claude looked at me in a kind of bemused way and said, “What are you talking about you daft bugger?”
“There must be gay ones,” I said, my voice sounding a tad shrill – I think I was approaching borderline hysteria at that point because I’d thought about it too hard, “There must be gay words ‘cause if there are men ones and lady ones there has to be gay ones,” and my brain was beginning to whirr and my head spin, “…don’t you get my point?” I’m asking him. “There must be gay words,” I kept saying over and over and my brain got hotter and hotter.

At that point Claude started shaking his head sadly and looking at me as if I were something badly injured that needed putting out of its' misery. He put his paw gently on my shoulder and said, in a very measured way, as if he were talking to an old dog suffering from dementia, “Henry, we’re talking about gender here, not sexual orientation. Calm down son. I think we’d better drop that one.”

So we did drop it, and he mumbled something about it not mattering much ‘cause I’m not going to be writing it or taking any tests or anything and that he’d think of a way around it.

I’m glad he dropped it because every time I think about it, my head still starts to spin.

So, that aside, after him telling me my French was ‘assay mal’ I’m starting to think that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea - this French business, ‘cause after all my lessons I still can’t understand hardly any of what he says to me in French and I can’t get my ‘rrrrs’ into gear. Any tips?

The clip below is FUNNY – put your reading glasses on ‘cause the subtitles are quite small and you MUST read them to get the joke.

Please read Braja's lovely post

2009-01-08T09:21:00.004+01:00

Most of you will probably know Braja and may already have read her latest post, but if there’s anyone hanging around here who hasn’t then please read it HERE. It is a lovely post, and it echoes what I feel about my blogging buddies. It’s weird, ‘cause I was going to do a post today along the same theme. Now I don’t have to and I can put my paws up all day and have a rest.

PS: Thanks you guys for being my buddy:)

Flying scares mum. What scares you?

2009-01-07T08:22:00.005+01:00

As well as boating and sharks, one of mum’s big fears is flying (is there anything she’s NOT frightened of, I wonder?). It’s not a phobia. Just a fear. It doesn’t rule her life or anything. Do you have a fear of something?

Despite her fear, mum’s finally agreed to go to the UK in Uncle Hugh’s new flying van, and they go this Sunday for three days with his friend ‘le Fred’, so I’ll be staying with James & Jane at the kennels, which’ll be fab.

Uncle Hugh’s flying van is a bit bigger than his flying car, but it’s still not got a loo or those nice ladies who sell stuff and make drinks. It’s still REALLY small at the side of those big flying buses that mum normally goes on. She’s only going with him to save money ‘cause she’s got some things to do in the UK and Uncle Hugh was going anyway, so she’s kind of hitching a lift.

Mum’s worried about it not having a loo. Mum says she’s not sure she can go for nearly four hours without peeing. Uncle Hugh says she’ll simply not have to drink, or as le Fred says “pah der bwa pah der peepee”, which I think means “no drink, no pee”. I’m sure mum can hold on for four hours – it’s not long is it? I sometimes think it’s all in her head. Uncle Hugh said she could always use a She Wee and an empty bottle. I’ve no idea what a She Wee is, but it prompted mum to tell Uncle Hugh to “Bollocks!”

She doesn’t let other folk know she’s afraid, she’ll say, “I’m not particularly frightened of flying. I just don’t like it that much. It’s boring and something I’d rather not have to do but I wouldn’t allow my dislike of it to curtail my enjoyment of life, or stop me from travelling. It doesn’t terrify me.”

Rubbish! Sometimes it does terrify her, but she doesn’t like to admit it because she says that whenever she thinks of someone who’s scared of flying she has an image of a little old lady or little old man who’s never been anywhere further than the local village shop and who still points at aeroplanes when they see them up in the sky and say stuff like “It’s not natural. If we were meant to fly, we’d have been born with wings”. Mum doesn’t want folk to think she’s unsophisticated or simple, even though she is – simple anyway. Trust me, mum’s not a complex character. Not at all.

One of mum’s problems is the little bit of knowledge that she has about flying – she blames that on Uncle Hugh telling her stuff. Then there’s her verdant imagination – that’s actually the biggest problem. Whenever she’s up there in the sky in those big lumps of metal, filled to the brim with people, baggage and very combustible fuel she always has visions of the wings being ripped off by huge turbulence and the craft plummeting to the ground in a ball of flame – people screaming and flying around the cabin like flotsam as they fall thousands of feet to their deaths.

Also, she’s a frequent flier and she reckons that the more she flies the more chance she has of experiencing a bad flight. Most of her friends have their own horror story of the flight from hell - from seriously bad turbulence to the undercarriage not coming down. She even knows someone who remotely knows someone who was on that BA flying bus from Beijing that time, the one that crash-landed at Heathrow. Everyone but her, it seems, has a bad tale to tell so she’s simply waiting for hers to happen.

Mum actually prefers long-haul flying to short trips because she says that the most dangerous bits are the taking off and the landing – so with short trips she’s in a virtually constant state of worry and stress. At least with long haul she can relax in between and get topped up with champers until she’s virtually comatose and couldn’t give a damn by the time it does comes to land.

I’m dead relaxed about flying and so is Uncle Hugh. He says the science of flight simply follows the law of physics and that it’s the most natural thing in the world, he says it’s not unnatural at all. He says aeroplanes are simply doing what they are built to do, just like cars. Mum says that if her car breaks down she can simply pull up by the side of the road and ring the AA. I guess she’s got a point.

What’s your fear? I don’t really have one.

Here’s a very short clip of a little dog that went flying with his owners in their little flying car. Trouble is, they forgot to strap him in, and then decided to do some aerobatics. Said dog wasn’t harmed in any way, honest. Just a bit dizzy. A very similar thing happened to me once in Uncle Hugh's flying car when he topped out too abruptly after climbing, and we experienced what he called zerogee for a few seconds. I floated and so did all the dust and maps in the cockpit. It was quite cool. Uncle Hugh now straps me in.

Cats - what's the appeal?

2009-01-05T09:37:00.004+01:00

According to a survey in November 2008 by Tesco Pet Insurance, the dog was voted the most popular pet in the UK.

Not hugely surprising, although the cat has usurped us from time to time. The cat is still massively popular as a pet and I would like to know – what’s the appeal? I can appreciate the obvious attraction - they don’t take as much looking after as us dogs. I mean, you don’t have to walk a cat every day do you? It’s not as if they’re going to trash your house if they don’t get their daily walk, as some dogs do.

I can understand the appeal as far as aesthetics go too. I’ve never seen an ugly cat – I can’t say the same thing about dogs (French Bulldogs spring to mind). A cat can drape itself on a sofa and make the sofa look as if it had been plucked from the pages of Ideal Home Magazine. Saying that, said sofa will soon be liberally covered in shedded hair and ripped to shreds if said cat is left to its own devices.

I also have to admit that kittens are the cutest thing, but as LEE said once, they have to be. Kittens, puppies, babies have to be cute in order to survive – if they weren’t they’d be dumped on a much more regular basis – there’d be a baby or a pup or a kitten deposited on one’s doorstep more frequently than milk.

I’ve heard folk say that they’re easy to housetrain too. Show a kitten a litter tray and it immediately knows what to do. But there are plenty of anomalies. My mum has a friend whose cat will only use the litter tray once a day; the rest of the time, it goes anywhere it pleases. Being a cat, and therefore rather nimble, she will regularly find his deposits on the top of wardrobes, bookshelves, windowsills and kitchen worktops.
“He’s so adorable,” she’d say when mum asked how she put up with his unsavoury antics. “He just looks at me with those big blue eyes and I melt.” In my view, cats tend to look at everyone with utter disdain and contempt, as if the object of their glare is the dirt beneath their feet.

They’re sneaky too. My mum puts birdseed out in the winter for the poor little guys and she used to put it on the top of a low wall that surrounded the patio. She kept finding dead birds and started wondering if the seed she was buying was poor quality until she noticed one day that her neighbour’s black cat was positioning himself in the undergrowth right next to the wall and waiting, unseen, for an unsuspecting little blue-tit to help itself to a sunflower seed or two. The naughty bugger would simply jump and swipe and ‘voila’ one dead birdie. Mum bought a bird-table.

That same black cat always gives me the finger when I go walking with mum. He knows she won’t let me chase stuff. He’s gotten wise. So he always manages to plant himself in a really prominent position whenever we walk past his house. He just sits there sneering and taunting.
“Come on little rat face, come and chase me if you dare, dog-breath. But you daren’t dare you? No, because mumsy-wumsy won’t let you. You’re all the same you doggy-woggy thickheads. Under the thumbs of the humans. Trying to please. Pillock brain.”

I tell you he gets my hackles up something chronic.

Then my mum was sent this clip by her cat-loving friend and I must admit, even I thought it was funny and even I could, kind of, see why some folk might think cats are appealing. You may have seen it, but even if you have, it’s still good.

Should we ever be cruel to be kind?

2009-01-04T09:17:00.005+01:00

I was reading one of Lee’s posts the other day – you can read it HERE and it got me thinking. Lee always manages to get me thinking - at least once a week. That’s a lot for a little dog. Anyway, his post got me wondering - let’s say you know someone who’s really not very good at something, but they keep doing it thinking that they are. Like someone who’s disillusioned about their talent – i.e. they don’t have any, but they think that they do. There were lots of those types who auditioned for X-Factor last year - and it was quite sad to see. Or, let’s say someone’s given themselves a totally unrealistic goal based on them thinking that they have abilities that they truly don’t possess. Should you ever enlighten them? Isn’t it kinder to protect them from disappointment?

An example – Claude the fat yellow lab who’s teaching me French decided that his New Year’s resolution was to become a Guide Dog for the blind. It’s a Labrador thing; they feel as if they have to work for a living. It’s bred into them. They can’t help themselves. They feel as if they have to be doing something all the time. They can’t just sit around being petted and loved all day like us sensible, intelligent breeds. No, they always have to have a mission. Anyway, I said to him.

“Listen Claude. Number one - you’ve got no road sense AT ALL, that’s why you’ve got a dickey leg - remember the accident? Number two - you’re too old. Now I know that the saying ‘can’t teach an old dog new tricks’ is flawed, ‘cause you can, but these Guide Dog chappies start their training as soon as they’re born, almost. Number three – your own eyesight is crap. Number four – you’ve got major issues when it comes to housetraining – the fact that you refuse to be housetrained would not stand in your favour. Claude, you’d have more chance of becoming an Astronaut. Forget it. Don’t even go there.”

After my advice he was a bit down in the dumps for a while, ‘cause he’d gotten all excited about it, but he rallied and now he’s changed his New Year’s resolution and has resolved to learn German instead, which is a much more realistic goal ‘cause he lives next door to a Daschund. However, after reading Lee’s post I initially wondered if I should simply have kept my mouth shut.

I know Lee’s post isn’t about goals and New Year’s Resolutions or anything really to do with this post, it's about ‘Just doing it’ and not giving up merely because we aren’t the best at what we do. So, as I said, I initially thought I shouldn't have said anything to Claude. Then I started to wonder if, perhaps, we really should give something up when we’re not good at it or have no chance of achieving anything worthwhile with it, or if we’re 'inflicting' it on others.

My mum’s got a dear friend who writes in her spare time. Once upon a time, she wrote her first book and gave it to mum to read. Mum read it and loved it – so she told her friend she thought it was great. That made her friend get all excited because she’d not had much confidence in her writing before and she started believing that maybe it was her vocation, and that she might finally have a way out of the job she hates so much. Three years down the line, five more books and about 100 rejections later, she’s getting quite depressed. She’s just emailed mum another book to read and even though mum thinks her work is great, she’s wondering if it’s time she should tell her to stop thinking of it as a career option and perhaps tell her to knock this writing business on the head. Mum feels guilty that she might have given her false hope.

“After all I’m no literary critique. I’ve no experience in the field of publishing. I’ve no idea what they’re looking for,” she said to Uncle Hugh. “I’ve got a bizarre sense of humour sometimes and a weird taste in everything. I don’t like normal stuff.”
“Thanks,” said Uncle Hugh.
“There might only be two of us on this planet who actually like what she writes – her and me, because all those rejections kind of point to that, don’t they?” she continued. “I feel responsible for making her so depressed. She truly thought that her writing would be a way out of her dead end job – because I’ve been so encouraging. It’s all my fault. I should talk her out of it and try and encourage her to use her time retraining instead.”

Should mum encourage her to do something else? Like I talked Claude out of wanting to be a guide dog? Should we ever be ‘cruel’ to be kind?

(After I posted this and after reading comments from Indi & Braja, mum's decided to keep her gob shut:) - thanks you two - you've helped her with her little dilemma - but I don't feel guilty for talking Claude out of his 'Guide Dog' idea - he would have been a liability;))

Lee, I wish you didn’t make me think so much. My little doggy brain simply can’t cope. I might take up Philosophy. Goodness no. What am I thinking of? (no pun intended) Learning French is quite enough for a little dog – more about that later.

Here’s a little video clip of one of mum’s very favourite cartoon movies ‘Happy Feet’ (mum’s a big kid really) about a little guy who did have a talent and didn't give up, despite being told to by his parents and despite it being very ‘un penguin’ like.

Bread and boating - in that order

2009-01-02T10:29:00.006+01:00

Thank you everyone who wished me all the best for the New Year. I hope you’re all feeling well. Mum and Uncle Hugh looked terrible yesterday. I think they ended up drinking too much of that grape juice on New Year’s Eve. I kept out of their way. They were all giddy and really shouldn’t have been in charge of a dog. At one stage Uncle Hugh took me outside for a pee, he had one himself then went back inside and locked the door – totally forgot about me. That resulted in a ‘mini row’ (mini rows only last five minutes) when mum shouted and said he was an irresponsible father. Honestly, bad parents or what?

Anyway, I’m digressing already. Well it’s now 2009 and when I looked outside yesterday it all seemed the same to me. It’s no different this morning either. The sky’s still where it is and when the sun does finally emerge, I reckon that’ll still be shining too. So nothing’s changed much has it?

Actually, I’m knackered this morning and it’s all mum’s fault. Mum & Uncle Hugh went to bed quite late, which isn’t like them. They’re normally snoozing by ten, but they were watching a BBC programme about three grumpy men in a boat – more about that later (as I said before – thread of suspense and all that – keeps ‘em reading). Then mum decided that we needed more bread (despite the fact that there are eight frozen loaves squished uncomfortably in the tiny freezer compartment above the fridge). She decided we needed more bread because she wanted to try out the ‘Delay Start Programme’ of her breadmaking machine*.

“Won’t it be lovely to wake up in the morning to the smell of fresh bread?” Oh yes mum, how utterly divine.

At 4.00am sharp, I’m woken by the bloody thing mixing then kneading the dough. IT IS SO NOISY. It’s worse than the bloody dishwasher (ok perhaps not, but I’m used to the dishwasher). After about half an hour it stopped, and I’m thinking “Thank bloody God Rex for that.” However, no sooner had I started to drop off again when it suddenly starts up again. And I’m thinking “How is a dog supposed to get some sleep in this house?” When I finally DO get back to sleep, an hour later I’m woken by mum and Uncle Hugh - all bright and breezy and expecting me to be waggy-tailed and sparkly-eyed. “What do you think’s up with him this morning? He doesn’t seem too pleased to see us,” mum asked Uncle Hugh. Well what a surprise, mum!

Just going back to the boating thing that mum and Uncle Hugh watched on TV last night - it was about some grumpy men who try to get from one place in the UK to another place in the UK – by sea. Well it made me think about when we drove to Barcelona last summer where a friend of Uncle Hugh had invited him to spend a couple of days on his boat that he had moored there.

Mum HATES the sea and she HATES boats. Since she was severely traumatised by this film called “Jaws” when she was a young girl she’s always had a fear of both. She’ll paddle up to her ankles, and she’s quite happy going on river boats - but that’s it. So I’ve absolutely no idea why she agreed to spend a couple of days on a boat, on the sea. Looking back, I think she did it to please Uncle Hugh.

It turned out to be not too bad because the boat was actually moored in a calm marina. However, mum took one look at it then went and booked a hotel room. She said there was no way she was sleeping in something that rocked, whose living quarters were smaller than the inside of her car and whose toilet had walls that were paper thin and blue smelly stuff to flush everything that everyone on board had heard her deposit. Mum’s got a few issues when it comes to toilets.

She was quite happy being on the boat whilst it was moored and after a couple of glasses of fizzy stuff, she agreed to one trip out of the marina onto the real sea. However, it resulted in mum going all wild-eyed, white and rigid and emitting this strange, high-pitched whine. When they moored back up Uncle Hugh and his friend, Malcolm, had to prise her fingers off the deck rail in order to get her off the boat. That was the last trip for mum.

Me? I had a great time. I consider myself to be a rather seasoned seadog now. Uncle Hugh and I had lots of trips – mum seemed quite happy to be left in the marina drinking fizzy stuff. It won’t happen again though – the Credit Munch took that particular boat away and I don’t think Uncle Hugh has anymore boating pals.

However, I did have a skip around the Internet and found a boating clip to amuse you. I don’t normally laugh at folk falling and stuff like that ‘cause it’s not nice, but it is funny and I don’t think any animals or humans were seriously injured in the making of it. You've probably seen it before but if you've got time on your hands - have a peek.

* for those who may be new to this blog – mum got a breadmaking machine for Christmas.

BACK NEXT YEAR! (I guess I won't win any awards for the most original title of a post)

2008-12-31T08:39:00.007+01:00

Well I hope you all have a great New Year's Eve.

To be honest, I don't get it - this celebration of the passing of time. When you're a dog, with limited doggy years on this earth, believe me you don't get very excited about time passing. You curl up in your basket and pretend it isn't happening - until the fireworks start then you're kind of reminded that another of your very few doggy years has gone by. It's the same with birthdays. A birthday is simply another 'nail in the coffin' isn't it? Oh dear, am I getting morbid? No, I'm not. It's not in my doggy nature to be morbid. I'm just being a tad cynical.

Saying that, we do gain a second this year don't we? But a second isn't going to change the quality of my life is it? I'm just wondering what I can do in one second. I guess I could get an extra sneeze in. Or a cough. I can type a short word in a second, like 'me' or 'to' or 'you' or....No, nothing that will truly enrich my post.

Or perhaps I've got it wrong. Perhaps this New Year celebration is all to do with celebrating exactly that - something new. That's not so bad is it?

Whatever your reasons for celebrating today, I hope you have a lovely time and I'll be back next year. Mum's taking me for a long walk and we're going to feed some ducks - yes, she's still trying to get rid of her bread:)

See you next year, at least I've got my blogging to look forward to and keeping in touch with all my new blogging pals. 2008 was a good year - I discovered all you folk out there and it was definitely worth it - there are some real treasures in the blogging world, and yes, you're one of them:)

Eat more chocolate - it helps poor folk

2008-12-29T14:01:00.005+01:00

Don’t quote me, ‘cause I’m only going on what mum said and that was after she’d read her special Christmas edition of New Scientist, so it might be wrong because she only understands a tiny bit of what she reads in New Scientist – she mainly looks at the pretty pictures. Mum never intended to subscribe to New Scientist – it happened by accident one day – I told you about it here We're not dumb animals.

Anyway, according to what mum’s read you should eat more chocolate because when you do you are helping poor families. True, by upping your intake of chocolate you risk becoming morbidly obese and dying prematurely of an obese related illness, but hey – it’s for a good cause. According to this article she read, the stuff that chocolate is made of is almost certainly* grown on small farms in poor countries. So, they reckon that when you buy chocolate, you help poor farmers feed their families. You’ll also be helping to fund research into how to make the cacao tree more productive, less prone to drought and disease – which in turn will also help reduce deforestation.

To be honest it all sounded dead complex to me and I didn’t really understand much of it, other than it sounds as if everyone now has a really good excuse to be eating more chocolate. The thing is, us dogs aren’t supposed to eat chocolate, but apparently we can eat doggy chocolate – so why hasn’t my mum run out and bought a ton of it?

The full article is here Chocolate in peril – so you can make your own minds up. For those not interested in chocolate or who, like us dogs, can’t eat it for health reasons there is a funny video below to keep you amused (apologies if you’ve already seen it, but it made me laugh).

*Almost certain? Sounds a bit dodgy to me, you’re either certain or not aren’t you? How can you be almost certain? That is getting my doggy brain in a bit of a tizz. Any grammar experts out there?

Too much of a good thing.....

2008-12-28T10:39:00.005+01:00

I never thought I would say this “I AM SICK OF BLOODY TURKEY”. I’m serious. Dead serious. Now I can understand why all those TV chefs try and give you folk ideas on how to use turkey leftovers. I used to think, “Why do they want to do anything with the leftovers other than eat them au naturel. What’s wrong with turkey - plain and simple? Lucky them.”

At this moment in time, I would give my hind leg for a turkey curry. I’ve never had a curry but I’d give it a try. I’m starting to have nightmares about turkey. Last night I dreamt I was being chased by a turkey leg with the head of Madonna – the pop star not the religious lady (if you’ve not read my post of 26th December you will find that bizarre until you do read it).

Anyway, enough of that. I still have a leg and a wing to go. It's like a torture.

I think Uncle Hugh is also sick of bread.

Mum has gone into a bread-making frenzy with her bread-making machine. Let me explain something about mum. She doesn’t cook much. Uncle Hugh does all the cooking, ‘cause he’s good at it and he loves it. Mum does the housework and other stuff. That’s the arrangement, and it works for them. Another thing about mum – she’s not really qualified to do anything. She’s not a teacher, or a nurse, or a scientist, or a solicitor or anything like that. She used to say, “I’m a nothing” of “I’m a Jack of all trades.”

Mum did lots of things with Uncle Hugh in his businesses for a long, long time and Uncle Hugh says she was his right hand man. I don’t really know what he meant by that, ‘cause mum’s a lady. Perhaps it’s something to do with him being left-handed. Oh, I don’t know. You folk have strange little phrases that don’t always make sense, like “That takes the biscuit” and “It’s all swings and roundabouts” – I was there when mum tried to explain those to her French friend Stephanie - who ended up looking very baffled.

Anyway, I’m digressing.

So when mum finds something that she can do, and particularly if that something is really easy, then she tends to do it A LOT, until she gets bored. Perhaps it gives her a sense of worth. Well, she’s really mastered this bread-making thingumajig. All she has to do is throw some breadstuff in it, add cold water, press the ‘ON’ switch and in three hours and fifteen minutes (not exactly ‘Hey Presto’ is it?) it produces a perfect loaf. We now have ten loaves and she’s scratching her head wondering what to do with it. Mum doesn’t have a freezer – other than one of those little ones over the fridge, and that’s now full.

Can I just say – I am also sick of bread. Turkey and bread. NO MORE. PLEASE! NO MORE. You really can have too much of a good thing.

I wish it could be Christmas every day.

2008-12-26T10:17:00.004+01:00

I had the bestest Christmas EVER – more later (the turkey’s the clue) – I like to keep a smidgen of suspense running through my posts.

As you can tell, mum didn’t get a digital camera. “I guess I started hinting a bit too late,” she whispered to me when Uncle Hugh wasn’t listening. No, it was my fault – I planted the idea in her head too late, but she mustn’t know that. Remember, she thinks I’m just a dog. BUT, I know for definite she’s planning to buy one. So, all is not lost.

So, she didn’t get a digital camera – instead she got three books all about fungus and stuff – what you guys call mushrooms. I couldn’t believe it. I’m sat there thinking, “Uncle Hugh, you’ve really fooked up here mate…” I mean, every lady wants a book on mould don’t they? NOT!

This is where I pause to tell you that mum continues to amaze me. I’m forever learning stuff about her that I didn’t know. Instead of telling him to go and stick his fungus books up his .... and asking ‘Where’s the digital camera?’ she was DELIRIOUSLY HAPPY. WHHAAAA…..? SINCE WHEN? FUNGUS? WHY? I was gobsmacked.

At first I wondered if she were just being dead nice to Uncle Hugh when she said, “Oh Sweet Hart, you are so thoughtful. How wonderful!” But I could tell she was being genuine because she grabbed her reading glasses and started pouring over them – all excited she was. I know that strange things make mum excited – like colliding dust*, and leaves and trees and stuff like that. And flowers – she’s partial to flowers, but she’s not that bothered about those cut ones they sell in the pretty flower shop. No, she likes those rather boring ones that grow everywhere in the Spring. It’s the part of mum I don’t ‘get’. But fungus? Why? Oh well, I guess it takes all sorts doesn’t it?

Mum also got a bread-making machine – now that DID throw her. I could tell she WAS just being nice about that when she said “Ah! How lovely Sweet Hart. Mmmm. Yes. That looks – ha ha – complicated….” She gave me a sidelong grimace when Uncle Hugh wasn’t looking and whispered “...what’s wrong with the fooking bread shop down the road?”

As usual mum’s imagination knew no bounds when it came to Uncle Hugh, he got slippers, socks and a book.

As for me – well. I didn’t get a bone. I didn’t get a new harness. HOWEVER, I did get a tuggy toy that SQUEAKS – but only if you bite it a certain way – so it doesn’t squeak ALL the time. Also, mum had washed my harness and it no longer stinks.

Now for the BEST BIT IN THE WORLD – THIS IS THE ICING ON THE CAKE, THE CHERRY ON TOP.

I GOT THE WHOLE TURKEY! YES! THE WHOLE TURKEY!

Mum and Uncle Hugh had ordered a free-range one from the local butcher, which mum said “…cost a bloody arm and a leg. It’s ok supporting these local businesses Sweet Hart, it’s very noble but we’ll end up paupers. I could have got one for a quarter of the price at Intermarché.”

Anyway, not only was it REALLY expensive but it also turned out to be inedible. Mum said it was “…like chewing on Madonna’s bicep. Talk about ‘free range’ this little bleeder must have been running a marathon every day…” Mum and Uncle Hugh chewed and chewed and chewed. Then she said, “That’s it! I give in. This can be Henry’s breakfast and dinner for the next seven days…”

YES! YES! YES!

I am one VERY happy dog. Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas too.

*like what they were going to do in CERN, until it broke.

Dear Santa Paws

2008-12-23T17:11:00.006+01:00

Dear Santa Paws

This year, please DON’T leave me one of those awful organic fake bones like the one you left last year. They’re not real and they’re not fun. I pretended to eat it, so as not to upset you, but if you really want to know I sneaked it under the sideboard in the lounge and it’s still there (don’t tell mum).

I want a REAL bone. A real one, Santa. I’ve never had a real one. I know that mum’s old dog, Sam, had a bad experience with a real bone that ended up costing mum A LOT of money and ended up with her threatening to kill Uncle Hugh (‘cause he gave it to him), but that was a cooked bone. Uncooked ones are ok.

So, please can I have an uncooked bone for Christmas? But not one from a cow. That would upset Braja.

Also, please can I have a squeaky toy? PLEASE? I know mum HATES squeaky toys, they get on her nerves and her face ends up looking all hot and sweaty when I play with squeaky toys (hence they are now banned) but I promise only to play with it when she’s not around. Uncle Hugh’s kind of ambivalent about them.

Also, if it’s possible can I have a new harness? Or one of those butch collars like what the Rotti dog wears down the road - the type with the big studs in. Except my mum prefers me to wear a harness because I sometimes pull when I'm excited and she worries that I'll hurt my neck in a collar. I like bad smells ‘cause I’m a dog, but honestly my current harness stinks. I knew mum should have got a leather one instead of a canvas one. Mum keeps saying that she’s going to soak it in bleach, but she keeps forgetting and it now smells so bad that when we go for walks all I can smell is that stinking harness. Mum says the same thing EVERY DAY – “Pooh! Henry, it’s about time I washed this isn’t it?” It smells because mum's a cruel sadist and takes me out when it’s raining. It gets wet through and then she doesn’t ever dry it out properly, so it starts growing mould, then it starts to smell and keeps smelling. I don’t mind smelling doggy but I don’t want to smell like rotting dog. Claude the yellow Lab is starting to mock me. I’ll end up with issues.

Finally, please can you stop this thing called the Pound from falling and make this Euro thing all weak and feeble again? I’ve no idea what all that is about (I’m simply repeating what I’ve heard) but am hoping that you do. It’s mum’s latest stressy thing since the Credit Munch started. If you do that then mum will be happy, well happier anyway.

Oh, and another thing. World Peace would be nice too.

Love From Henry the Dog.

PS: I know that everyone’s seen one of those ‘Elf’ things, and that nearly everyone on this planet has been ‘Elfed’ at some point but you won’t have seen mine Henry's been Elfed – mum did it for her friends. There was going to be three of me dancing, but it ended up with only two because she said it was taking too long to upload the third. Patience is not my mum’s middle name

HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE

No, mum hasn’t got a camera yet. Uncle Hugh took these on his ‘phone, then it took him about six hours to work out how to get them from camera to laptop. I’m still hoping he gets mum a proper camera for Christmas. These aren't good ones of me 'cause I got extremely bored waiting for him to take them. I normally look more animated, honest.

I've got a big crush

2008-12-22T10:17:00.006+01:00

I have to admit, I have a crush on the lovely Braja. I know it’s stupid because she’s a lady, and even if she were a dog she’d probably be an incredibly sleek and beautiful Saluki like the one pictured here, and wouldn’t give me a second glance. (Actually, since I posted this Braja has told me that her 'inner' dog is a Mini Schnauzer - how cool is that? (Henry smiles broadly and looks rather smug))

I wonder why people have crushes? And why do they have them on folk who are impossibly out of their reach? Like really famous film stars? My mum said that when she was a young teenager she had a hopeless crush on a celebrity called John Travolta. Not only did he live in the US (so there was no chance mum would meet him as she lived in a council estate in Yorkshire) but at that time he was keen on much older ladies. Nowadays she’s not too keen, I remember her saying to Uncle Hugh “…my god he’s so not my type anymore, you couldn’t pay me enough…” I didn’t quite understand about the paying bit (paying her for what?), but it’s obvious he no longer floats her boat.

These days I reckon there aren’t that many celebrities who would float her boat. These days mum reckons that the calibre of celebs – particularly in the UK – is very low How to become a Celebrity in the UK. However, I do know she’s quite keen on that Alexandra lady who’s just won X-Factor – she has a lovely voice. But mum hasn’t got a crush on her ‘cause mum’s a lady too and I know that ladies don’t fancy ladies. Do they? I know that men can fancy men – they’re called 'gay' because they’re happy – mum has friends who’re gay. She went to their wedding. But ladies don’t fancy ladies. I don’t think they do anyway. I’m rambling aren’t I? And I’m digressing. Big failing of mine.

My mum still has folk she looks up to. I wouldn’t say she idolises them. But there are folk who she would like to emulate – like Braja the yogi. The trouble is mum can’t get up early (Braja gets up at 3am – yes! 3am), mum needs a caffeine fix, she can’t do more than four AFDs (Alcohol Free Days) a week, and even though she has now stopped eating baby cow I know for definite that she’ll be having Turkey on Christmas Day. Also, I’ve done some googling and seen all those positions folk get into when they’re doing yoga and there is NO WAY IN A MILLION YEARS that mum could strike poses like that. Mum can’t even touch her toes. Mum’s quite fit, but she is NOT supple.

Going back to celebrity folk, they have a huge responsibility don’t they? Kids and other folk look up to them, want to emulate them, literally idolise them so when they do bad things it could have a bad effect.

If I were a celebrity I would make sure that I lived a faultless life. I’d limit my Fingers of Fun* to twice a week, I’d definitely reduce my consumption of Haribo Jellies and definitely wouldn’t consume them in public – because I wouldn’t want little pups thinking it was cool to eat sugary stuff and get hyper. I’d be nice and polite at all times, I’d not ‘do drugs’ (no idea what that is but I’d not do it), I’d give lots of money to charity and I’d do lots of charitable work too.

Thinking about it - I guess I could do charitable work now because I’m not exactly rushed off my paws am I? Mum reckons I spend most of my day sleeping. But if I did charitable stuff that would mean me spending time away from home and mum, and I wouldn’t like that. I guess it’s easier said than done, isn’t it? Good intentions - I’m full of them, but I guess it’s better to be full of good intentions than bad ones.

* For those who're new to me – Fingers of Fun is when Uncle Hugh dips his fingers in wine or beer and lets me lick it off.

This clip makes me think of my mum

2008-12-21T12:15:00.003+01:00

This is funny and reminds me of my mum, you need the sound up – French Fancy time to unmute.

If mum knew I’d said that it reminds me of her she’d go mad. She’d say, “I do not look like a fookin’ panda you cheeky little beggar.” No, she doesn’t but she’s ever so jumpy. Mum jumps at the slightest noise or unexpected event. Mum jumps when the toast pops up out of the toaster. Mum jumps when she receives text messages. Mum sometimes jumps when Uncle Hugh walks into the same room as her “Why are you jumping?” he’ll say, “Who did you think it could possibly be other than me? You daft bugger!”

Uncle Hugh and I don’t jump at ANYTHING. I told you before - I even like fireworks, which apparently isn’t normal for dogs. We are so laid back, maybe mum is jumpy for both of us.

Mum says that the biggest jump she ever had was when she was a very little girl one Christmas morning. Mum used to get so excited around the festive period she used to vomit every Christmas Eve (Yummy!) and she and her bigger brother could hardly sleep and would end up sneaking down really early in the morning to see what presents Santa Paws had left

One Christmas they snook down very very early. Just as they were opening the door of the lounge her dad shouted from upstairs “What the bloody hell are you two doing at this time? It’s only just gone midnight. Get back to bed - NOW! Santa’s probably not even been yet…” as he said that mum said she sneaked a peak into the dark lounge and saw a huge figure sat on the sofa next to her Christmas sack – she screamed, jumped about four foot into the air and peed her pants – convinced she’d caught Santa in the process of doling out her presents. Mum said she's never moved so fast in her life. She said they were back up the stairs at warp speed. It turned out to be a huge teddy dressed in Santa gear.

By the way, mum doesn’t pee her pants now when she jumps – honest!

I'd like more than just memories, mum.

2008-12-19T07:51:00.013+01:00

This could have been me as a pup - but it isn't. Mum's not camera friendly. I’ve been trying to persuade her to get a digital camera so that I can occasionally post some photos on my blog. It’s difficult trying to persuade someone to do something without being able to speak to them. So I’ve been doing it surreptitiously – I keep striking cute, funny and appealing poses, I leave newspapers opened up at adverts or articles to do with cameras – ditto with websites on mum’s computer. My campaign has failed up to now. Perhaps Uncle Hugh will get her one for Christmas, I do hope so.

This could have been me too, mum says I looked just like that. Isn't it amazing how cameras can freeze time? You see, due to mum’s aversion to cameras there is no record of my early years with her and Uncle Hugh, and mum says I was seriously cute. It didn’t bother me when I was younger, but as I’ve grown older I’ve started to feel more nostalgic about my youth. I would like more than just memories now. I want something to look back on when I get very old.

Mum says she got me due to what she calls a ‘Mid Life Crisis’. She’d had a dog, Sam, in LBM (Life Before Me) but it died and upset her so much she swore never, ever to get another dog. Then one day she found a lump in her boob and being the type of worrier that she is, she was convinced it was a nasty lump that would kill her like the nasty lumps that killed her parents. Anyway, it turned out not to be a nasty lump but she said the experience turned her life upside down and made her start to think. So she thought, and she decided to get me. Mum said that was also when Uncle Hugh and she started to work towards leaving the UK.

A digression - I did some research on the Internet about this ‘mid-life crisis’ thing and found out that it can happen to men too. In fact, it seems to happen to men a lot. But they tend to do slightly different things than women do. When in ‘mid-life crisis’ mode the things men tend to do are i) buy a new sporty or similarly impractical type of car, ii) have hair implants, iii) join a gym, iv) buy a whole new wardrobe of clothes that would look better worn by their son, v) run off with a teenage girl (well nobody else in their right mind is going to it) or v) do all five of the above.

I’ve got lots of memories of my early years but my most vivid is when I was just 11 months old and mum and me were driving to our first new home, in Switzerland.

I remember she’d been worried about leaving me in the car when she got on this really big boat, but I was fine. I’m not easily fazed. I made friends with a nice man in a bright yellow jacket who kept coming to check up on me. Anyway, when the big boat stopped, mum and me drove off it and mum told me we were in a place called France where they drive on the wrong side of the road (to me it’s now the right side – in both ways).

It was a bit of a problem for mum ‘cause she was in an English car at the time and on the motorways there were a few toll booths which were on the left of mums car, and mum was sitting on the right. So she couldn’t just wind her window down, she had to get out and walk round the front of her car to pay at the booth. Well, one time she did that I noticed she had left her door ajar so decided to sneak out too, ‘cause I was bored. So there I am having a sniff at mum’s back wheel and was just thinking about having a pee on it when mum drove off.

I’ll never forget seeing mum’s little silver car driving into the distance on that big motorway in that strange land. I was, literally, gobsmacked. I remember looking desperately at the lady in the booth, then she looked at me in a rather shocked fashion - mouth open, eyes wide, and then we both looked at mum’s disappearing car.

I thought my heart was going to break. I started howling, the lady started shouting in a strange gobbledegook, the car behind me was honking it’s horn for dear life. It seemed that the entire world knew what had happened except mum. I watched her car turn into a pinprick as it left me behind and totally alone in a strange, scary place.

Then the pinprick suddenly started getting bigger again, there was lots & lots of honking in the distance, I could see cars swerving, there was a strange screeching sound – like an engine that was at it’s absolute limits – and mum’s car was once again becoming visible as she reversed at great speed back up the motorway – back to the booth where she’d left me. It made lots of other drivers a bit mad that mum was reversing up a motorway, and I’m sure she shouldn’t have done it. When she finally reached me she dove out of the car - her face all red and hot looking - she was screeching and crying, and she grabbed me and hugged me so hard I thought she’d squashed my insides to a pulp. THEN she had the cheek to scream
“WHY THE FOOK DID YOU DO THAT YOU STUPID LITTLE ANIMAL?”

EXCUSE ME!

Well, it’s all water under the bridge now, I wasn’t mentally scarred or anything. But it would have been nice to have some photos of those early days – perhaps not of that particular one though.

I found the clip below on YouTube about a little fella who mum says looks very much how I used to, in fact she says of all the Schnauzers she’s seen, he could be my brother, except that he’s much better groomed than I am and is a bit blacker. She says we share the same expressions. Personally, I think I look more like Bagel his friend in the last shot:) At least it will give you an idea as to what I was like when I was young. (You need to have the sound on FFancy - it's a nice tune and is sent to everyone with ......:)

The Forbidden Question

2008-12-17T07:41:00.005+01:00

If this post offends I’ve decided to go off and commit ‘harakiri’. The picture sums up how mum and me feel after my ‘faux pas’ yesterday. Oh well, move onwards and upwards as Uncle Hugh would say. Mum was getting all maudlin anyway. It happens every month this 'maudlin' business. It usually starts with her getting up in the morning and staring in the mirror for about five minutes. Then she’ll say, “Look at my wrinkles Henry.” Then she’ll say, “I’m fat and ugly.” Then she’ll say, “What’s it all about Henry? Why do we bother?” Then she'll start to cry. That’s when I know it’s gonna happen very soon – Uncle Hugh will ask ‘the forbidden question’.

Except it won’t happen this month (big sigh of relief) ‘cause Uncle Hugh is in the UK until the end of the week and her maudlin has already started. It usually only lasts for a couple of days, then she’s fine again. So by the time he gets back, mum will be her usual self - thank God Rex for that.

Normally when Uncle Hugh’s around and mum starts being maudlin I can feel a tension starting to form in the air between them. Us dogs are very sensitive to stuff like that – subtle changes in body language, sharp verbal digs, little huffs and puffs. And then I start to feel ‘the forbidden question’ forming insidiously in Uncle Hugh’s mind and I think “OH NO!” I sometimes wonder if he knows himself that it’s happening, or if it’s some kind of involuntary thing.

At that point I start to project really strong thoughts into the ether, hoping that his brain will pick up on them – like a radio picks up radio waves – “DON’T ASK THE QUESTION UNCLE HUGH. DON’T ASK! DON’T! DON’T!” (excuse the exclamation marks Braja) I stare into his eyes and think really hard, “DON’T ASK!” I think it so hard, it makes my head hot. But it just ends up with him saying “Why is Henry staring at me like that?”

Then I try ‘diversionary’ tactics. I try to divert his thoughts from uttering those words. I put on my best and brightest “PLAY WITH ME” face. I run frantically round and round the room with my tug toy – encouraging him to chase me. I find my tennis ball and throw that around too. I get my toys one by one and place them at his feet. I try everything in my power EVERYTHING to try and stop him from asking ‘the forbidden question’. In fact, I throw myself around so much I wear myself to a bloody frazzle and STILL it pours forth from his mouth EVERY SINGLE BLOODY MONTH WITHOUT FAIL – THE QUESTION YOU SHOULD NEVER, EVER ASK MY MUM:

“Have you got PMS?”

Talk about ‘red rag to a bull’. Mum turns into a raving, shrieking banshee and all hell breaks loose. Every time. Every month. Without fail. Is the man thick? I ask. Is it another ‘Man Thing’? I’ve no idea what this PMS is but I decided to scour the Internet to try and find something that might help Uncle Hugh and give him some advice about what he should and should not do around mum at ‘maudlin’ time, and I found the video below. I still don’t know what PMS is. It’s a big puzzle to me, but the guy in the video seems to know what he’s talking about. Do you think Uncle Hugh will listen to him?

I deleted my last post because it upset Lady Jicky

2008-12-16T22:07:00.003+01:00

Just to let you know that I deleted my last post 'cause Lady Jicky & Rosie were upset by the howling puppy.

I'm pretty mortified because I don't want to upset anyone - it is absolutely the last thing I want to do. I'm very sensitive to how people react to what I post. I agree with Lady Jicky and Rosie that it's not good for folk to make animals do 'cute' things just for entertainment. However, in my defence I didn't think that the little pup was doing anything unnatural at all and did not look distressed in any way (I would not have used the footage if he had). He seemed to be joining in with the pack 'howl' - something I have done many times - particularly when I was a puppy. My mum finds any form of animal cruelty abhorrent and it goes without saying that I do too.

Today I realised that it is so easy to upset folk without any 'mens rea' whatsoever. To those I have upset - I apologise. Perhaps it's my lack of sophistication, foresight, insight, empathy, whatever. It is also difficult to please everyone - as you can see I’ve changed my template again ‘cause you folks voted that I should change from the green (9 to change, 7 to stay green, 2 to revert back to the old one) I’ll give this one a go for a while but already (before I deleted the post) there were people commenting that they liked it and some who said that they didn't. (Henry shrugs shoulders and sighs) I guess I ought to just go in my basket at this stage and have a good night's kip.

Give me more 'Man Things' - and I'm SHOUTING OUT too

2008-12-15T09:08:00.006+01:00

I got inspired today by some of my blogging pals. I’m doing a double post. I’m going to do a Happy Christmas SHOUT OUT – think that’s how I should write it – in capitals – to show that I’m shouting. Then I’m going to ask you guys about ‘Man Things’ because I was inspired by some comments left on my previous post. I honestly thought that Uncle Hugh was the only man with this condition (see previous post below) but it seems not. Now I’m itching to know what other ‘man things’ there are out there.

So here is my Happy Christmas SHOUT OUT – (I hope there aren’t any hard and fast rules for this – if there are then bugger them – anyway, I’m a dog so rules don’t include me)

I want to SHOUT about some bloggers who have really inspired me, made me laugh, taught me stuff and made me cry in equal measure. I can’t possibly list all of you because I’d be here all day so I thought I’d choose four, cause four’s my lucky number.

Firstly, to the wonderful Braja who told me about SHOUT OUTS. She is just lovely, has a wicked sense of humour and her blogsite kept mum entertained all day on Saturday when she should have been doing Uncle Hugh’s laundry. It’s funny and fascinating – go back to the beginning of her blog and find out about her fabulous experiences in India.

Then there’s French Fancy . You’ve GOT to read the post on 4th December about her wonderful dad. It’s one of the loveliest posts I’ve ever read. I love French Fancy ‘cause her comments make me laugh and she reminds me of my mum. I’ve never met her but I have mentally, if you know what I mean.

Then there’s A Curates Egg. Lee has the ability to be at times poignant, deep, funny, sharp, dry and naughty. He’s obviously got a good brain – which is what mum always wanted but never had, until she met Uncle Hugh – so now she has one by proxy, so to speak.

And finally, but it’s not finally – because there are so MANY others out there that I love and visit nearly every day if I can. Anyway, finally for me ‘cause I’ve limited myself to four is Diane. There’s an earthiness about her, which also reminds me of mum. She has a great way of looking at life, and she’s back after a few days' break. She is DEAD funny. Hello Diane, in case you’re reading.

Right – on with the post. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT OTHER ‘MAN THINGS’ THERE ARE. I want to make a big list.

Until I posted yesterday, I thought it was only Uncle Hugh who had what mum calls ‘man things’. But I found out that there are others.

For starters

1. Taking forever to find the right spot to poo (that's my personal 'man thing' according to mum, but I know other man dogs have it too). Mum says "Here we go again - searching for the hallowed ground")

2. Refusing to ask directions when lost.

3. Dropping wet towels on the floor instead of putting them back onto the heated towel rail,

4. Taking off socks and then smelling them.

5. Pretending to be dying when they wake up with a sore throat. Called 'Man Flu' (Parisgirl gave me that one)

6. Leaving the bathroom floor resembling a swimming pool after taking a shower (a French man thing apparently - Parisgirl gave me that one too)

(Parisgirl - I can’t include all of yours because my mum is guilty of the ‘restaurant’ one and she’s a girly)

7. Grumbles that there is no food when there is tons.

8. Leaves drawers and cupboards open in the kitchen (those last two given by Detroit Dog)

(Detroit Dog - I can’t use the other two ‘cause mum is guilty of them:)

I have remembered two more ‘man things’ that get on mum’s nerves

9. Hogging the TV remote control

10. ‘Flicking’ channels mindlessly when the adverts come on.

I'm trying to make a big list, 'cause I find it funny and interesting - then perhaps we'll do a list of 'women things'. But that might be VERY VERY long.

It's about time Uncle Hugh improved his French - n'est-ce pas?

2008-12-14T10:20:00.003+01:00

Mum says it’s about time that Uncle Hugh improved his French. Mum has been having lessons for a long time now and she meets with her friend Stephanie at least once a week to practice speaking it. Uncle Hugh has NEVER had a lesson. He simply refuses. He says he studied French when he was at school and that’s enough. Mum says that he can’t possibly remember all of what he studied forty years ago. Mum says it’s a ‘man thing'.

I don’t know what a ‘man thing' is. It must be something only men catch – like a virus. Mum says that refusing to ask directions when lost is also a ‘man thing’, as is dropping wet towels on the floor instead of putting them back onto the heated towel rail, as is taking off socks and then smelling them (something I can definitely relate to). Perhaps this ‘man thing’ is not a virus. Perhaps it’s a mutated gene or something?

Anyway, I’m digressing. Uncle Hugh has lots of French friends. He’s that type of guy. People like him. But mum says his French is crap and that it’s caused lots of problems in the past. Uncle Hugh says he gets by well enough and that he speaks ‘fronglay’ (whatever that is) and that his pals understand him well enough. “Yes but you don’t always understand them” shouted mum “...look what’s happened in the past.”

Here are a few things that have happened because of Uncle Hugh’s crap French:

1. Telling mum he was going to Biarritz for the day in his flying car with Le Fred and his other friend Laurent. It turned out to be Santiago in Spain and it was for a week. When he got back mum said his underpants had seen better days.

2. Telling mum that they’d been invited for a quick coffee at his friend Denis’ house at teatime because Denis wanted to show them photos of his new flying car. It turned out to be a ‘grand repas’ with forty people to celebrate Denis’ wife’s 50th birthday. Mum turned up in her shorts and flip-flops - no card or present, just a very red face. Luckily, Denis and his wife thought it hilarious that Uncle Hugh had got it so badly wrong.

3. Turning up at the WRONG airport on the WRONG day - to pick his friend up from a trip to Paris.

4. Delivering a birthday present to Denis’ dad on 13th November. Uncle Hugh thought it was his 75th birthday. Denis’ dad turned out to be 77 and his birthday was on 24th June. To this day they have NO idea how Uncle Hugh got that one so badly wrong, but it caused much merriment and continues to be a subject brought up at their dinner table, or at weddings, funerals and such like.

5. Finding out that he’d agreed to purchase the field next to us from the farmer who owns it. Uncle Hugh thought he’d simply said it was ok by him if the farmer built a barn on it. That was a difficult one for mum to get him out of whilst remaining friends with the farmer. The farmer ended up with a bottle of single malt whisky and a firm promise that if the credit munch went away Uncle Hugh would definitely purchase the land.

Nowadays, mum checks and double checks everything that Uncle Hugh tells her if the arrangements were initially made by his French friends. It goes like this

“Are you sure they said Thursday? You definitely heard ‘zhurrdee’?”
“Yes, definitely.”
“You’re sure? You heard ‘zhurrdee’?”
“Sure!”
“And definitely 1 ‘o’ clock? You heard ‘trezzhurr’”
“Yes, definitely.”
“You’re sure? You heard ‘trezzhurr’?”
“Sure!”

Despite all that, she always ends up ringing the French person who made the arrangements and double checking with them.

I think Uncle Hugh should take lessons. After all, if he can agree to purchase something without realising it, he could agree to sell something without realising it couldn’t he? I mean, mum could get home one day and find me gone! Sold!

Yep, I think it’s about time he took this French thing seriously. I’m having lessons from Claude the Yellow Labrador aren’t I? And I’m just a dog. So there’s really no excuse is there? If I can do it, so can he.

My mum sometimes growls at big dogs!

2008-12-12T10:07:00.004+01:00

You might not believe me, but in this part of France where mum and me live people don’t walk their dogs. Honest. I’m not kidding. Not once have we ever met another dog walker whilst we’ve lived here. Instead they let their dogs out to wander around alone. The local folk actually think it quite quaint that mum takes me out every day, and mum is now known as “the woman who walks the dog”. I’ve heard her say to Uncle Hugh “...I know they think I’m a sad bastard, especially when they drive past me and it’s bucketing down with rain and the wind’s howling around me. They look at me as one would look at an injured puppy…”

Mum wouldn’t DREAM of letting me go out on my own and between you and me - I’d not really know what to do if she did.

I’ve never been anywhere on my own. I can’t imagine walking without mum. Goodness knows what trouble I might get into. Take cars, for example. Sometimes I’m so engrossed in a nice smell I only know that one’s coming because mum instructs me to ‘Stay!’. So I freeze, which is what I’m programmed to do, and suddenly a car’s shooting past and I’d never even heard it before then. Sometimes there are some really good smells in the MIDDLE of the road where something has been squashed and I can spend ages having a good sniff at it. Imagine if I were on my own? Imagine if mum wasn’t there to drag me to the side of the road when a car is coming? I’d end up squashed too, wouldn’t I?

Usually we walk where there aren’t any cars and I can wander around without the lead, but we generally have to go on a road to get there.

In the UK, we used to meet lots of other dog walkers – that’s when mum found out that I had a few issues. The main one being what mum calls ‘littledogitits’. I call it ‘let me get to the bastards’. What she doesn’t realise is that some big dogs (and it’s only big dogs, not big bitches) put my hackles up because they give me that ‘look’ which says “Hey small fry – come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough…” so I have to show them who’s boss. Uncle Hugh says "..if he got his oats from time to time perhaps he wouldn't be so aggressive..." I don't know why he says that. I've no interest in oats. Oats are for horses. What have oats got to do with aggression?

Anyway, I’m digressing. I was telling you that they don’t walk their dogs around here – instead they simply let them out to wander around. It’s only a problem if the dog wandering around happens to be big, and a dog. Mum thinks she has to protect me from them, so she carries a big stick around with her wherever we go. She doesn't realise that I don't need protection - she should be protecting them from me!

It makes me laugh ‘cause mum reckons I’m aggressive, but you ought to see her when we end up face to face with a dog like Pierre, the local Mastiff/Rottweiller cross. He’s often wandering around barking and if mum would just leave me to it, I’d sort him out - but no. She tries to put me behind her then she bares her teeth, growls really loudly, shakes her stick and starts charging towards him – still growling. He runs like the clappers (and so would I if I were confronted with that) and I’m left in hysterics, hardly able to move I’m laughing so much. Then she says “My goodness, Henry. I truly hope nobody ever sees me do that, they’ll think I’m a nutter. I’ll end up with the nickname ‘the woman who growls at dogs’. Don’t tell anyone”

Don’t worry mum, I won’t:)

Mum wants to be a WAG

2008-12-11T08:20:00.006+01:00

My mum told Uncle Hugh that she wants to be a WAG. She was reading the newspapers online again on Monday and read an article about a guy called Wayne Rooney, who kicks balls around for a living and his wife called Coleen, who’s glad that he does. It’s here if you want to have a read: Wayne & Coleen's cash.

For those who don’t know, and from what I’ve seen in the press, a WAG is someone who is dating, engaged or married to someone who kicks footballs around for a living and who also i) has orange skin, ii) has an IQ of 25 or under, iii) has the ability to spend oodles of other folks’ money, iv) has a shopping addiction, v) has big boobies or is very skinny or both, and vi) can turn a blind eye to boyfriend’s/hubby’s frequent indiscretions. Being blonde also helps but isn’t mandatory.

Mum wants to be a WAG because she says it would be the end of her money problems, but having seen and heard this Wayne Rooney bloke, I reckon it would be the beginning of her emotional ones. He’s certainly not anywhere near as handsome as Uncle Hugh, and he’s thick (I can say that ‘cause I’m a dog). I don’t think he’d keep my mum entertained for long, and I don’t think she’d like to share her basket with him. Also, mum doesn’t fit the WAG criteria, other than she’s blonde.

Mum says that WAG Coleen gets paid loads of money, more than £10 each month, for doing virtually nothing. Some folk don’t get that much for working for a whole YEAR. Apparently, she gets this money from a magazine called ‘OK’ and all she does is write something that’s not funny or interesting and she does it four times a month. Imagine being paid more than £10 a month for doing that? That sounds dead easy to me. I could do that. I’m thinking of contacting this ‘OK’ magazine and telling them that I can do it for less money – I’d do it for about £9 a month. AND I’d write about something interesting. AND I think it’d be funny having a dog do a column for ‘OK’ magazine. True, I don’t know much about ladies frocks or handbags or anything, but I’m a quick learner. Then I could make sure that my mum lived happily ever after, with no more money worries.

WAG Coleen also got paid more than £10 for writing a book about her life. It can’t be a very big book ‘cause she’s only a pup, so it can’t be more than 10 pages. I ask you, what could she write a whole book about? “Once upon a time I was born, then I went to school, then when I left school I got a job in a Supermarket, then I met a boy called Wayne who kicked balls around for a living, then I made my own perfume and exercise DVD, then we got married.” I could do that. I could write my autobiography. It might not be as long as hers but it’d be more interesting.

I don’t want mum to be a WAG because I want her to stay with Uncle Hugh. I wouldn’t want Wayne Rooney as my Uncle. He’d probably keep all the Haribo Jellies to himself, he wouldn’t give me ‘fingers of fun’, AND I think football is for sissies.

So, I think it’s time I came up with a plan to make some money for my mum.

Any ideas????

I've been given an award

2008-12-09T17:45:00.005+01:00

I’ve been given an award by the very lovely Diane, whose blog is really good fun and makes me laugh.

I’m not very good at inserting things, and wasn’t quite sure how to insert the award into my post but I finally managed to get it placed on my blog (lower right, under my blog list). Mum tried to help me but I did it myself in the end because she’s crap at technical stuff (see photos - say no more), and she’s blonde.

Anyway, it’s quite a macho award (note the tape measure, which I think is supposed to project connotations of rugged ‘builder’ types with calloused hands and lumpy biceps) and I thought it was only for men, but it can’t be ‘cause Diane got one. But I reckon Diane’s one of the lads, so that explains it.

I don’t have to pass the award on – phew! She knows I’m a bit funny about passing things on. But I do have to list six ways in which I measure success in life and/or as a blogger. So here they are

1. When Uncle Hugh succumbs to my “Aren’t I a seriously cute dog?” look and throws me one of his Haribo Jellies.

and

2. When mum doesn’t notice him doing it!

3. Finding a new blog that makes mum laugh, or cry or both. Similarly, if I occasionally brighten someone’s day with my blog, or make someone smile – that’s success.

4. Sneaking up behind little kids then barking sharply. It really makes them jump (I know that’s cruel but I can’t help myself sometimes – it’s the beast in me)

5. Scaring Rottweillers and making them run away – because it makes folk think I must be dead hard – that’s success. (What folk don’t realise is that Rottweillers are sissies and are the biggest scaredy cats in the whole world, it’s unfortunate that some end up with bad owners).

6. When mum looks into my eyes and says, “Henry hound, I love you” for no particular reason. Not because I’ve been good or anything, just because I’m me. That’s success.

I’m also supposed to say something nice about a man in my life – now that’s not difficult. It’s Uncle Hugh, of course, who always finds time to play with me (even when he’s busy), who gives me fingers of fun and who accidentally-on-purpose drops his food on the floor when he’s eating so that I can hoover it up.

Thank you Diane, I love your blog and will keep visiting.

My blind date from Hell - Part II

2008-12-08T14:21:00.007+01:00

I got set up again Saturday. I was going to tell you about it yesterday but I'd experimented with the 'Scheduled' posting option when I was messing about on Friday, and it worked! So what got posted yesterday I actually wrote on Friday. Good eh? Anyway, am digressing.

It started in the morning. Mum and Uncle Hugh were doing ‘getting ready’, which I knew would mean that I would either be left 'home alone', or I would have to go somewhere with them in the car. It would all depend on where they were going and how long they expected to be away for.

‘Getting ready’ is the opposite of what they normally do in a morning these days and is usually a precursor to them doing something. It’s often done at night before they go to a restaurant or something like that. In the UK, when mum and Uncle Hugh worked together ‘getting ready’ was a fraught affair carried out at great speed very early in the morning, and invariably ended up with me being thrown into the back of mum’s car with her briefcase, laptop and my favourite toy. Mum and Uncle Hugh would then shoot off to work in their respective cars and I would spend most of my day in her office being given the occasional chew as a bribe to be good. I was still a very young pup and can’t remember much, to be honest. I do remember, however, being ‘baby-sat’ by mum’s colleagues if mum had meetings to go to and I got awfully spoiled. I miss that – being spoiled.

Anyway, I’m digressing. So, it started with mum and Uncle Hugh ‘getting ready’ and then I heard the ‘C’ word, and I don’t mean ‘Christmas’. No, I heard mum mention the dreaded ‘Chloe’. In case you’re new to this blog – read about the first time I met Chloe here: My blind date from hell!

I was filled with dread as I KNEW they were setting me up for another date. My fears were realised when I heard mum whisper to Uncle Hugh “He’d better not nip her again. I’d be mortified.” Uncle Hugh said, “I don’t think you should blame him entirely. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wound him up. You know he doesn’t like kids so why should we expect him to like pups?” Well thanks Uncle Hugh for your perception, spot on! How come you didn’t stick up for me the first time round?

I’m thinking NO WAY! NEVER AGAIN! NOT IN A MILLION YEARS! I AM NOT HAVING ANOTHER DATE WITH THAT BITCH FROM HELL! So my brain started whirring frantically wondering how I could get out of it, and then EUREKA! I decided to play ‘poorly paw’ (because when I did have a poorly paw mum made me stay in the house and wouldn’t let me go out). Anyway, I was really good at pretending. I even surprised myself. Mum was totally convinced. TOO convinced, she started talking about that dreaded ‘The Vets’.

AAAGGGHHH! OH NO! NOT ‘THE VETS’. I decided ‘poorly paw’ could turn out as bad as meeting Chloe again so I stopped limping dramatically and ran round and round and round in ‘crazy dog’ mode as fast as I could to show mum that ‘poorly paw’ was no more. Mum looked puzzled and said “That soon cleared up, it must have been a cramp attack…” I swear Uncle Hugh gave me one of his cynical looks but he didn’t say anything.

As it turned out they’d arranged to meet Stephanie and her hubby at the place where Uncle Hugh’s flying things live and go flying in Uncle Hugh’s new flying bus because Stephanie’s hubby wants to learn to fly. And…surprise surprise….they turned up with Chloe. The spawn of Satan.

She looked at me with her usual contempt and spat “If eet isn’t granddad greybeard. How yous going deeekhead?”

I decided not to rise to the bait. I decided to play it cool. She is, after all, a mere pup. I am much more mature than she is. Instead, I decided to play the absolute gentleman. I even greeted her in my newly learned, correct French – not the rude French I was taught by those naughty bitches in the kennels that time.

I said “Bonzhoor Chloe, sa va? Zherr swee conton voo ruvwoirr,” which I think means – ‘Hello, how are you? I’m happy to see you again’ (which was a big lie) I know it’s not exactly how French folk speak but it’s hard learning French off a bilingual dog with issues – one day I’ll tell you a bit more about Claude the fat yellow Labrador.

She said “Fook yous. Yous onglish.”

“Now look here,” I said rather self righteously, “I’m trying to hold out an olive branch, I’m trying to be polite and what’s more I’m trying to speak French. What more can I do?”
“Yous call that French?” she said with a voice laden with venom. “You speak lerr fransay like a Spanish cow,” then she simpered in mum’s direction and mum started fawning all over her as usual.

The morning went on like that. I would say something, Chloe would strike me down with her vicious tongue. No matter how hard I tried, I remained her target. I could not avoid the sniper’s bullet. It was a miserable morning.

And then my prayers were answered. I’m a great believer in Karma.

When it came to the trip in the flying bus, Stephanie didn’t want to leave Chloe with me in mum’s car THANK YOU GOD REX so it was decided that Chloe would go with them in Uncle Hugh’s flying bus. I’ll never forget the hugely smug look on Chloe’s face as she went off with everyone whilst I watched through the back window of mum’s car.

Life is fun sometimes isn’t it? Guess what? Chloe didn’t like flying. No, actually that’s an understatement. CHLOE DETESTED FLYING, HAD A HUGE PANIC ATTACK AND POOPED ALL OVER UNCLE HUGH’S PRECIOUS FLYING BUS.

The shivering, sweating, wild-eyed, terrified babbling creature that returned to terra-firma was quietly but firmly transported home by a rather embarrassed Stephanie.

Mum was mortified. Uncle Hugh was in a dark mood. “Well it doesn’t bother Henry,” he said. “I don’t get it. Henry doesn’t give a damn.”
“Not all dogs are like Henry,” she said. “We keep forgetting. He likes watching firework displays for goodness’ sake. How abnormal is that for a dog? When he was a pup, he slept all the way through a fighter jet display and didn’t even wake up when that Harrier Jump Jet landed next to us. Remember? I think they broke the mould when he was born.”

Yes, I think so too:)

I also think that may be the last I see of Chloe, at least for a LONG time.

What's your 'pet hate'?

2008-12-07T09:58:00.003+01:00

Actually, just looking at the title to my post, I think I should re-word it. Mum says ‘hate’ is a very strong word that it is used too often. Mum doesn’t like it, so I guess I shouldn’t use it. And I’m a pet, and pets are cute – so ‘pet hate’ kind of feels wrong. I guess I mean ‘what niggles you?’ or ‘what gets on your nerves?’

With me it’s when people scoop their dogs’ poops. Mum doesn’t like it when people DON’T scoop poops but it gets on my nerves when they do. I mean, how on EARTH are us dogs supposed to know who’s hanging around if we can’t have a sniff at each others’ poops? That’s why I like France.

Another thing that really niggles me is when mum doesn’t eat all her dinner and then SCRAPES IT INTO THE BIN! Why oh why doesn’t she give it to me? I know other dogs who get their owners’ leftovers, but not me. No. What a waste.

Another thing that gets on my nerves is graffiti. I don’t get it. I also don’t understand why they are called ‘graffiti artists’. I don’t know what’s artistic about someone’s obtuse message sprayed in three foot letters on the wall of a beautiful 400 year old building, which is what happens a fair bit in the ancient little town close to where we live.

Quite a few things niggle mum. Particularly when she’s driving. Mum doesn’t like it when people drive too close to her back bumper, and they do that a lot in France. She hisses under her breath “STOP KISSING MY ARSE”. Mum doesn’t like folk who drive at 50kph in a 90 zone. Mum doesn’t like folk who can’t maintain a constant speed. Mum doesn’t like folk who overtake her then cut her up when they pull back in. Mum doesn’t like folk who don’t use their indicators. Basically, mum doesn’t like French drivers. Uncle Hugh calls mum ‘intolerant’, which makes mum shout.

Another thing mum doesn’t like A LOT is when people throw their litter around. She calls them litter louts. When we lived in the UK after we’d been for a walk, her pockets and her rucksack would be bulging with stuff that she’d picked up along the way. Then there are folk that she called “fly tippers”. I don’t know why. Maybe they had flying cars like Uncle Hugh has. Anyway, the countryside in the UK is lovely, but these “fly tipper” folk don’t seem content with that – it seems that they’re only happy if there is an old mattress or an old cooker or an old fridge or an old sofa or lots of black bags or old toys or tyres or something else dumped on it.

Also, in the towns in the UK, there used to be these bins for rubbish and stuff, but whenever mum and me went into town I noticed that the bins were virtually empty and all around the bins, on the ground, there was always lots of rubbish. I used to see people throwing stuff on the ground quite a lot. Perhaps they didn't know what the bins were for.

In France, people are content with having the countryside as it is, they don’t need to litter it to be happy, and the bins in the towns are full of stuff, instead of it being on the ground. The funny thing is - in the UK, whilst they don’t put rubbish in bins, they do put dog poo in them. Bizarre isn’t it? Putting the good stuff in the bin and leaving the crap hanging around. Only in the UK I reckon.

Mum doesn’t like “litter louts” and she says that if she were in charge she’d make sure that “..they were disembowelled by a blunt, rusty knife and then hung slowly by their entrails until dead..” I may be wrong but in my view that seems a tad extreme. I know mum’s in charge of me, but I’m kind of pleased that she’s not in charge of the world.

What niggles you?

Is it a popularity contest?

2008-12-05T12:12:00.006+01:00

I read this a few days ago Better cyber friend than real one? and it made me think about friendship. I mean, how can anyone have thousands of REAL friends? I’m not saying that you can’t have cyber friendships. It’s just that in my view, a real friend is someone who is i) there when you need a shoulder to cry on (be it ‘virtual’ or real), ii) someone whose company you enjoy (be it ‘virtual’ or real), iii) someone you can confide in, and iv) someone who you make time for. So how can anyone have thousands of those?

Mum won’t join Facebook because she says that not only would she end up as the sad bastard with only two friends but that she simply doesn’t want to be a part of it. To be honest I think she’s also a bit nervous about the possible consequences - she doesn’t want to wake up one morning to find 400 people camped on her lawn just because she happened to mention on Facebook that she was having Stephanie round for dinner that evening.

Nevertheless, mum still gets people inviting her to be their ‘friend’ on Facebook, or Myspace (or that other one I can’t remember the name of) and it always leaves her feeling bemused because they are invariably invites from people she doesn’t really know. Last week she got an invite from a guy who she hasn’t seen since she was nine years old “…I mean, why on earth does he want me as his friend when the last time we saw each other was at Junior school and I called him ‘poo breath’? I guess he has 199 friends and he’d like to get to 200...” Mum says most of them are ‘shameless Facebook hussies’ who aren’t at all interested in being her friend, they simply want to make up the numbers. They want to appear popular.

Now I know that LOADS of you humans have adopted the attitude that it doesn’t matter what people think of you. Apparently it’s a very admirable attitude to have and folk are often ridiculed for caring about what others think of them: “Take me or leave me”, I’ve heard that one before and “I don’t care what others think – I’m not courting popularity,” and “Does it matter what people think of you?” and, “It’s not a popularity contest is it?”. Isn’t it? I wonder.

You humans are lucky if you can survive in this world by doing your own thing, even if it makes you unpopular. Us dogs can’t. In the doggy world being liked, being popular, being appealing is a matter of survival. And I ask you, what’s wrong with wanting to be liked? Why is it considered a weakness? It started eons ago - imagine prehistoric men sitting round their campfire gnawing on their hunks of mammoth flesh and thinking “Now which little doggies should we throw the bones to? The cute ones wagging their tails enthusiastically and looking at us as if we were Gods? Or the morose ones looking at us as if we were mammoth poo?” Yep, you got it! The waggy-tailed cute dogs would have always ended up with the bones.

If us dogs didn’t remain appealing, we simply wouldn’t survive. Who would want to keep us?

A small digression here: that’s why I can’t understand why folk are attracted to cats. Cats are a complete conundrum in my view. I mean, they peruse everyone and everything with a look that is literally oozing with disdain but people still keep them and grow attached to them. It’s bizarre.

Back to main post: I wonder if lots of folk who declare that they are their own person who couldn’t give a damn what others think are simply full of bravado, when deep down they’re thinking “…please, please, please like me. I SO want to be liked…please, please, please…” I’m wondering because despite the pervasive attitude that it really doesn’t matter what folk think, the growing popularity of sites such as Facebook, the growing horde of folk who are seeking fame in one way shape or form through the growing number of reality TV shows and the growing status of the ‘Celebrity’ seem to scream otherwise.

I do care what others think of me and don’t mind admitting it. I want to be liked, because I don’t think I’d be a happy dog if I wasn’t - I don’t have rhino hind and I’m quite a sensitive soul. Saying that, I don’t need thousands of friends either, apart from the fact that I can only count to ten I reckon it’d be bloody tiring.

My Addictions

2008-12-04T08:19:00.003+01:00

I told the very lovely French Fancy that I would blog about my addictions – five of them in fact. At first, I thought it would be a hard thing to do until I read about French Fancy's addictions and realised that an addiction isn’t necessarily a bad thing. In the past, when I thought of an addiction, the term ‘weakness’ trickled into my mind along with visions of drug addicts and smokers and such like. Then I read French Fancy’s blog. Then I looked in the Dictionary, where it says that ‘addicted’ means ‘1. dependent on something as a habit: unable to do without, or 2. devoted (addiction to football)’ yes, it did say football. That’s from the Concise Oxford 8th edition.

So with that in mind here are my five addictions:

MY MUM – I’m addicted to my mum because I love her to bits. She feeds me, exercises me, plays with me (sometimes), she’d kill anyone who tried to hurt me and she loves me too. The only thing is she’s horrid to me when I’m ill Mum's a Nasty Bitch (Sometimes). But that’s the only downside.

SMELLING – I love to smell things. It’s what makes me a dog. Dogs live through their noses and without a sense of smell life would be very one dimensional for us dogs. In fact, I can’t imagine life without one. You try it. Without smell, there’s no taste either. But you humans haven’t got anywhere near the capacity for smelling as us dogs have, so it’s hard for you to imagine. Close your eyes, stick your fingers in your ears, hold your nose and breathe only through your mouth – I think that must be the closest you can get to what it is like for a dog who can’t smell. No fun.

FOOD – I love to eat. I’d eat anything, even the really smelly, rotting stuff, but mum’s strict and only lets me eat my Royal Canin or treats that have her prior approval i.e. REALLY BORING ONES. Thank goodness for Uncle Hugh. He’s a very messy eater and drops lots of food on the floor when he’s eating. Mum says he does it on purpose and no matter how innocent he tries to look, she never believes him when he says he doesn’t. Also, she always knows when he has been feeding me sweetcorn, even when he does it behind her back. I sometimes think she’s got ESP or something.

FINGERS OF FUN – that’s when Uncle Hugh dips his two fingers in his beer or wine and lets me lick it off. Mum shouts at him for doing it, but he doesn’t do it very often and it is only two fingers. She should lighten up. I’m hardly going to turn into a brawling, vomiting binge drinker on two fingers am I?

And finally…..

BLOGGING – of course. My new addiction. I never realised how enlightening, educating, amusing and moving some of the blogs out there can be, or how lovely the blogging community is. I have to be careful sometimes because there are some bloggers who think it beneath them to respond to a blogging dog. They think it stupid. But that’s their prerogative. Also, I tend not to comment if the blog or a specific post has a sad or very serious message, because they might think that I’m being facetious – being a dog and all that. It’s difficult. Through my blog, I’m trying to get you humans to look at the world from a slightly different angle – a dog’s eye view of life – because sometimes looking at the world in that way and the things that are going on in it can lighten the load, make you smile or stop you from taking yourself that bit too seriously. Or, you can think, “No, that blogging dog is a prat, this blog is stupid and I’m not coming back here.”

So there you go. My five addictions. Thanks French Fancy, I quite enjoyed doing that.

Christmas is coming....is that a good thing?

2008-12-02T09:55:00.002+01:00

I had a walk with mum yesterday and she took me on one we’ve not been on for a while – it takes us past a pack of Beagles – which is why mum doesn’t take us that way very often ‘cause they end up baying for my blood. It doesn’t bother me, I could take them all on, no probs, but mum doesn’t like the noise. However, I soon found out why she took us that way – one of the young bitches had eleven puppies six weeks ago and today they were all out. ELEVEN! My goodness! That is a serious amount of pup. It was like watching a clip from 101 Dalmatians. In case you don’t know what Beagles are, here’s a clip of some I found on YouTube Beagle Pups Playing with Mom. I mean, I’m a guy right? But even I found myself saying “Aaahhh” when I saw them yesterday. They were seriously cute and mum’s voice went all high and squeaky. But I could tell from the look on their mum’s face that she was thanking God Rex that mum dogs only keep their pups until they’re eight weeks old. If she’s lucky, they’ll be gone for Christmas. Imagine Christmas with ELEVEN pups to provide for? Bloody nightmare.

It got me thinking about mum and her past Christmases. Mum hasn’t got a family anymore. Her mum, dad and brother are all gone. She only has one surviving brother who she never sees and now that she doesn’t have a family or live in the UK any more her Christmases are really uncomplicated. That might sound a bit harsh but it’s true. When she lived in the UK with Uncle Hugh, Christmas was what mum used to call “...the C word…” I can only really remember one UK Christmas. I spent two Christmases in the UK but the first one I was still a pup and it simply sped by in an excited blur because I still believed in Santa Paws and got all hysterical. However, I’ve heard mum talk about Christmases past and they didn’t sound too pleasant.

Uncle Hugh has quite a big extended family and he has something called an Ex Wife. The problem with Ex Wife is that she never wanted to be an Ex. So it was a bit hard for Uncle Hugh to extricate himself from her. However, he’s still friends with Ex Wife, which mum thinks is a good thing. The problem is, Ex Wife is still friends with all of Uncle Hugh’s family too, but Ex Wife doesn’t like my mum whereas the family does. That has caused a few problems. Especially at Christmas. Mum says Christmases are a pain in the bum for lots of people and that there are always arguments and huge amounts of stress around the festive time.

Mum’s Christmases involved lots of juggling and telephone calls to ensure that Ex Wife didn’t end up in the same house as Mum because when Ex Wife and mum were in the same house the rest of the family would feel uncomfortable, not just mum. Uncle Hugh’s grown up puppies like mum but they also love their own mum – Ex Wife – so they didn’t like to be TOO nice to mum in Ex Wife’s company. The little puppies of Hugh’s own puppies like my mum too, but Ex Wife is REALLY possessive of them and doesn’t like them liking my mum. Mum would end up staying at home on her own and telling Uncle Hugh to go to family affairs by himself. That would end up in arguments. Hence, Christmases weren’t much fun.

The last three Christmases, however, have been FAB. No family AT ALL, because they have to stay in the UK and we’re here in France ON OUR OWN and mum loves her Christmases now, but it’s still complicated for Uncle Hugh’s lot. One of Uncle Hugh’s puppies, Alice, has at least one Ex Husband; in fact, it might be two. That means that one of her own puppies, Matt, has two dads. There is Dad Paul and Dad Simon. Dad Paul is his biological dad. Dad Simon is his dad through his marriage to Uncle Hugh’s pup, Alice. It also means that Matt has three sets of grandparents – two biological and one through marriage. The ones through marriage (Simon’s parents) are really close to him because he was a very young pup when Simon married Alice. Matt also has three sets of Uncles and Aunts. At Christmas, all the grandparents (other than Uncle Hugh ‘cause he is now in France) insist on seeing their grandchild and all the Uncles and Aunts want to see their nephew. THIS IS MAKING MY BRAIN HURT!!!!!! There’s a lot of them – it’s more than ten because I had to stop counting (as you know I can only count to ten) So, Uncle Hugh’s pup, Alice, has lots of juggling to do and she ends up looking very fraught. She too calls Christmas “…the C word…” I think she got it off mum.

Uncle Hugh’s brother has complicated Christmases too because he’s got an Ex Wife, two boys who are now adults, a brand new wife and a brand new puppy, and he’s nearly as old as Uncle Hugh, which is ANCIENT.

BUT, what amazes me is that according to mum Uncle Hugh’s family isn’t anywhere near as complicated as some – like the Royal Family – whoever they are, (are they the slobby ones who like watching TV and don’t do much for a living?). Mum says that some families are so complicated that the members don’t know themselves who’s really related to who and how. Perhaps mum’s kidding me.

I wonder why people get all worked up and hysterical about Christmas? I was reading one of my favourite blogs a couple of days ago A Curates Egg and he was talking about Christmas too and how folk need things to look forward to – except nowadays lots of people DON’T look forward to Christmas for lots of different reasons – not just complex family arrangements. Some folk end up feeling lonely at Christmas. I mean, if it weren’t for me and Uncle Hugh my mum would end up on her own wouldn’t she? Some folk can’t afford Christmas. For some folk, it brings back sad memories. But for kids and dogs like me, it’s GREAT. I still think, however, that it’s a good job it only happens once a year. Don’t you?

Mum's making me wear a 'baby-gro'

2008-11-30T09:03:00.005+01:00

….yes she is and I am hugely embarrassed. As you know, I got clipped when I was away. Well, Claire gave me the same clip as she gives me in the summer (i.e. SERIOUSLY short) because mum thought it would be ok. Our house is snug and when we go out for a walk I can run around and keep warm because mum always takes me where I can go ‘off lead’. The trouble is, on Friday the under-floor heating in the kitchen stopped working.

When things stop working in France it is a BIG thing for mum. In France, things tend to stop working either for good or for a VERY long time. Mum’s experience with French tradesmen is this i) find one who wants to actually do some work (will take at least three weeks), ii) persuade said tradesman to come to house to look at problem (usually takes at least six telephone calls), iii) French tradesman cancels first three appointments, iv) when said tradesman finally turns up he is late, v) French tradesman huffs and puffs, looks very serious and says it is a very difficult job, vi) French tradesman can’t fit job in for another six weeks, vii) when French tradesman finally does the job it takes all of two minutes and as she hands over €1000 mum realises that she’s been seriously fleeced and for a fleeting second wishes that she still lived in the UK where she would never have allowed any tradesmen to fleece her but in the UK she didn’t have what she calls “…the language barrier…”. The trouble is, mum is crap at DIY and Uncle Hugh is even worse. Mum can change a light bulb; Uncle Hugh can if he’s supervised.

Anyway, I’m digressing. So, the under-floor heating conks out and in this part of France, we are experiencing a seriously cold snap. And I mean seriously cold. Uncle Hugh had told mum his car had registered minus 10 on Thursday morning and Friday wasn’t much warmer. Yesterday morning as mum and Uncle Hugh were having breakfast mum looked at me and said, as if she were REALLY surprised, “…Oh my God, he’s shivering...” I’m thinking ‘...yes I fooking am, it’s bloody freezing.You two are rugged up to the eyeballs and I’ve only got two millimeters of fur between the freezing air and my skin, why are you so surprised?” But obviously I couldn’t say that so she kept saying, “Oh my God, he’s shivering. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have told her to clip him so close. Oh, I’m so STUPID. What can I do?” I’m thinking “...you can feed me some of that croissant and butter that you’re eating, that’d put some fuel in my belly…” but no, I got my usual meagre portion of Royal Canin – I put weight on last Summer and for some reason mum still thinks I need to watch what I eat. Does she not realise that one needs to increase one’s calorie intake in the winter months? In the Arctic, the scientists there have to eat 9000 calories a day just to maintain their weight. I’m digressing again.

Well, to cut a very long story short we went shopping (I’ll not bother telling you about going to see Uncle Hugh’s new flying bus and mum’s hair setting on fire when a burning ember from the open fire at the Aeroclub flew out and landed on her head). Mum and Uncle Hugh took me with them in the car because they thought it might be a bit cold for me if they left me in the house. When we got back home, she presented me with what she called a ‘baby-gro’. “Sorry Henry,” she said, “...it was all I could find at short notice, the pet place didn’t have anything your size...” and she proceeded to dress me in this PINK monstrosity complete with butterfly and teddy-bear motifs on the front of it and she had the cheek to say “That’s better. Isn’t it lovely? Doesn’t he look cute? I wish I had a camera.”

I WISH I HAD A CAMERA? SHE MUST BE KIDDING! I am SERIOUSLY embarrassed and am praying to God Rex that this cold snap goes very quickly. Why couldn’t she have got me something ‘designer’? Something chic? Something cool? I found these on the internet Dog Designer Gear – you must check it out – they’re even being modelled by a Schnauzer like me.

But no – I have to wear a ‘baby-gro’. Will I ever live this down?

What floats your boat?

2008-11-28T07:41:00.003+01:00

I told you a while back that mum got excited about bits of dust being smashed together CERN gets mum excited – I know, I know, bless her – it’s rather tragic isn’t it? Getting excited about dust. Especially as the machine that was going to smash the dust together broke before it actually did it – a bit of an anti-climax, don’t you think? She really does need to get out more. Perhaps it’s her age. Oh well, I’m digressing. I ask what floats your boat because I find it intriguing – what people like to do with their time, or what people get passionate about. So many different things appeal to so many different folk.

Some folk like to throw themselves out of flying cars with a rucksack on their back that’s got a big silk tablecloth type of thing stuffed in it. Some folk like to throw themselves off of high places with a big elastic band attached to their ankle. Some folk like to drive really really fast round and round and round a circuit until they’re dizzy. Some folk like to jump off mountains with a big kite attached to their back. Some folk like to knit.

I get excited about smells. By sniffing a piece of poo I can tell a) what type of animal it came from, b) what sex it was, c) what it had for its dinner, d) whether or not it is suffering from any vitamin or nutrient deficiencies, and e) if it’s got worm or some other parasite infestation. That’s why it’s really important for us dogs to smell our own poo, but humans don’t realise that and simply go “Ugghh….will you STOP doing that!” at least that’s what my mum says when I try to smell mine.

Uncle Hugh gets passionate about flying in his flying car, whereas this flying business doesn’t do anything for my mum. Uncle Hugh sometimes flies to the UK in his little flying car. It takes HOURS and HOURS and HOURS. There are no toilets or nice ladies selling stuff and he could get there much quicker and cheaper by going Ryanair or Easyjet, (which is what mum mutters under her breath when he’s talking about doing it) but he still likes to do it, because it excites him.

As well as colliding dust and Top Gear, mum gets excited about walking, trees, flowers, and stuff like that. In the autumn, she gets very giddy. She’ll start shrieking and jumping up and down and pointing and saying “…look at the colour of those leaves Henry…LOOK….LOOK..” and I’m thinking “Yes, they’re orange…and? Helllooo!!!” I do worry about her. I wish she’d get excited about normal stuff. Why can’t she get excited about handbags or shoes or frocks like her friends do? But no. Dust and leaves… dust and leaves! I shouldn’t be too critical. I guess if we were all the same it would be a pretty boring old world wouldn’t it?

I'm back!

2008-11-27T13:35:00.004+01:00

Well I’m back. Mum picked me up this morning and I was dead excited and then I vomited all over the back seat. I blame the dodgy hygiene practices of some of the French bitches. I’m really particular about my hygiene and I’m always cleaning myself but some of the bitches I’ve been hanging out with these past few days, well, I won’t go there. Suffice it to say they aren’t very particular.

You humans get all fussed about vomit don’t you? I mean us dogs are really laid back about it. It’s like – “Oh well, breakfast all over again….” Sorry. Too much info, I know. Mum always stops me from ….you know…. But I don’t see the point – if she’d let me she wouldn’t have to go to all that trouble of cleaning it up would she? Ok, I’ll drop the subject.

Two things – number one – I made some new friends and I learned some of that French stuff and – number two – mum is even more sick of the UK than she was before.

I’ll start with mum’s news ‘cause it’s a bit boring so we can end on a good note with mine. Apparently, in the UK, this Mr Brown is cutting VAT to try and help the Credit Munch. I don’t know what VAT is but apparently it means that you can go out and buy a brand new ‘Top of the range’ BMW and it’ll cost about £1000 less than it would have done a week ago. I guess that’s good if you were thinking about buying a brand new ‘Top of the range’ BMW, but if you weren’t then I suppose it makes bugger all difference. Mum reckons that if she lived in the UK she’d be about £2.50 per week better off - in about two years time when the retailers and everyone else have sorted out all the admin to do with this VAT thing and passed on the cuts to the consumers, by which time she says it will have gone back up by 3% anyway. It sounds like a big puzzle to me. Mum said to Uncle Hugh “…why didn’t they simply cut fooking taxes? When they do things like cut VAT it’s obvious that those in charge have no idea how a fooking business is run….” She was a bit mad. Good, everything’s back to normal.

Now my news. Well, I met three bitches – Zoë & Filo - who were both French, and Holly who was English. Holly was new to this kennelling business. She’s what we call an infrequent boarder. I’m a frequent boarder. I’m often in the kennels. Holly was new to it all – you could tell before she even said - she had name-tags on everything. How passé! And her bed and her toys were all newly laundered. Well, I could have laughed my paws off. Bless her. She looked very lost when she arrived so I took her under my wing, so to speak, and gave her the benefit of my wisdom and experience.

Zoë and Filo were from the same house. They had the same owner. They were both terrier types, like me, and we all had a good laugh playing in the field. Even Holly soon relaxed into it. Apart from their dodgy hygiene practices, Zoë & Filo were great. At least that’s what I thought. At the time I thought they were very kind, they even taught me some French. Phuh! Kind! NOT. This morning when I got back and started speaking to Claude and demonstrating my new found French I soon discovered that I’d been taken for a mug. No wonder they laughed delightedly every time I repeated what they were teaching me. There’s me thinking that I’m saying – “Hello, my name is Henry” and “Goodbye, I hope you have a good day,” and “Do you want to play with my toy?” and “I’m English.” No, instead Claude says I’ve been saying “Hello, my name is Henry and I’m an a***hole”, and “Goodbye, I hope your mother rots in hell.” And “Sniff my a*** dickhead” and “I’m a moron.” I WAS MORTIFIED. There's a problem - what Zoë and Filo taught me, I went on to teach Holly. I keep wondering what reaction she’s gonna get from the French dogs around her when she repeats what I’ve taught her. Thank goodness she’s a Rottweiller. I guess they’ll simply pretend they didn’t hear her correctly. You don’t argue with a Rotty do you?

It’s good to be back. I’m looking forward to reading all those blogs that I’ve missed whilst I’ve been away. I’m hoping that the kennels will be online in February then I can keep posting whilst I’m away.

On holiday for four days

2008-11-23T09:14:00.002+01:00

And I'm really excited. I've packed my things - my best bed, my two favourite toys, my food (of course) and I'm also going to smuggle my 'Beginner's French' book in with me. Mum treated me with 'spot on' yesterday so that I don't get fleas and when she was talking to Uncle Hugh I'm sure I heard her mention Claire. Ugh! That means I'm going to get clipped too. That's the downside. See you soon.

Are all mums the same?

2008-11-21T17:17:00.003+01:00

Mum had an AFD yesterday. For those who don’t know, that’s an Alcohol Free Day. Mum tries to have at least one a week, and sometimes she has more. Legend has it that she once had seven of them in a row. SEVEN! It happened long ago before I was born when she was in hospital having a huge stone removed from her kidney (goodness only knows how it got there – very careless of her if you ask me). Mum worries that she is drinking more units than ladies should drink each week. Mum says she stops counting after the first two of an evening. I don’t really know what a unit is. Perhaps it’s a bottle - if so, I reckon she drinks between four and six units a week. That doesn’t sound like too much to me. I don’t know what she’s worried about.

I don’t know why she has these AFDs, she always ends up really miserable and grumpy. She had three last week and she was bloody murder to live with. Uncle Hugh reverted to watching endless re-runs of Top Gear on that TV channel called Dave, and I pretended that I was asleep.

Mum also goes through stages where she does these exercise DVD’s and gets all red faced and sweaty and it makes me want to laugh because she’s not the most lissom of ladies. She’s not very good at synchronising her limbs either. Then she starts asking Uncle Hugh if her bum looks big. At these times she also starts eating stuff like apples, carrots and celery, and she shouts at Uncle Hugh if he buys nice food like cheese or chocolate. “If you buy that stuff you know I’ll eat it, Hugh Bastard!” What else can you do with cheese and chocolate? Stare at it? I don’t get it. I don’t get her sometimes.

Then she’ll stare in the mirror and analyse every single pore and she’ll say, as if she’s surprised, “I’ve got wrinkles,” and I’m thinking “Why on earth is she stating the obvious? I’ve got ears and a little tail but I don’t have to stare in a mirror for five minutes to reach that conclusion.” Then Uncle Hugh will ask her if she’s got PMS and whenever he asks that it ends nastily – very nastily! Then Uncle Hugh will go and buy her some flowers and when he gives them to her she'll say "Ok, so tell me what you're feeling guilty about?" Poor Uncle Hugh. He can't do anything right. Normally at that point he simply sighs in a resigned fashion and goes to play with his flying car, whilst I keep pretending that I'm asleep.

Are all mums the same? I ask because I only know the one. I don’t really know any others.

I could be the next Prime Minister

2008-11-20T07:56:00.005+01:00

I think that I could be the next Prime Minister of the UK. Mum says that there’s not much to choose from at the moment. There’s that Mr Brown guy, who’s the current one but I don’t think anybody really knows how he got there, then there’s that Mr Cameroon, then there’s that other guy whose name I can never remember – it’ll come to me.

I don’t think you need any particular qualifications to be Prime Minister. I mean, it’s not as if Mr Brown, Mr Cameroon or that other guy have ever run their own successful business or anything. Not like Mr Sugar – that guy who says, “You’re fired!” on TV’s The Apprentice. I like Mr Sugar. He’s all wrinkly. He looks like a bulldog. I love it when he says “You’re fired!” and he points his finger at the same time. I used to spend ages practising it in front of the mirror “You’re fired! You’re fired!” and trying to jab my paw simultaneously. It used to give me a feeling of power. Actually, just thinking about that - if the other guys have never run a successful business how come they think they can run the UK? Isn’t a country a bit like a business? Perhaps Mr Sugar would do it if someone asked him nicely? Or that other one who’s on TV a lot – Mr Cowell? Or that morose looking one on Dragon’s Den, the one who always looks angry, never invests and always says everything is a load of rubbish – is that Mr Ballettime?

Anyway, I’m digressing. So, as you don’t need any qualifications or anything I don’t see why I couldn’t do it. After all, I’ve proved I can run my own Blog. My manifesto would be this:

I’d immediately abolish what my mum calls ‘fooking taxes’ and ‘bloody mortgages’ because they upset her and I don’t like mum being upset.
I’d print more money and create more plastic and make sure that everyone had enough – that’d immediately stop all this credit munch nonsense and all the hysteria that surrounds it. Goodness! This is SO easy.
I’d ensure that every old person living on their own had a dog as a companion so that they wouldn’t ever be lonely again.
I’d make it law that people should be nice to each other and not say nasty things or do nasty things to each other.
I’d stop newspapers from printing sad stories because it upsets my mum. I’d make it compulsory to print only nice news and if there weren’t any nice news, they’d have to lie.
I’d stop people from making sad movies and writing sad books because they make mum cry. Then again, most things make mum cry these days. I think it’s her age.
I’d make it compulsory for English to be taught in all schools in the UK, and then the young folk would be able to spell and talk properly.
I’d give everyone a job. I know that would upset some folk, but they’d thank me in the end when they realise that doing something useful is better than daytime TV.

Gosh! How easy is that? Implement that lot and you’d have youtopia (whatever that is!).

What's wrong with Kangaroo Balls?

2008-11-19T09:06:00.003+01:00

Warning: if you're a veggie this may cause offence - you have been warned!

Mum and Uncle Hugh have started watching this thing on UK TV called “I’m a Celebrity get me out of here”. Mum calls it ‘chewing gum for the brain’. I call it mindless garbage and I’m really surprised that she watches it. I think she could spend her time better by reading and trying to understand her latest New Scientist magazine or by watching something informative on Discovery Channel. For all you non-UK people the gist of the programme is this:

Take 10 ‘celebrities’ – one of which must be a nonentity with pneumatic breasts, orange skin and either married to or engaged to a footballer who plays for England (i.e. a WAG), one of which must be a really old ‘star’ from the US and one of which must be from a defunct ‘boy’ band, the rest will be a mixture of UK z-list 'celebrities' whose careers are failing miserably and who will literally do anything to resurrect it. For a further insight into what constitues a 'celebrity' in the UK read this: How to become a Celebrity in the UK.
Dump them all together in the middle of a rainforest in Australia for three weeks.
Get the sadistic public to vote for which of the ‘celebrities’ they would like to see humiliated each day by having to do truly awful things - usually involving insects or other crawling creatures.
After a few days of humiliation, the sadistic public starts to vote for their favourite ‘celebrity’ and the one with the fewest votes each day gets booted out. After which, depending how long they’ve managed to stay in, they may end up with their own perfume, fitness DVD and bestselling autobiography.

It explains it all here if you haven’t got anything better to do: I'm A Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here!

On Monday night, two celebrities were voted by the public to do a task that involved eating various things. I thought these tasks were supposed to be revolting, but no! They were given delicacies such as crocodile eyeballs, grass-hoppers (I ate loads of those in Switzerland), chicken feet and kangaroo balls. I’m thinking ‘YUMMY! DELICIOUS! Whereas the ‘celebrities’ were really unhappy about having to eat them and were making lots of fuss and gagging noises. Mum couldn’t even watch, Uncle Hugh was moaning “YUK, how gross…” and I’m thinking - what is the difference between a kangaroo ball and a snail or, say, a whelk? Is not a prawn merely an insect of the sea? And what’s wrong with a chicken’s foot – is it much different from a frog’s leg? (I know for definite they eat chicken’s feet in china) And all you folks who’ve dared to eat an oyster - surely you cannot think that it is any less gross than a crocodile eyeball? Have you seen an oyster? My goodness they’re ugly

My mum devours oysters, prawns, whelks, snails and frogs’ legs without a whimper. I know she also eats tripe over here in France so why should she get squeamish about Kangaroo balls? I don't get it. You humans are definitely a big puzzle.

Actually, she's not eating anything at the moment, she's sucking soup through a straw because of her poorly lip and saying "..if I don't lose any weight after all this I'll slash my wrists.." In fact, she'd probably kill for a kangaroo ball at the moment:)

Who are you?

2008-11-18T09:52:00.003+01:00

I’m really new to this blogging business. I think my profile says I joined in April 2008 but I don’t know where that came from. My first post was in September. Since then I’m worried that I may have become slightly addicted. I really don’t want to be the first dog to go down in history as being addicted to blogging. That would be seriously embarrassing. I’d rather be remembered as a dog hero:

“Henry the Dog saves child from raging inferno”

“Henry the Dog fights off vicious muggers as they attack WWII war veteran”

“Henry the Dog saves drowning woman from storm thrashed seas”

Certainly NOT “Henry the Dog admitted to Priory for blog addiction”

Anyway, as is my way I’m digressing. I ask ‘Who are you?’ not because I want a definitive answer, it’s because I find it rather intriguing that since I started reading other blogs I’ve grown to feel kind of warm towards some of you people in the ‘blog community’ (please don’t feel alarmed – I’m not the stalking type). I feel as if I’m getting to know some folk and this is quite alien to me because normally us dogs make friends after having a good sniff of each other’s bottoms, giving each other the eye and, in my case, walking in a rather stiff-legged manner around any new dog who comes my way. However, in the blog community there’s none of that and it’s the first time I’ve struck up 'acquaintances' without physical contact.

It got me to thinking that some folk out there could actually be entirely different from how they portray themselves to be on their respective blogs. I mean, you can be anyone you want to be in the blogging world can’t you? I’m sure I’m not the first dog to have thought of this. I could have pretended that I WASN’T a dog – except that it wouldn’t have taken long for me to put my foot in it. I would have soon revealed my true self through my naivety, my penchant for bad smells and tummy tickles and my rather disparaging view of felines. Some folk out there could, however, be mad axe murderers posing under a blog title such as “Fluffy little kittens go blog” – you get my gist?

Anyway, I’m glad to be a part of the blogging community at the moment. It’s interesting. Some of the blogs are great fun, some are really informative, some are simply good to read. The trouble is, I’m starting to get a hard patch on my paw where my wrist rests on the table – the one that I operate the mouse with. Oh dear – is that the first sign of ‘blog addiction’?

Mum's surgical experience in France

2008-11-17T16:20:00.000+01:00

Mum had a thing cut out of her lip today. It wasn’t anything major. I think she called it something like an ‘angiehomer’ - that's what it sounded like anyway. I tried to listen in when she was talking to her friend about it yesterday but they kept reverting to this gobbledygook lerrfransay language, which, after a bit of ‘Googling’ and after having a chat with Claude the yellow Labrador, I’ve learned is actually called French – the same name as the folk who live here in France. So Chloe, if you’re reading this you were WRONG. It’s not lerrfransay after all it’s FRENCH.

Anyway, I’m digressing. Mum went to this clinic and had this thing cut out of her lip and when she got back she looked a bit funny and I wanted to laugh, but then I felt a bit cruel because it wasn’t her fault that she looked funny. I’m sure the swelling will go down eventually. It's just a pity that the doctor was such a crap sewer. Mum had a few medical procedures in quite a few hospitals when she lived in the UK. Maybe it’s something to do with her being a bit of a ‘highpokondriak’ as Uncle Hugh calls her. Lately though mum’s been really scared of getting a little bug called MRSA, which apparently is hugely popular in the UK, so now she only has things done if they’re absolutely necessary.

She’s a bit of a conundrum my mum. On the one hand, she was quite happy to let people inject a deadly virus into her face to stop her from frowning (when she could afford it) and yet on the other hand she’s terrified of a few little bugs.

Due to this MRSA thing, mum decided to try a clinic over here in France instead of going to the UK. She'd been a bit reluctant due to what she calls a 'language barrier' and the fact that the French really like to go on strike "...but it's only small - it'll not take long so there's less chance of them downing tools mid procedure..." As it happened she was pleasantly surprised. I heard her telling Uncle Hugh about it ‘…it was as if I were having open heart surgery. I was submitted to rigorous questioning…"Have you brushed your teeth? Have you showered with the antiseptic wash? Have you had a rectal douche?” - obviously I lied at that stage and said ‘yes’ – I mean what has my bottom got to do with my lip? I'm not a cat for goodness' sake. “Have you had any other procedures? Have you any allergies? Have you eaten? Have you had anything to drink?” - I decided not to tell them about the two croissants and the seven cups of coffee, after all, I was only having a 'local'. They weighed me, measured me and then I was taken to a little room where I had to remove EVERYTHING, even my knickers, and don a disposable gown, slippers and hair bonnet. I got worried at that stage in case they’d got my notes wrong. I had visions of being put to sleep and waking up with a kidney missing or a leg or something. I kept pointing at my lip and saying “‘c’est ça, c’est seulement ça!’” Then a hospital porter wheeled me to the operating theatre despite my protestations that I wasn’t ill and could walk quite easily. In the theatre, everyone was gowned and masked. It felt very ominous as they covered me with a sterile green shroud - then all they did was numb my lip and whip the little thing out. It took all of ten minutes – if that. I’ve never known such a palaver. Not for outpatients. In fact not even for proper surgery - not in the UK. The last time I had a procedure in outpatients in the UK it was a case of the doctor asking me to “hop on here, love” fully clothed - including my muddy outdoor shoes at the time. I’m not criticising the French at all – it’s a credit to them. I wish it were as efficient and sterile in the UK then perhaps there wouldn’t be such high instances of MRSA.'

Oh no! She was impressed! Does that mean she’s going to start finding things wrong with her again? Then again, she’s short of plastic these days and her new worry is this falling pound business, so perhaps not. Phew!

Us animals aren't as dumb as you may think....

2008-11-16T07:17:00.001+01:00

My mum gets this magazine called New Scientist delivered to her every week. Apparently she unwittingly subscribed to it when she was surfing the net one day looking for a new pair of shoes, and it’s been posted to her ever since. Uncle Hugh reckons she keeps the subscription up because she wants to prove that she’s not your average blonde. He says she can’t understand anything they talk about in it but she likes to look at the pretty pictures. Mum tells him to ‘…bollocks…” when he laughs at her looking at it.

Yesterday she was talking about something that she’d read in New Scientist and had almost understood. She said that some scientists were trying to find out if certain animals could ponder the past and contemplate the future. Uncle Hugh reckoned that I probably could ‘…a tad…’. A TAD? PERRLLEASE! Then mum had the cheek to say, “Don’t be stupid. He’s a dog. Dogs only know the here and now. Everything they do is merely instinctive. Everybody knows that dogs are basic creatures…..” and I’m sat there thinking “HELLLOOO!!!” What a cheek!

The thing is, most of us animals are far smarter than we let on, apart from cats – now they are truly thick. The rest of us animals, however, realise that if we let humans know how intelligent we are we might have to start doing things for a living. I mean, take for example German Shepherds, Border Collies, Spaniels and….yes….Labradors. All those breeds are examples of why it's not a good idea to let on that us dogs have a few active brain cells - look what happened - lots of them now have to work for a living. The really sussed breeds act dumb. Another animal that was stupid enough to let the humans know that they had active brains (albeit very limited activity) was the horse. Most horses now spend a lot of their life with a human on their back kicking them in the ribs.

I’m surprised that there are scientists spending money trying to suss out whether or not us animals are chrono-creatures. You’d think that they could think of better things to do with their time. Surely, they must at least suspect that us animals are much more intelligent than we let on. Have they not read Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy? Don’t they know about Dolphins? So Long and Thanks for all the Fish

I’m a bit miffed that mum thinks I’m a basic creature but I’ll keep letting her think I’m dumb. After all, it’s not me who has to worry about the Credit Munch or the falling pound (whatever that is – it’s a new one mum keeps going on about). Whatever happens I’ll get my grub and my belly tickled. I want for nothing. It’s a dog’s life. Ha Ha.

Why don't mums trust dads?

2008-11-15T10:09:00.006+01:00

I found out this morning that I’m going on holiday next Sunday for a few days because mum’s going back to the UK. Uncle Hugh and mum had an argument. He said “…don’t you trust me to look after him?”. She said “…no I bloody don’t. Mum's away so the boys will play!! The last time I went away you took him up in That Thing….Uncle Hugh has a flying car … you fell to sleep on the sofa after eating and drinking all day leaving the poor little mite plaiting his legs because he was probably dying for a pee…The boys are still playing!…you don’t take him for proper walks and you feed him Haribo Jellies….”. Uncle Hugh opened his mouth, then closed it again. I guess he thought that mum was right. But what’s wrong with being taken up in That Thing? What’s wrong with falling asleep on the sofa? What’s wrong with him feeding me Haribo Jellies? They're not exactly hanging offences are they?

It seems that mum isn’t the only woman who doesn’t trust her guy to look after the children. I know I’m not a child, but mum treats me like one. Check this out Why don't we trust dads?. I think mum’s being a bit unfair on Uncle Hugh, after all the last time she was away nothing bad happened to me and we had a GREAT time. It’s great when it’s all lads together. I love going to the place where That Thing lives and playing with Le Fred and the other guys. Oh well. I think that mum's a teensy weensy bit of a control freak - although she'd deny it vehemently.

The place I go for my holidays is cool too. It’s run by James and Jane who are dead nice. I really like James, he plays with me. It’s a place where I get my very own kennel, which is heated, and my very own big play area and sometimes I’m allowed to play in a big field with other dogs – but only lady ones because I start fights with male ones (it’s just the way I am). So I’m kind of ok either way, but Uncle Hugh is now sulking and mum is huffing a lot. I wish they’d be more ‘adult’ sometimes. Life’s simply too short.

Fancy a Second Life?

2008-11-14T11:47:00.002+01:00

It’s quite bizarre what gets into the news these days don’t you think? Check this out Online affair prompts divorce

After reading that I went and had a look at this Second Life thingumajig and it’s got me all confused. I’m a dog, so I’m not supposed to be particularly smart at the side of you humans but am I right in thinking that people are actually paying REAL money for VIRTUAL land? Check this Land & Pricing and this Second Life Land Auctions.

?????????????????????????????? I am quite speechless. I thought you humans were supposed to be smart, but it turns out that there are around fifteen million folk who are prescribing to this Second Life. As you know, I can only count to ten but fifteen million sounds like a lot of tens to me. There must be someone somewhere rubbing his or her hands, getting seriously rich and having a huge laugh at the expense of lots of humans. Or am I simply being a numpty? Is this the way forward? Perhaps this really is the future. Apparently, this Second Life has its own financial system and virtual stock market that isn’t failing. There’s no looming recession on Second Life. Perhaps mum should simply stop this life and start another one on Second Life, then she wouldn’t have the Credit Munch to worry about and she’d stop worrying about having enough plastic or having to go back to the UK. Then again, if she started Second Life, she might also decide to get a virtual dog. And where would that leave me? Imagine her getting a virtual French Bulldog? AAAGGGHHH! And calling it Chloe? Even louder AAAGGGHHH! And she might decide to get a virtual partner who isn’t as much fun as Uncle Hugh.

What would happen to me if mum got a Second Life? What would happen to Uncle Hugh? Perhaps I could start a Second Life too. But would virtual walks be as interesting as real ones? Would virtual dog poo still smell good? I certainly wouldn’t miss the rain. I reckon virtual rain wouldn’t be as wet. What about virtual food? Virtual toys? Virtual treats? A new virtual mum? Oh no! The thought makes me shiver in my skin. I LOVE MY MUM. I wouldn’t swap her for a virtual one, not for all the bones in the world. I think I’m going to wipe my history off the computer so that mum doesn’t find Second Life and think it’s a good idea. After all, I’m still in the dog house after yesterdays escapades – and it’s not a virtual one.

My blind date from hell!

2008-11-13T17:43:00.006+01:00

I got well and truly set up today! I was a tad suspicious from the off when mum said “…you’re coming with me today to meet my friend Stephanie…”. Mum never takes me with her when she’s meeting friends - I was right to be suspicious.

We drove to this big town near where we live and there were loads of folk and traffic and it made me a bit nervous ‘cause I’m used to peace and quiet now – in fact I’m a teensy bit reclusive these days if truth be known. Anyway, we ended up in this café place where she was meeting Stephanie and…surprise, surprise…Stephanie walked in with her new dog – a French Bulldog called Chloe. Well, it just went downhill from there. As soon as she walked in this Chloe looked me up and down and said “…eef my mozzer zinks zat I’m going to get off with yous, yous deeekhead, she’s got anozzer zink coming…” well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. Not only could she speak english, albeit with a strange accent, but she was a cheeky little madam with it. I was rendered momentarily speechless. She was a mere pup for god’s sake. I doubt she was six months old. How dare she call me a dickhead? Then the naughty little bint merely simpered in mum’s direction as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth and mum went all soppy and when she goes soppy her voice becomes all squeaky and she’s squeaking “…say hello to Chloe, Henry…” SAY HELLO TO CHLOE? THE LITTLE BITCH HAS JUST CALLED ME A DICKHEAD! Then, to add insult to injury mum’s saying “...oh isn’t she gorgeous? Oh I want one....” I WANT ONE? IS SHE CRAZY? HAVE YOU SEEN A FRENCH BULLDOG? They are the ugliest…..I am lost for words, again. They look as if bits of body parts of all different breeds of dog have been thrown together at random – check this out if you don’t believe me French Bulldogs.

It gets worse. When I finally find my voice, instead of coming back with a smart retort I hear myself asking meekly “How come you can speak english?”
She looked at me with a face dripping with derision and said, “How come you can’t speak lerrfransay?”
“Lerrfransay?” I ask, “What’s that?”
“Phuh!” she scoffed. “Eet eez only zee most brilliant of zee languages in zee whole world yous stupid onglish. What you zink our mozzers speak now?”
I listened and they were uttering that gobbledygook that all french people utter, and mum when she’s with them.
“Are you telling me that’s a language?” I asked, gobsmacked.
“Of course eediot.”
“It can’t be,” I said, still gobsmacked. “It’s just a load of noise.”
“Dont be reediculous. Did you not just hear your own mozzer say zat I was 'trayminyon'?”
“Trayminyon?” I asked. “That means something?”
“Of course eediot. It means ‘very cute’.”
“So they’re talking together in another language?” I asked, amazed – whilst I’d guessed that the gobbledygook must be some rudimentary form of communication I’d never once thought it would be a fully-formed patois.
“Duh….Yes. I was right yous are a deeekhead.”
Well, I’d had enough by then, not only was I hugely embarrassed that I didn’t know about this lerrfransay thing but I was being dissed by a mere cheeky pup.
“Right! Enough of the insults you young whippersnapper,” I said firmly - finally I was responding with authority.
“Why? What you goin to do about it grandad greybeard?”
GRANDAD! ME? HOW DARE SHE?

Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t condone the use of violence to put somedog in their place, but I’m in the minority – most dogs do. Mum dogs in particular always give their pups a quick nip if they’re playing up. I got nipped a few times and it never did me any harm. I’ve certainly never nipped a lady dog before, but believe me this Chloe was no lady and I’d been pushed to breaking point. It was only a little nip to her behind but wow did she play up. All hell broke loose. The naughty little minx howled as if I’d sunk my teeth into her jugular and mum was outraged. As she chastised me, nasty little bitch Chloe hissed.
“I going get yous for zis. Just yous vait till next time yous deeekhead onglish,” then she carried on pretending to look traumatised. I sincerely hope there WON’T be a next time.

As you can imagine I am now well and truly in the ‘doghouse’ with mum. She was furious, and told Uncle Hugh that I’d been “…a right little bully to poor, sweet little Chloe…”. POOR, SWEET LITTLE CHLOE? MORE LIKE DAUGHTER OF SATAN! I feel terribly wounded that I’ve been made to look the monster simply for putting the little madam in her place. Life truly is a bitch at times.

Mum's a born worrier.

2008-11-12T08:21:00.007+01:00

My mum is a worrier. I wonder what makes humans worry? I never worry about anything. What do have I to worry about? I get everything I want - sometimes just before I even want it! It's as if mum has ESP or something the way she can do that. Just before I think "I'm hungry" .....dah daaahhhh.... hey presto my food appears! How does she do it?

Mum worries about not having enough plastic, mum worries about the Credit Munch, mum worries about her work, mum worries about her health (Uncle Hugh calls her a 'highpokondriak' or something like that, mum worries that she drinks too much, mum worries that she eats too much, mum worries about the ironing piling up (I mean - get a life!), but mum worries about Uncle Hugh more than ANYTHING.

When Uncle Hugh is away in his flying car or his flying van she worries and worries and worries. I think I told you he went to Switzerland with his friend Le Fred, well he's due back today and so I know she'll be worrying about him. When he's away if Uncle Hugh doesn't ring mum to say he's back on the ground she starts to worry. She phones him about every five minutes and says "...his phone's still switched off Henry. He should be on the ground by now. He told me 1pm.....". So then what she does is she TRIES HIS PHONE AGAIN!!! I mean, I don't want to be awful, right, but if something bad has happened...........he won't answer his phone will he? So why does she try it again, and again, and again???????

Sometimes she gets really stressed and she starts looking on the Internet and she'll type "light aircraft crashes in France" in Google search engine and start searching for news about crashes and things. Then she'll stomp up and down and say stuff like "...I'm sick of this bloody flying business. If he's not dead I'll kill him when he FINALLY rings me....I don't need this stress....I don't need this worrying...". THEN, when he DOES ring she says - all sweetness and light -"...hello Sweet Hart, how are you? Are you alright? Are you having a good time?" I CAN'T GET MY BREATH! I look at her in a disbelieving way. She never EVER tells him that she worries herself STUPID. She merely asks him if he's had a good time. It's ME who has to cope with her constant fretting. It knackers me. Why doesn't she simply ask him to stop going up in his flying car?

I guess she doesn't tell him to stop because when he gets back he's all excited, like a big puppy. And he ain't no puppy, believe me. And I can tell that mum likes him to be all excited. And she listens very patiently to his stories about his flying and the adventures he's had and she gets all excited when he gets excited, and she smiles a lot.

Humans are so complex.

What'll be the next dog at the Whitehouse #2?

2008-11-11T08:35:00.010+01:00

I was surfing the net yesterday 'cause mum had things to do and Uncle Hugh's gone to Switzerland with his friend Le Fred for a few days in his flying van. He wanted to take mum and me but she said "no way, we are not going in That Thing until you've got a few more hours under your belt" . So it seems the flying van is called That Thing too. His flying car was called That Thing. I'm starting to think that mum calls anything that flies "That Thing"! Anyway, I started surfing the net and I found some really interesting blogsites. One is all about squirrels. Mum likes squirrels. Actually, mum likes all things living. She's mad, mad, mad about animals and stopped me from chasing them from being a very young puppy. She won't even let me chase the little lizards that are EVERYWHERE in the summertime and not being able to chase them makes my paws tingle. It's not fair. I'm a dog for goodness sake. I was born to chase. Unlike lots of girlies mum even likes spiders. When she's driving she often swerves to avoid slugs that are on the road (there are lots of big orange ones in this part of France). She doesn't like squashing them. I often think that it's a bit dangerous swerving in her car and that I'd rather she squash a slug than me, but there you go, the roads are reeeeaaallly quiet in these parts and I can't stop what she is.

Anyway, I'm digressing, I found this website about squirrels because where I live here in France there are some very tiny red squirrels with great big tufty ears and some very, very dark coloured squirrels with white chests and I wanted to know what types they were. Well, this very nice person on this squirrel blog told me that there are lots of variants of squirrels all over the world. I honestly didn't know that. But then, I am merely a dog. I thought there were red or grey - period!

Another thing, I didn't realise that there were dogs in the world that are unwanted, but there are. This squirrel person blogger has left a comment on my site saying that Mr Obama should choose a dog from a shelter, or one that would otherwise be euthanized. I felt a bit bad reading that. After all, my mum didn't get me from a shelter. I wasn't waiting to be euthanized. Mum chose me because she wanted a dog that looked the total opposite of her old dog, Sam, so that she wouldn't be reminded of him (because she misses him masses and that makes me dead jealous), and she chose me because I don't shed, because Uncle Hugh is a bit allergic to dogs that shed. However, if she'd have given it a bit more thought I guess she could have found all those qualities in an unwanted dog. But then, who would have been my mum if mum hadn't chosen me? Or would I have been born at all? Should I have been born at all? It has put my little brain into a bit of a dilemma. I don't like the idea of unwanted dogs in shelters waiting to be euthanized. It's simply not right. But it's not us dogs fault is it? It's the humans fault. So, I guess Mr Obama SHOULD definitely set an example and get a shelter puppy or dog. Perhaps I'll write to him. He seems like a nice man, he seems like the type of guy to listen to other folks' opinions - that's what the people in the US are hoping anyroad.

So thank you Mr or Mrs Squirrel man for making me think. What you and many others do for animals is a truly fine thing and there are too many folk like you who go unnoticed in this world and who don't get enough credit or publicity. Folk are too busy idolising vacuous celebrities instead of the real heroes like yourselves who make a difference.

A couple of blogsites by folk who care about animals and who make me feel humble:
Grey and Red, A Squirrel Journal
The Dog House

The French are on Holiday - AGAIN!

2008-11-10T09:28:00.007+01:00

The French folk over here are on holiday again. They have lots of holiday days these French people. Mum says they have about a thousand holiday days a year. I don’t know what a thousand is, but it sounds like more than ten. These holiday days are called ‘bank’ holidays in England. Anyway, some of these French holiday days fall on a Thursday or a Tuesday. This week it’s a Tuesday. When they fall on a Thursday or a Tuesday, the French folk can’t see the point in going work on the following Friday or the preceding Monday. So, they have what’s called a ‘pont’, which mum says means ‘bridge’, to the weekend. That means that they have four days off instead of just the one. Then, as well as all these special holiday days, they have at least another five weeks holiday every year. Mum often goes to the local bread shop or butchers and comes back gnashing her teeth saying “they’re on bloody conjay again". I think she means holiday. I don’t know where she gets this ‘conjay’ from.

The French like holidays. At the peak of the tourist season in August nothing’s open. Most of the restaurants and little shops are shut because the owners want to take a holiday. Mum can’t understand that, she says “…who on earth would close in the middle of the main tourist season if you’re a restaurant or gift shop? Only the French. Why don’t the French who work in the tourist industry take their holidays when it’s quiet?”

I think she’s got a point. After all, the French only holiday in France, they don’t like going abroad. So at the height of the tourist season and wherever they go nothing’s open, you’d think the penny would drop wouldn’t you?

The French like to strike too. According to mum any excuse is ‘down tools’. There’s usually a strike every month for one reason or another.

The French like to kiss each other as well. Mum doesn’t like going to a party or a wedding or anything where there will be lots and lots of people because she says it takes five hours just to greet everyone, because everyone must be kissed, and then five hours to say goodbye, because everyone must be kissed again. You’d think there’d be viruses passing around like hotcakes wouldn’t you?

Poor Mr Sarkozy, it must be hard for him to be in charge of a country in which nobody wants to work, everybody wants to kiss each other all the time and where the only conversation is about food, wine or holidays.

What'll be the next dog at the Whitehouse?

2008-11-07T07:46:00.000+01:00

Apparently the REALLY big news at the pinnacle of these historic happenings in the US isn’t about what nice man Mr Obama is going to do now that he is the president of the world, it is about what type of dog he’s going to buy Obama - which puppy should he buy?. Very sensible if you ask me. Get the wrong dog and you’re buggered in my view. I mean, he ain’t going to get a Scottish Terrier is he? Not after Mr Bush became the most unpopular president in the history of the world. Or a chocolate Labrador. Not after Mr Clinton’s very embarrassing escapades made him the president who was the butt of the most jokes ever. No.

Boxers are out – they slobber and they’re really, REALLY, manic. Most of them suffer from ADHD. I mean, it wouldn’t sit still whilst dad’s giving a press conference would it? A boxer would be running amok amongst the journalists wanting to play 'tug' with their microphones.

Springer Spaniels are out – they are nutty. Definitely a screw loose and ALL of them suffer from ADHD. They need 48hrs exercise every day otherwise they run riot. They also shed horribly, not good for men in dark suits.

Border Collies – they need 100hrs exercise a day and at every press conference they’d be trying to ‘herd’ the journalists into a pen. They shed – ditto above.

Chihuahuas or any type of teacup dog would be embarrassing. Mr Obama would be compared to Paris Hilton – not good!

Rottweillers – too macho an image - although if truth be known they’re really as soft as brushes and are very very thick, but only us dogs know that. They put on this macho front because inside they are girlies quivering in their thick hides – they’re scared of everything. I’ve seen off many a Rottweiller and I only come up to their knees.

Pit Bull – no way – no comment necessary (Palin???)

I don't think he could go wrong with a Schnauzer. We come in a variety of sizes and colours and we don’t shed. A mini one like me would be perfect. We generally travel well and we are entertaining and intelligent. If Mr Obama were really smart he could get one to do his blog for him couldn’t he? Sorry Mr Obama, I’m taken. I wouldn’t leave my mum for all the dog biscuits in the world but there are plenty Schnauzers out there who are almost as great as me.

Uncle Hugh's got a new flying car!

2008-11-06T08:28:00.002+01:00

Uncle Hugh has got a new flying car. Actually, this one is more like a flying van 'cause it's bigger than his other one and it’s got two engines. Mum isn’t very pleased she said “Hugh Bastard, why should I bother cutting back on things like my buttocks if all you do is buy another bloody plaything…? I thought money was supposed to be tight!”

This buttocks thing she was going on about used to stop her from frowning. Apparently, before the credit munch when she was having a mid-life crisis she used to go to a man in the UK every three months and he’d inject this buttocks stuff into her face and she’d pay him lots of plastic to do it (and they think us dogs are thick)! Once I overheard Uncle Hugh saying that this buttocks thing was a deadly virus and after that it used to worry me that my mum was having her face injected with it and paying someone for the privilege. I think she must have been a bit nutty at the time. Now I’m worried that she’ll go and do it again ‘cause she’s really angry with Uncle Hugh and she’s frowning even more. Why do women inject their faces with deadly virus? Why can’t they simply stop frowning?

Anyway, I’m digressing. This flying van that Uncle Hugh’s got is really big and noisy and he wants to take mum and me in it to a place called Morocco but she said “…over my dead body…”. Now that confused me at first. I thought she meant that she wants to die, which I thought was a tad strange, but as the conversation carried on I realised that mum doesn’t like flying much. In fact, she’s scared of it. I wonder why? I mean, she’s quite happy to drive in a car travelling along a road at lots of miles per hour, with lots of other cars and big scary trucks all travelling REALLY fast, and sometimes the cars and trucks coming in the opposite direction miss you by a few inches, and sometimes other cars drive right up close and sometimes cars do things that make mum swear lots and I know that it takes just one little mistake to trash a car to bits – 'cause I’ve seen it. When I’m sat in mum’s car, I can’t help but think I’m only ever inches from doggy heaven. So, whilst I know that I’m only a dog and therefore not supposed to know anything, I still reckon that it’s much MUCH safer to go in a flying car in the sky where there’s lots and lots of space and not many other flying cars, than it is to go on a very busy road with all those fragile metal boxes zooming around at breakneck speed.

Give me a flying car any day!

Why don't the Brits like success?

2008-11-05T17:30:00.000+01:00

Mum was talking to Uncle Hugh yesterday and she says that there is a big problem with people in the UK. She says they love to hate successful people. She says that they wouldn’t mind them being successful that much as long as they weren’t paid anything for it. Apparently there’s a lovely young man called Mr Hamilton who drives cars really fast for a living and he’s now the bestest driver in the world (I thought mum was). But still there are people in the UK who don’t like him because he is paid a lot of money. Hamilton can't do anything right!

This driving really fast business must be very dangerous. I know that if you drive really really fast and then are stopped really really suddenly it can be very bad for your health because God Clarkson said so. So I reckon that this Mr Hamilton man deserves to be paid lots and lots of money for driving faster than anyone else in the world. He deserves to be paid MUCH more than £10 a year for that. So why do some British people not like him? Maybe they’re jealous – a feeling that is peculiar to humans. We animals don’t understand this jealousy thing.

It’s the same with God Clarkson. He’s paid a lot of money – more than £10 a year. And I know that God Clarkson makes mum laugh and makes lots of people happy but apparently there are some people who don’t like him and they want him to stop being God. Mum says “…they choose to take him too seriously because they want a reason to despise him - because he’s successful and rich with it. The Brits can’t stand successful people. It’s a huge failing. Other countries embrace them and applaud them. The Brits despise them...” That’s probably why Mr Brown is the boss of Downing Street – because he’s not very successful. The Brits obviously like him ‘cause he’s crap at his job, can’t drive very fast and can’t make people laugh.

Congratulations to nice man Mr Obama

2008-11-05T08:30:00.002+01:00

Mum was jumping around and shrieking rather loudly this morning when she put on the news. I hid under the table because I thought she was angry. Then I found out that the nice man Mr Obama, who mum really REALLY likes, is now the president of the world. I think it's the world anyway. Mum is VERY happy and she's smiling lots so I'm not complaining. Mum said "I wish it were the UK and he'd replaced Brown. At least we now know we're not going to end up with World War three..." I'm glad it wasn't that awful old man with that Sarah Palin because I don't want there to be a war. I don't like big bangs.

Don't vote for the baby seal killer!

2008-11-04T08:33:00.002+01:00

Mum says the presidential elections start today and she is really hoping that nice man Mr Obama wins. She’s never liked that Sarah Palin woman but after reading about her agreeing to shoot baby seals mum is absolutely ranting. Mum really likes baby seal cubs; they make her go ‘Aaaahhh! But Sarah Palin would like to kill them, apparently. Palin - baby seal killer.

Mum reckons anyone who gets taken in by some pranksters like that, anyone who believes that the world was created in six days and anyone who isn’t averse to killing a baby seal or two should NOT be in charge of the US. Mum says anyone who votes for the really old man, whose name I can never remember, over that nice man Mr Obama is voting for Sarah Palin because “…McCain will either snuff it before the year is out or go senile, either way a vote for the Republicans is a vote for that monster Sarah Palin…”

Ah! That’s his name. Mr McCain. That old, grey guy. Surely he shouldn’t be in charge of a country? I wouldn’t want him to be in charge of me never mind a whole country. I wouldn’t want to rely on him to remember to feed me my breakfast and dinner. As for that Sarah Palin, she’d probably shoot me and use my hide to made a handbag. Scary! I'll have nightmares now.

Holidays, grape juice and God Clarkson

2008-11-03T09:35:00.002+01:00

We’ve been on holiday. That is me, mum and Uncle Hugh. When Uncle Hugh’s puppy went back in a big flying bus we all drove to the house of some friends of Uncle Hugh where we went grape picking in September when mum was away. Well, this time they didn’t pick grapes, instead they tasted the juice that they’d squeezed from them. Mum and Uncle Hugh seemed to really like it, this juice. They were doing things with this juice in this dark place where there were lots of barrels. They were moving it from one big barrel to a smaller one. Whilst they did that I chased the chickens outside, taunted the cat and nicked his food, then I went back in and they were tasting lots of juice from different barrels and they were laughing a lot and talking lots of gobbledygook with their French friends and saying “Wee Wee” and “Superb” all the time and nodding and gesticulating and mum got all giddy.

Afterwards Uncle Hugh helped mum back to the house because she couldn’t walk very well. I think she must have hurt her feet because they weren’t working too good. She managed to eat lots of food though and they carried on tasting the juice and I ended up having to put myself to bed because they all fell asleep.

Yesterday mum said she wasn’t feeling very well and moaned a lot on the way back. When Uncle Hugh suggested she have some “hair of the dog” she moaned even more. Why would Uncle Hugh want her to have my hair? He’s weird sometimes. I think she must have had a virus. Anyway, when she was back and reading the online newspapers she cheered up. She laughed and said to Uncle Hugh that God Clarkson had made her happy. She said that whilst the world is falling apart “…good old Clarkson writes about Tea. How refreshing is that” God Clarkson writes about Tea.

How to become a Celebrity in the UK - Part II

2008-10-30T08:52:00.006+01:00

Apparently over the last couple of days there’s been quite a bit of an uproar in the UK about what two guys who work for the BBC said on an answermachine. According to mum, these two guys - Mr Ross & Mr Brand “…believe their own sickeningly arrogant hype and accordingly believe that their celebrity status will protect them from anything they do – no matter how offensive”. She says Mr Ross should have known better because even though he says his “rrr’s” as “w’s”, he’s quite experienced (although he has let fame go to his head), but the other guy, Mr Brand, is “…just a sex-obsessed ex-junkie, a pre-Raphaelite version of Bernard Manning who will say literally anything to make a cheap tabloid headline, however lewd, crude or downright disgusting…” according to Piers Morgan. I think Piers Morgan is a Saint or something. He must be because mum says he thinks he can do no wrong.

Anyway, Mr Brand has now resigned from the BBC Low-life Celebrity Quits . Mum says that the BBC paid him more than £10 per year to say rude things on the Radio and for NOT being funny. That’s an extortionate amount of money AND a daft thing to do. Why pay someone who is crap? According to mum the BBC do it all the time AND they use other people’s money to do so. Apparently all the British public have to pay more than £10 per year EACH to this BBC place so that they can pay people like this Brand man to swear and be rude and this Ross man to say his “rrr’s” as “w’s”. Crazy!

Mum says this swearing, offensive Brand guy will now be even MORE famous and will end up with his own aftershave and exercise DVD. According to mum he already has his own best selling autobiography called “My Booky Wook”. I know she’s having me on!!!! The British public aren’t stupid enough to buy a book with such a daft title.

Stupid dogs make mum go Aaaahhh!

2008-10-28T09:26:00.000+01:00

Mum was reading an ‘Aaaahhh’ story to Uncle Hugh this morning. There are lots of stories that make mum go ‘Aaaahhh’. They’re usually stories about animals – particularly young animals – particularly puppies or kittens, but she also gets very stupid about Pandas. Well this one made her go ‘Aaaahhh’ Stupid Dog! . Now don’t get me wrong, I kind of felt sorry for the little chap, cause he’s a terrier, like me, so that’s a plus for starters. BUT, I’m sorry, if you don’t like water in the first place, don’t jump in it! Then to start swimming AWAY from his owner, which he must have done - then words fail me. The little chap’s definitely lacking in grey matter. Or perhaps he’s senile.

And this one Even more stupid dog! about a dog that stood guard over some cute kittens whilst a fire raged around him simply shows his stupidity. Yeah, it’s a cute story ‘cause he was revived and the little cute kittens survived too, but why didn’t the stupid mutt MOVE the kittens out of the burning house instead of simply sit and watch them? Now he’s being heralded a hero for passing out! No doubt he’ll have his own aftershave, exercise DVD and bestselling autobiography before you know it. All the best bitches will be swooning over him just because he was overcome by smoke. I don’t get it!

Uncle Hugh's puppy has come to stay

2008-10-27T09:56:00.004+01:00

One of Uncle Hugh’s puppies came over to stay yesterday with her husband and their own little puppy called Annabelle. GOD, I AM SHATTERED! Why humans decide to keep their puppies for more than eight weeks beats me! Why don’t they just sell them or if they can’t do that why don’t they give them away? I mean, after eight weeks it all goes downhill doesn’t it? Human puppies simply become more and more hard work the older they get. I overheard Uncle Hugh saying to mum once that his own puppies are STILL hard work and they’re in their thirties, which is ANCIENT. It’s nearly as old as mum. Mum’s sensible. Mum doesn’t have any puppies. Mum only has me and I can look after myself (almost), I’m never naughty, and even when I was a very tiny puppy I never pooed or peed inside the house – except that time when I had colitis and had a VERY bad accident inside mum’s car – but we don’t talk about that much!

Anyway, I’m digressing. This little human puppy, Annabelle, she wants to play with me ALL THE TIME. Now don’t get me wrong, I like playing – with adults. Because adults tire easily, know when to stop and their games normally involve socks or food but Annabelle WILL NOT LEAVE ME ALONE. And her games are daft. A lot of the time, she wants me to pretend to be her own puppy! Perrrllleeeassse! I am nearly four! I am an adult! She tried to put a dolly dress on me yesterday. NO WAY! I am SO not gay! In the end, I went and hid in the spare room, and then mum came and joined me and said, “She’s so doing my head in”. I don’t really know what that means but I guess she isn’t mad keen on human puppies either; otherwise she’d have had one of her own wouldn’t she?

There is one saving grace - she drops food everywhere, which irritates mum but I'm enjoying clearing up after her!

Mum's a Nasty Bitch (Sometimes)

2008-10-26T08:21:00.002+01:00

I’ve had a poorly paw and been ill, so that’s why I’ve not written for a few days. Don’t get me wrong I love my mum, but she has a really mean, vicious, nasty side to her. Every time I’m ill, she takes me to this horrid place called “The Vets” where this horrid man in a white coat puts me on a slippery table, manhandles me, shoves things in my orifices and then sticks sharp needles in me. HOW MEAN IS THAT???? I mean, when you’re feeling crap that is the LAST THING you want someone to do to you. When you’re feeling good it’s bad enough, but when you’re ill, it’s a nightmare. SO WHY DOES SHE DO IT TO ME? WHY IS SHE SO CRUEL? The laughable thing is, when we’re on our way home from my torture she has the cheek to say “You’ll feel better after that”. AS IF!!!! Then she says “Don’t look at me as if I were the daughter of Satan. It was for your own good.” FOR MY OWN GOOD? WHO IS SHE KIDDING? The even MEANER thing is that this horrid Vet man always messes around with the bits that hurt! IT IS TORTURE – PURE AND SIMPLE!

If I were in charge, I would outlaw these horrid The Vets. It shouldn’t be allowed. Mum should have to go on a course to sort out her sadistic streak. Surely, she’s got to be guilty of dog abuse? I wouldn’t want her put in jail or anything because I love her but I still think she needs counselling or something. The thing is, it’s not just mum. There are lots of people who own animals who have the same nasty streak – I see them in the waiting room of The Vets with their quivering, terrified pets - all wondering why their cruel owners are taking them for torture when they should be showing sympathy and compassion when they’re ill.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Humans are weird!