tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59406786107153752172024-03-19T23:51:55.269+01:00Henry The Dog BlogA blog that takes a dog's eye view of lifeHenry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.comBlogger105125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-3771971923767488022009-03-28T15:20:00.004+01:002009-03-28T15:30:33.077+01:00I may be gone some time........<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTQcTTSZP-28BKWiM-6YeHFvLpaSy3qFhHUzS9bLiF-4fX0_YhaHlwKol2o_81yul7YO64JMQxyUE57lPd8GldlvRTVV36CRdYSn641fopXIGZ2ktblpc3LXLzIGH8r_uPvPs-98_0dOg/s1600-h/First+pictures+038.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318243811102722066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTQcTTSZP-28BKWiM-6YeHFvLpaSy3qFhHUzS9bLiF-4fX0_YhaHlwKol2o_81yul7YO64JMQxyUE57lPd8GldlvRTVV36CRdYSn641fopXIGZ2ktblpc3LXLzIGH8r_uPvPs-98_0dOg/s320/First+pictures+038.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>Well it’s ‘au revoir’ folks for a while. My mum explains it all on her blog here <a href="http://henrythedogsmum.blogspot.com/">Henry the Dog's Mum</a>. 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.<br /><br />In the meantime, I want to thank Dumdad from The Other Side of Paris for two more awards.<br /><br />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.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>All my human bloggers have got cupboards full of trophies, and all well deserved, so you don’t need any.<br /><br />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<br /><br />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.<br /><br /></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjExWhnfS63qzfGWDMXcGJuT30HHgLsUIAG2Pm4VkrGxrdW-uNGLydSFdUO_PEIR0nKTBMA_ezrVhKZIRThegnsircNJVEUr1qx8wD_pSXKjaj2rm9QhJ8LWkGmD34i6soP8sje64N2XD8/s1600-h/Premio_Dardos_award.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318243816183597714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 156px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjExWhnfS63qzfGWDMXcGJuT30HHgLsUIAG2Pm4VkrGxrdW-uNGLydSFdUO_PEIR0nKTBMA_ezrVhKZIRThegnsircNJVEUr1qx8wD_pSXKjaj2rm9QhJ8LWkGmD34i6soP8sje64N2XD8/s320/Premio_Dardos_award.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The second award is this one.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxpDa6ZJQEZUi_fAFk_JeKHe_cxPoF2th4lq3X55mGCgh5Vo78boqxJrvdzMqLGggd8J251bOJJfltAysCzHvc72K_15Nicvx96Jd4q5ro2RAhe1cXts8iEIEi6cbzitdj-F38cGDLKZ8/s1600-h/coffee_award.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318243818984559922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 154px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxpDa6ZJQEZUi_fAFk_JeKHe_cxPoF2th4lq3X55mGCgh5Vo78boqxJrvdzMqLGggd8J251bOJJfltAysCzHvc72K_15Nicvx96Jd4q5ro2RAhe1cXts8iEIEi6cbzitdj-F38cGDLKZ8/s320/coffee_award.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The premise of this award is blogs that one couldn't miss each morning.<br /><br />So they BOTH go to: </div><br /><div><br /><a href="http://lifeofstubby.blogspot.com/">Life of Stubby</a> Stubby’s a real ‘eco warrior’ and very good pal. </div><br /><div><br /><a href="http://assistdogautism.blogspot.com/">Clive</a> who is a true hero, a working dog who brings a ray of sunshine into the life of ‘Little Man’ </div><br /><div><br /><a href="http://frankiefurterprice.blogspot.com/">Frankly Speaking</a> – my friend Frankie Furter – a little Daschund who does stuff for charity and makes me feel humble. </div><br /><div><br /><a href="http://theminnieblog.blogspot.com/">Minnie-Moo</a> – the rescue lab, who’s simply great fun and quite a babe. </div><br /><div><br /><a href="http://detroitdog.blogspot.com/">Detroit Dog</a> – because they do good things for dogs and it was one of the first blogs I started to follow </div><br /><div><br /><a href="http://rubyisabella.blogspot.com/">Ruby Isabella Jones</a> – I love her philosophy, and she’s also a babe. </div><br /><div><br /><a href="http://scruffthewonderdog.blogspot.com/">Scruff the Wonder Dog</a> – a new find, and mum thinks he’s cute. </div><br /><div><br /><a href="http://babyvodka.blogspot.com/">Baby Vodka</a> – mum says he’s the cutest mini schnauzer she’s seen (other than me of course) </div><br /><div><br /><a href="http://findingsirius.blogspot.com/">Finding Sirius</a> – 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.<br /><br />NONE OF YOU HAS TO PASS THE AWARDS ON. They’re simply for you to keep in your trophy cupboard.<br /><br />Ok, so I’ll be off.<br /><br />Au revoir & HOPE to see you again one day soon. </div><br />(I'll be lurking)Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com65tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-68205315096664705692009-03-25T09:44:00.003+01:002009-03-25T09:56:05.397+01:00Life in the year 3000Mum 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 ‘<em>the bar’ </em>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 ‘<em>prop the bar up’ </em>as Uncle Hugh used to put it. They don’t have pubs in France. Not in these parts.<br />Anyway…I’m digressing.<br /><br />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.<br />Anyway….I’m digressing again.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />What do you think life will be like in the year 3000?<br /><br />As long as I’m not expected to eat virtual food, I think I’ll cope.<br /><br />Mum found me cuddled up on the sofa yesterday:<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GL-qvVG5vIAVJhl_Q3ruBBQkDlbwYppWm5_XvnurpvNebqRVbFmi-xbUwWC3NdUhz4hnfvaItWny7mPfOSjrtHLNqmTartsLXQ1JOVGp4XSP_c-mAR1AsqfopBz9E5Vfo1YHtYl7rt4/s1600-h/First+pictures+025.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317044805171083666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GL-qvVG5vIAVJhl_Q3ruBBQkDlbwYppWm5_XvnurpvNebqRVbFmi-xbUwWC3NdUhz4hnfvaItWny7mPfOSjrtHLNqmTartsLXQ1JOVGp4XSP_c-mAR1AsqfopBz9E5Vfo1YHtYl7rt4/s320/First+pictures+025.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I asked her to tickle my tum:<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8e_8OR1aOXW3XvSxV2VU6yLHEstQqsBEnXNBMoa3YW-I_ihFe3kg9VNgxCnLaDDMuEXZOT8dtqitkuUW5IoR6yInsZQMfrBuOLCD7XgUf_kvaULEF59vn2ucjKYghk-YwfivAbSyqPCY/s1600-h/First+pictures+027.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317044815759797618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8e_8OR1aOXW3XvSxV2VU6yLHEstQqsBEnXNBMoa3YW-I_ihFe3kg9VNgxCnLaDDMuEXZOT8dtqitkuUW5IoR6yInsZQMfrBuOLCD7XgUf_kvaULEF59vn2ucjKYghk-YwfivAbSyqPCY/s320/First+pictures+027.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Then I had a stretch:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbAUIioYM6yAn3LLWzYiRNltQJ6IRUIkelddawWxNK-PfiafVe5YAMScUYJQUCWbL4Fmfs8h1B9GM9TgIHFOj2QVeFJSZjQWKguBd6odBnDXvZd8-qJVo_sCxVQ7QFqj8uXvYmhJpGglI/s1600-h/First+pictures+028.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317045096849915186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbAUIioYM6yAn3LLWzYiRNltQJ6IRUIkelddawWxNK-PfiafVe5YAMScUYJQUCWbL4Fmfs8h1B9GM9TgIHFOj2QVeFJSZjQWKguBd6odBnDXvZd8-qJVo_sCxVQ7QFqj8uXvYmhJpGglI/s320/First+pictures+028.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div></div>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-91437212203604867272009-03-23T09:30:00.008+01:002009-03-23T09:56:34.249+01:00A grand day out<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX3AotvrNTIGJtZBTWddATwkwOs0-rEuzZFOmBHuoFf9bjsyiF6WaG1LcjrtZ6FEszlFCyu8x_B4qvMFDMbgTKVS_uqL6vU1wEo4Dib4i36JTso05KJfTJ_-7nJFz310wkjZ66H1IO_8A/s1600-h/First+pictures+001.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316301572743181026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX3AotvrNTIGJtZBTWddATwkwOs0-rEuzZFOmBHuoFf9bjsyiF6WaG1LcjrtZ6FEszlFCyu8x_B4qvMFDMbgTKVS_uqL6vU1wEo4Dib4i36JTso05KJfTJ_-7nJFz310wkjZ66H1IO_8A/s320/First+pictures+001.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>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.<br /><br />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, “<em>Take mum out somewhere nice</em>” because they’d not done anything together for a while and mum seemed a bit maudlin.<br /><br />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 “<em>Crazy Dog</em>” and blamed it on the Haribo Jellies that Uncle Hugh had given me the night before.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Then we set off.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Then we had to find mum somewhere to pee. She found a big bush.<br /><br />Then we found this picnic spot and there was a boat called Henri. Honest. We all laughed. Here it is:<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_iiCO67CcOxC4oLBfvOuCC6W3Ru611YcvmStCtHxljvE6fxMnYJKmyVKqD_vHae1IUCKGYSjoOgxHylj6EJWG21UtJMS5hyphenhyphen4ECtm_Y3KR5fvjPWinXQyaZrdiBa4Jvr7DV2eRKuQKO0/s1600-h/First+pictures+014.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316302118090715874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_iiCO67CcOxC4oLBfvOuCC6W3Ru611YcvmStCtHxljvE6fxMnYJKmyVKqD_vHae1IUCKGYSjoOgxHylj6EJWG21UtJMS5hyphenhyphen4ECtm_Y3KR5fvjPWinXQyaZrdiBa4Jvr7DV2eRKuQKO0/s320/First+pictures+014.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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 “<em>DROP!”</em> in her Alpha Bitch voice. I swallowed.<br /><br />There were some ducks too, but they were scolding me in a very strange language, and it wasn’t French, they were going “<em>NYAKNYAKNYAKNYAKNYAK</em>”. Naughty little buggers. I would have given them the finger if I had one.<br /><br />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 "<em>Shit!".</em> Quite appropriate n'est-ce pas?<br /><br />Here's that lovely little village with the poo:<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyUleon5wqEc-iW3Cdy3rxfEDtw2tINZjMoUMj6TvuF2Tx4OCDGQ8m5A6E9VrwZfF0cMH6D_3I2NG6CmTYrPjaK-LmudKSl8kNRp9-XjCQpoRsPmkSQF9ZQBdtV6NyN0IGOz4cT52uGFQ/s1600-h/First+pictures+016.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316302133166799858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyUleon5wqEc-iW3Cdy3rxfEDtw2tINZjMoUMj6TvuF2Tx4OCDGQ8m5A6E9VrwZfF0cMH6D_3I2NG6CmTYrPjaK-LmudKSl8kNRp9-XjCQpoRsPmkSQF9ZQBdtV6NyN0IGOz4cT52uGFQ/s320/First+pictures+016.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Here’s a butt shot for my lady fans – I’m not keen on water – I was a tad wary.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir1t4VbOG6zGi7ZCR3gef1t-91Wicq0Lnci58jo9tcLoIjd93zO5IfPjX4fDoTyNAg4kx_PBPHnclMzd5sZQ3ULNxRoRjr2y7KZJ9sFf6D2i16zovXEMa0YTbIeT7XETAhvchmihCvFQk/s1600-h/First+pictures+008.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316301597573071154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir1t4VbOG6zGi7ZCR3gef1t-91Wicq0Lnci58jo9tcLoIjd93zO5IfPjX4fDoTyNAg4kx_PBPHnclMzd5sZQ3ULNxRoRjr2y7KZJ9sFf6D2i16zovXEMa0YTbIeT7XETAhvchmihCvFQk/s320/First+pictures+008.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Here’s me waiting for titbits.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2itI7KrCXkN55Wael9m-uSuMKOySE8Xfb8oKtJnTWNkCgK0a-2OQo6W16gkRGgTTsoZrzqybiLxh9arYxiUKfO2yNl0BKt81bdeq_4bLOW4hEkVXdnG4ceF7WoYra4rTGzStzmcl3KfI/s1600-h/First+pictures+012.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316302979519197522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2itI7KrCXkN55Wael9m-uSuMKOySE8Xfb8oKtJnTWNkCgK0a-2OQo6W16gkRGgTTsoZrzqybiLxh9arYxiUKfO2yNl0BKt81bdeq_4bLOW4hEkVXdnG4ceF7WoYra4rTGzStzmcl3KfI/s320/First+pictures+012.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Here’s another gratuitous butt shot.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvMsNDHoPktkObhOmhjorwTk8CRizeYDgVctklQ8EjEzSFXJFpkPdHy0zhJnW9i04JmgWnPUdDm52vsfP2M19Es25jFjxpbTde738SfZWCq1xqX8lGQlHqlYQji1fQ60pxjkJBZ8vShx8/s1600-h/First+pictures+007.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316302969869649218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvMsNDHoPktkObhOmhjorwTk8CRizeYDgVctklQ8EjEzSFXJFpkPdHy0zhJnW9i04JmgWnPUdDm52vsfP2M19Es25jFjxpbTde738SfZWCq1xqX8lGQlHqlYQji1fQ60pxjkJBZ8vShx8/s320/First+pictures+007.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Yep, it was a grand day out </div></div></div></div></div></div>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com60tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-8425432617211866422009-03-21T11:43:00.005+01:002009-03-21T11:54:21.093+01:00Not going to the kennels this week<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbgg0KisQGq2W4X3zbEEIGF1CDIfsFUurym34qBA9KPti6cFixz4rNw9R8E94uTHGcYMFKKg_XIS58Dg0N05WKqS5urSKgvhcKuRKYjM7ZnYNcxiOQBfrJP6xNrkDvyXbREva5FTKoqRU/s1600-h/First+pictures+020.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315590587769877826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbgg0KisQGq2W4X3zbEEIGF1CDIfsFUurym34qBA9KPti6cFixz4rNw9R8E94uTHGcYMFKKg_XIS58Dg0N05WKqS5urSKgvhcKuRKYjM7ZnYNcxiOQBfrJP6xNrkDvyXbREva5FTKoqRU/s320/First+pictures+020.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://henrythedogsmum.blogspot.com/">mum's blog</a> and see what she has to say on the matter or you can simply enjoy the photos.<br /><br />Me having a rest:<br /><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpVxvbfdYw0fqDjbZ6lpT90DtbGRoZOSbLXodSdgn6AzzTVAMlqXZD99_Mud5-CThg0n3ij3J5c5VaY3Xb9RHke3wpup-PNtw22Io2L_BEUC_saN3EIIlPSErUX2r911W9r5wZ2ZNi3Yg/s1600-h/First+pictures+011.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315590596263505922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpVxvbfdYw0fqDjbZ6lpT90DtbGRoZOSbLXodSdgn6AzzTVAMlqXZD99_Mud5-CThg0n3ij3J5c5VaY3Xb9RHke3wpup-PNtw22Io2L_BEUC_saN3EIIlPSErUX2r911W9r5wZ2ZNi3Yg/s320/First+pictures+011.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI39IDsVDGMVabNBmfaJEeXniqXwXMrMBrhQkIBZvDoXIJVv4IXnlzb1DRedb77dVfGIYfx2cQwFKdQxz98eu9JEOXn8sQ3c6zHUEStbfZz7FO-so8j0aef73NFIjry_MkCyamFbXZbZs/s1600-h/Babyhenry.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315590584944097202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 192px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI39IDsVDGMVabNBmfaJEeXniqXwXMrMBrhQkIBZvDoXIJVv4IXnlzb1DRedb77dVfGIYfx2cQwFKdQxz98eu9JEOXn8sQ3c6zHUEStbfZz7FO-so8j0aef73NFIjry_MkCyamFbXZbZs/s320/Babyhenry.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This one is proof that even cats love me.....<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf3mNMbpnygJEsCK9_Z9SePiM8IMIamFQkXh_bIpBM56dqkHkSCroSNadq-fkHHqeJTdTAHgoNmBi2Rg9LDGrWMlv8rcjPHv8QWvEDPek7_AwcEDF8Qj7g7F-KnRqGwiJBNj7Y94_E8IA/s1600-h/Cats+love+Henry.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315590580482623586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 276px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf3mNMbpnygJEsCK9_Z9SePiM8IMIamFQkXh_bIpBM56dqkHkSCroSNadq-fkHHqeJTdTAHgoNmBi2Rg9LDGrWMlv8rcjPHv8QWvEDPek7_AwcEDF8Qj7g7F-KnRqGwiJBNj7Y94_E8IA/s320/Cats+love+Henry.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Right I'm going for a walk now with mum. See you Sunday.Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-64220510891440381562009-03-19T12:28:00.006+01:002009-03-19T12:40:44.002+01:00I've been poorly and Mum nearly choked.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfc0qFyCuIc_AO8DaVyL9qbN11RJX6aNZtOEjaY7oAxNlEGY-WE8Be8aFC-n2KQyrfZtzcDXNoi6IBrDl-En_47IpF0WDKqTTK4a0ZDI8m5z8zRkxCfhnz-7L2grOT7utN_4z-nZZ_wRg/s1600-h/First+pictures+036.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314859949666015858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfc0qFyCuIc_AO8DaVyL9qbN11RJX6aNZtOEjaY7oAxNlEGY-WE8Be8aFC-n2KQyrfZtzcDXNoi6IBrDl-En_47IpF0WDKqTTK4a0ZDI8m5z8zRkxCfhnz-7L2grOT7utN_4z-nZZ_wRg/s320/First+pictures+036.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />That's me looking a bit sorry for myself. I'm alright now.<br /><br />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 “<em>DROP!</em>” 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, “<em>DROP!</em>” if I swallow at that point, she simply sighs and says, “<em>You little bugger</em>.” 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Luckily, mum’s house has tiled floors.<br /><br />So, I ate lots of grass and vomited that up too. Uncle Hugh said “<em>Yuk!”</em> Mum said “<em>Fook!”</em> Mum cleaned it up. Mum always does.<br /><br />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, “<em>I’ve got a problem</em>”.<br /><br />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<br />“<em>It’s stuck, it’s stuck. It feels as if it’s hovering between my ossofoguss and my windpipe </em>(what’s an ossofoguss?) <em>if it goes the wrong way do you know the highmlick manoover?” </em>(what’s that?) I think mum’s been Googling stuff again. She tends to have stuff wrong with her after a session of Googling.<br /><br />Anyway, Uncle Hugh says, “<em>Of course I do, stop panicking. Here, eat some bread</em>.” 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, “<em>It’s still there, it’s not going, it’s getting worse</em>….” Then she coughed and this great big lump of ham shot out of her mouth and onto the floor, and I thought “<em>Yum!” </em>so I ate it.<br /><br />They both looked at me as if I were some kind of grotesque monster and I’m thinking “<em>What?” </em>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.<br /><br />The Law According to Henry – if it falls on the floor, it’s fair game, unless mum says, “<em>LEAVE!</em>” first in her Alpha Bitch voice.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzK2CsNmmZ_6sz9xCUpv-hOc_vaa3v0PjQqBGow98NSHegNFrlwqipBW1toRkqV0PHPFHKxqhd3N9kdgO_I_Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-41263897629492136222009-03-16T10:24:00.006+01:002009-03-16T10:52:47.821+01:00Trying it on? Moi?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3A0XL5N5A5WpzfWEU2I3u-nZy-leGqAyLIID_MhdwUOHZfJNdUurKT_7mU9mIuBaDT2zn_ixxzO73LmZt5vod4wQEj3NxlxvnEohyphenhyphenwDaZawpkYKX1vXWWFaKbJUy3CcgIevYvW2ieAF8/s1600-h/First+pictures+083.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313715647472528786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3A0XL5N5A5WpzfWEU2I3u-nZy-leGqAyLIID_MhdwUOHZfJNdUurKT_7mU9mIuBaDT2zn_ixxzO73LmZt5vod4wQEj3NxlxvnEohyphenhyphenwDaZawpkYKX1vXWWFaKbJUy3CcgIevYvW2ieAF8/s320/First+pictures+083.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Trying it on? Moi?<br /><br />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?<br /><br />Ok, I concede, perhaps I HAVE been trying it on – a tad.<br /><br />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 “<em>How could you torture something as cute as me?</em>” look.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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 “<em>Hey Presto!</em>” little silver car with aircon would come and pick us up.<br /><br />Wrong! Instead, mum gave me her ‘Knowing’ look and said “<em>You little bugger. I know what you’re doing</em>” 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 “<em>Walk On!” </em>got me going. I don’t think I’d better ‘Try it on’ again. She’s not daft. Well, not all the time.<br /><br />Mum and me get excited about different things when we’re out walking.<br /><br />This is what I get excited about.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfSMx5E_WBeQPxJk9MwSOp1Q1vqPkHNK8OEpxRIZ3QI5yZHUSt4Utz3MYkwquKJnRk6I1elRlYtYyCgnALG1Kw2FXZ7QsB6gxJl-FTaOwALPcQaeoqOGrmH_OkloU70v35GxyKxdJ17GU/s1600-h/First+pictures+021.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313715207132796802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfSMx5E_WBeQPxJk9MwSOp1Q1vqPkHNK8OEpxRIZ3QI5yZHUSt4Utz3MYkwquKJnRk6I1elRlYtYyCgnALG1Kw2FXZ7QsB6gxJl-FTaOwALPcQaeoqOGrmH_OkloU70v35GxyKxdJ17GU/s200/First+pictures+021.jpg" border="0" /></a>Flat, dead frog. It didn’t smell that exciting because it was a bit too fresh. Maybe in a few days time.<br /></div><div><br />This was a bit of used kitchen roll, which smelled of baby sick. Wonderful!<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs3LuMsJdANoKlXphscUpo98IkK1SFcs6uNW2BUaRChtSj6-fOyZyn97XXbq11O_fCL3lja1rH3AEec_xxS6W6qXpi4EzySeUctpyW5L7xCmB2sNsuMywhzbp76oAMRciFHRQV6ztwA0Y/s1600-h/First+pictures+018.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313715201905981186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs3LuMsJdANoKlXphscUpo98IkK1SFcs6uNW2BUaRChtSj6-fOyZyn97XXbq11O_fCL3lja1rH3AEec_xxS6W6qXpi4EzySeUctpyW5L7xCmB2sNsuMywhzbp76oAMRciFHRQV6ztwA0Y/s200/First+pictures+018.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This is what mum gets excited about:<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUkZnGPjvM-MYZmqMur7_33tORbjY03OAOPYpCRm0awe3D8zSPc4-xmlib2BPwbxbSaUV0Wf1BjC_5YUaXJcpaEucNgCqPmXYynZEeFC7wjx7hpMPAA2gOHRp6SUcdphKVA_VcCF7ChtM/s1600-h/First+pictures+032.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313715215680800850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUkZnGPjvM-MYZmqMur7_33tORbjY03OAOPYpCRm0awe3D8zSPc4-xmlib2BPwbxbSaUV0Wf1BjC_5YUaXJcpaEucNgCqPmXYynZEeFC7wjx7hpMPAA2gOHRp6SUcdphKVA_VcCF7ChtM/s200/First+pictures+032.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Boring. </div><div> </div><div><br /><br />This is me trying to get at mum’s socks whilst she’s trying to put them on. I can’t resist socks.</div><div>(PS: the weighing scales have been out since they went to the UK - they are slack aren't they?)</div></div></div><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzW_iJaPWU2wfLNz3fO4gVEPFPMtq8ALIZ8qjfP4-iZJTkqqWdLAM0z5dh1GltHUosSKoJhtWy7J1tmYg-usA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-33363978713813139872009-03-15T12:14:00.005+01:002009-03-15T12:33:12.410+01:00I reckon I'm the only dog on this planet with a Dummy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEireBMYMMk9sGkCixCQMAX9OinBmsw03jML7W-K47PUgJ6GV9ddwJPUkV91WIgeehm0Z1lHs8sjr1hhMN1Wd2znamzN7WmKOZZRcFImErOtG_FhV2vUe8namJKx7voqzykWyJq3RzX19W4/s1600-h/The_Dummy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313375591491015266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEireBMYMMk9sGkCixCQMAX9OinBmsw03jML7W-K47PUgJ6GV9ddwJPUkV91WIgeehm0Z1lHs8sjr1hhMN1Wd2znamzN7WmKOZZRcFImErOtG_FhV2vUe8namJKx7voqzykWyJq3RzX19W4/s320/The_Dummy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>But I might be wrong. I'll await verification of that from the wonderful Dumdad from <a href="http://wwwtheothersideofparis.blogspot.com/">The Other Side of Paris</a> who awarded me this very prestigious Dummy. Apparently it's the blogging equivalent of an Oscar, so I am well chuffed.<br /><br />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:<br /><br /><br /><br /><p><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzrhnXL1R2MOUWj_X5BhNeiDb5wXX2sJZ_UC491WRtIWOiYE4wWRbDkgrQ9DCl_fIWMjk3nWcvscBeTDQBhlw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p><br /><p>Yes, Uncle Hugh is in his Jim Jams again. He is not a slob, honest:)</p></div>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-9763701418654988282009-03-14T11:44:00.005+01:002009-03-14T11:56:14.899+01:00Hello again everyone.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhIt7f9cJJC0BWYD1vmOOIeP6t4n_I9WQitEreM8Vw2WWpS0Z-B8hM-2EA4oIj-qDVIY_BtsBSXEvA5Jca6_ow9cTB5I-R-s979s0B6cFZzrZRnukrlJK1l63KCg9d2ha2yMRWwYGnF8A/s1600-h/First+pictures+011.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312993290711484402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhIt7f9cJJC0BWYD1vmOOIeP6t4n_I9WQitEreM8Vw2WWpS0Z-B8hM-2EA4oIj-qDVIY_BtsBSXEvA5Jca6_ow9cTB5I-R-s979s0B6cFZzrZRnukrlJK1l63KCg9d2ha2yMRWwYGnF8A/s320/First+pictures+011.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28Es3G-PSbHWJh5JBdysWAvtilYdzihuAh9Mbri7aPU3shw-AJdjffMyptexETrdW8UmrFiejQ4-bxTsQavyL507Xab_OQHLNqx-4hNo7qsd9enWB6wzBPXhKmawyEgCJ272ac0o5jew/s1600-h/First+pictures+012.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312993296429976418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28Es3G-PSbHWJh5JBdysWAvtilYdzihuAh9Mbri7aPU3shw-AJdjffMyptexETrdW8UmrFiejQ4-bxTsQavyL507Xab_OQHLNqx-4hNo7qsd9enWB6wzBPXhKmawyEgCJ272ac0o5jew/s320/First+pictures+012.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilM0sI2CBR6O8vJZflTowySqG4jQgtHM2DTOULaex7SuA7XJq0OW5nIBCFOwUjqFsOPoopxSkUK1PROkiEXKSbEoCyYxR_IDnSiY7V6l4epq6z3fYnjtffKIWLu6o-lfCWdgI2sW-2Co0/s1600-h/First+pictures+003.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312993297502621314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilM0sI2CBR6O8vJZflTowySqG4jQgtHM2DTOULaex7SuA7XJq0OW5nIBCFOwUjqFsOPoopxSkUK1PROkiEXKSbEoCyYxR_IDnSiY7V6l4epq6z3fYnjtffKIWLu6o-lfCWdgI2sW-2Co0/s320/First+pictures+003.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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 “<em>I could kill you, you little bastard</em>”, or, “<em>If you don’t come here RIGHT NOW, I’ll wring your neck</em>.” 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 “<em>Oh my God</em>” every time I did it. Her little pup’s just the right height at the moment.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Lulu taught me about False Friends. She called them “<em>foesamee</em>”. 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 ‘<em>préservatif</em>’. 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.<br /><br />Here are a few more:<br /><br /><strong>Actuellement</strong> – in French means ‘at the present time’, whereas when we say ‘actually’ we sometimes use it to mean ‘in fact’, which is <em>actually </em>‘en fait’ in French.<br /><br /><strong>Ballot</strong> – means a bundle or package, not a way of voting.<br /><br /><strong>Ancien</strong> – 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).<br /><br />Right, I’m a bit bored now. If you’re interested there are a few more <a href="http://french.about.com/library/fauxamis/blfauxam_a.htm">HERE</a>.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />It's good to be home and I'm looking forward to catching up with my favourite bloggers.</div>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-43104275495303236912009-03-07T09:32:00.002+01:002009-03-07T09:57:43.066+01:00I'm packed and ready to go....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoWdg_4HtvuRcboYSw02GRHzUjRuzxFdhtnnhFXfOxd9Us14j1bxOqpd-yHygDpxjnIphD7vIM4QLVp-7nfhxgWfaupxxTmnwA7447gD-eSSZpDmhrBcfSkgFKtAez5oTQxTzcnRXEk3A/s1600-h/First+pictures+043.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310365752193082674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoWdg_4HtvuRcboYSw02GRHzUjRuzxFdhtnnhFXfOxd9Us14j1bxOqpd-yHygDpxjnIphD7vIM4QLVp-7nfhxgWfaupxxTmnwA7447gD-eSSZpDmhrBcfSkgFKtAez5oTQxTzcnRXEk3A/s320/First+pictures+043.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUgecISOaP9ku5_J12xRJELXTyVZirRHuhrOyIS2fSoOmI4wq6upyg9o5wJvB2OSuDTQZmzJCNzb4uo8kl0iSnixJQG3ESGJ2Vi7hQAH1Haq1cCthK3_w765ATVjVd0INFZqy-q3bE6YM/s1600-h/First+pictures+038.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310365744882496034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUgecISOaP9ku5_J12xRJELXTyVZirRHuhrOyIS2fSoOmI4wq6upyg9o5wJvB2OSuDTQZmzJCNzb4uo8kl0iSnixJQG3ESGJ2Vi7hQAH1Haq1cCthK3_w765ATVjVd0INFZqy-q3bE6YM/s320/First+pictures+038.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Mum grumbles that I always sit on her ironing. I guess she’s right. It smells nice. It smells like outside.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Au Revoir and see you soon.<br /><br />MUM’S BLOG: <a href="http://henrythedogsmum.blogspot.com/">Henry the Dog's Mum</a> – why not drop in and say hello? </div>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-81717407190362795602009-03-04T16:00:00.004+01:002009-03-04T16:12:36.043+01:00My mum's a dummy!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrunYu64ZpMEHRtbYjrlzDxxqV6x7ZSwxxhXO8677bFUhxLfMbmk4bjs2qzrS3DTMVTMGKDLxpKJm8c35xr90af4XWiYQWgVRNdGwgqkGcnQeiDIaPf0rbqRfrUF4bn6CpbCy-yQyHipY/s1600-h/First+pictures+008.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309348212669507186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrunYu64ZpMEHRtbYjrlzDxxqV6x7ZSwxxhXO8677bFUhxLfMbmk4bjs2qzrS3DTMVTMGKDLxpKJm8c35xr90af4XWiYQWgVRNdGwgqkGcnQeiDIaPf0rbqRfrUF4bn6CpbCy-yQyHipY/s320/First+pictures+008.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Are you a dummy like mum?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“<em>This is for Dummies</em>,” she cried, “<em>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</em>….” and she started blubbering.<br /><br />Well, what could I say? Nothing, of course. I just looked at her. Then she had the cheek to say, “<em>Stop looking at me as if I were an injured puppy!”</em> Honestly, it’s not even <a href="http://henrythedogdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/12/forbidden-question.html">PMS time</a>. If it was, I could understand, but it isn’t.<br /><br />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, “<em>Wait until Uncle Hugh gets home and he’ll explain all the stuff you can’t understand</em>.” 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh549jSXlfTydb0Y5MUWAMZgBvaCbWc8EgtTKVBheNejEeuSh7zSn6e5JQt5T0p-a75O5Ou7_6ON_q3_A9BBBPvE7zUDJZKO3iw0-SIXsZ9CPqMZBD5Ipe-8-viLYGWBKSVHYOZ28oGGz4/s1600-h/First+pictures+011.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309348229084199858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh549jSXlfTydb0Y5MUWAMZgBvaCbWc8EgtTKVBheNejEeuSh7zSn6e5JQt5T0p-a75O5Ou7_6ON_q3_A9BBBPvE7zUDJZKO3iw0-SIXsZ9CPqMZBD5Ipe-8-viLYGWBKSVHYOZ28oGGz4/s320/First+pictures+011.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiIKCzoipI-l59ye4rATeTCk8LJHl4UyqZ4hr8SP_zxWz1nzFvTQG4hmwU__PHrvHwwxYw3GWO4EkFtjE7HrrNMF_hJwJRYfW2XCBPjy7pWLcriWJc5H_wdNjK1MGxIrmb3pdUG2vTYww/s1600-h/First+pictures+004.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309348223727479986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiIKCzoipI-l59ye4rATeTCk8LJHl4UyqZ4hr8SP_zxWz1nzFvTQG4hmwU__PHrvHwwxYw3GWO4EkFtjE7HrrNMF_hJwJRYfW2XCBPjy7pWLcriWJc5H_wdNjK1MGxIrmb3pdUG2vTYww/s320/First+pictures+004.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDt48_yK0bI5Ymf13faaTQ3KuKz1WU5J2I0YEXTF_YqvRPx5hvdInAII7cRef1cK9nnfej9GhRq64trrrt8SpqE-rWh2kHIzR7ENTZUlxghwlQbTxWTi4oc0aBBn3NyWYUgV5fTU03PA/s1600-h/First+pictures+005.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309348217686658082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDt48_yK0bI5Ymf13faaTQ3KuKz1WU5J2I0YEXTF_YqvRPx5hvdInAII7cRef1cK9nnfej9GhRq64trrrt8SpqE-rWh2kHIzR7ENTZUlxghwlQbTxWTi4oc0aBBn3NyWYUgV5fTU03PA/s320/First+pictures+005.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It's hailing at the moment. Doesn't know what to do with itself.<br /><div> </div></div></div>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-34838368851065064812009-03-03T11:00:00.006+01:002009-03-03T11:53:11.610+01:00Dishing the dirt on mum<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDC_ohtIjDxp6guSnyzjnMgMXgK36Q5A8nsMnCmBIiewyJZI9N_ApcKOBRtgLt4MzMYNM1xLiJJL018SqJYqYxEhipuPRoJ6FuULvk7jHU_HXZXwwNy1lau1GCmVr0rh9Ivb_mUg-Lz9c/s1600-h/First+pictures+270.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308902677448959186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDC_ohtIjDxp6guSnyzjnMgMXgK36Q5A8nsMnCmBIiewyJZI9N_ApcKOBRtgLt4MzMYNM1xLiJJL018SqJYqYxEhipuPRoJ6FuULvk7jHU_HXZXwwNy1lau1GCmVr0rh9Ivb_mUg-Lz9c/s320/First+pictures+270.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div>A few days ago, our good friend French Fancy did a post about her <a href="http://frenchfancy.blogspot.com/2009/02/bin-love.html">Waste Bin</a>. 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 “<em>Oh fook</em>!” whilst shaking her head.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-lSFTx6BXmgeRWogSPYX2vOH33SBDrkF7XU2KPSP5APJKcrdGMbiuwUPPC4nsT4DkXRKP067upiWKpB9Xhvi7iLKdjs41H0hHHl6fs2BBLK77_awXcPFNXTzhPPd7tCwZhTbanqeq95o/s1600-h/First+pictures+271.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308902682488035666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-lSFTx6BXmgeRWogSPYX2vOH33SBDrkF7XU2KPSP5APJKcrdGMbiuwUPPC4nsT4DkXRKP067upiWKpB9Xhvi7iLKdjs41H0hHHl6fs2BBLK77_awXcPFNXTzhPPd7tCwZhTbanqeq95o/s320/First+pictures+271.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And no – that is not poo on it below, I had a sniff, it is a bit of curry.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSbsGGtHWS5SSya-zPyDnjBTQntUgM34PU9efJ1hvyWKhaXiblXAFDpggnjJRfrB_gs1Fc4VuapdhIgw2djfj7TuDU1y47YT_eXoXwCBLqbGXG5JWCeyPCmmQTtIF53jRGgo6aubWw0Z4/s1600-h/First+pictures+268.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308902687258486002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSbsGGtHWS5SSya-zPyDnjBTQntUgM34PU9efJ1hvyWKhaXiblXAFDpggnjJRfrB_gs1Fc4VuapdhIgw2djfj7TuDU1y47YT_eXoXwCBLqbGXG5JWCeyPCmmQTtIF53jRGgo6aubWw0Z4/s320/First+pictures+268.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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 “..<em>what you can’t see doesn’t hurt</em>…” 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Honestly, her carbon footprint must be humongous.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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'.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />What’s your most hated chore? I don’t have any chores, because I’m a kept dog. Not a working one, like some.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHpvAtwafQtVCRYLvRJDPcfVoiFbM_4McGplmu7PuIXfiKQO17fk90M9YrPgLMlheSTpaxxGVp0-Rw5ClDNHBKApOwtcsdp4l3EciOU8MXTdZ2VY7wFB73uramLCsfjQdAoBVW41s6fpE/s1600-h/First+pictures+016.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308902671634125922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHpvAtwafQtVCRYLvRJDPcfVoiFbM_4McGplmu7PuIXfiKQO17fk90M9YrPgLMlheSTpaxxGVp0-Rw5ClDNHBKApOwtcsdp4l3EciOU8MXTdZ2VY7wFB73uramLCsfjQdAoBVW41s6fpE/s320/First+pictures+016.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me noseying out of the main window with my friend "Buddah guy", who's about my size.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPORjZoDUo-ebX33eo4T8jQScxniEziRh6ywF_1U6WjaP0s-JJF6sE4uCa3lL_SmqQn8KdktbQGlonaWYwGAOXiiEn2FYhIaudMUisHVfW5I9jeHVFB1wPQeNbftQ85dn41vk0YQycgFM/s1600-h/First+pictures+028.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308902674178877922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPORjZoDUo-ebX33eo4T8jQScxniEziRh6ywF_1U6WjaP0s-JJF6sE4uCa3lL_SmqQn8KdktbQGlonaWYwGAOXiiEn2FYhIaudMUisHVfW5I9jeHVFB1wPQeNbftQ85dn41vk0YQycgFM/s320/First+pictures+028.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div></div></div>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-27048179172071368332009-03-01T08:32:00.006+01:002009-03-01T08:59:23.300+01:00Van Gogh's Ear, Rugby and Spring<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXpIm1jyerVYVwBj7qyRs03LbhjhbAxbkG7OyecrEps9RLx8m7_6WPU6kUtedyTeqel99qvvxqPzb7PZhBtxHvyx2Sxxa5NPe7SnVnKH9465GvnMMr6Zm9wuz-syN-RWmeA88R5OC3etA/s1600-h/VanGogh_award.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308120121058256450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 170px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXpIm1jyerVYVwBj7qyRs03LbhjhbAxbkG7OyecrEps9RLx8m7_6WPU6kUtedyTeqel99qvvxqPzb7PZhBtxHvyx2Sxxa5NPe7SnVnKH9465GvnMMr6Zm9wuz-syN-RWmeA88R5OC3etA/s320/VanGogh_award.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I’ve been given an award by <a href="http://detroitdog.blogspot.com/">Detroit Dog</a> 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?<br /><br />“<strong><span style="font-size:85%;">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</span>."<br /><br /></strong>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 “<em>Who wants to be a millionaire</em>”. 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.<br /><br />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 “<em>Wow, look at those thighs…”</em> and Uncle Hugh’ll give her a sidelong glance and we’ll give each other a knowing wink.<br /><br />Another thing, Spring really has sprung here. Look:<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcviP6dfNj9zHE5rnSzCGw21NN706ogdbUwMHRwwtl14fd3ALau4jpnyWmMNhJaYYcVMHe7UCtQTKPB_l2kz8D59j97OgV5d4wLZ6ATQV2NN41nwzssXb5f2ioKOAmxlQr72Eq7pk79H8/s1600-h/First+pictures+283.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308120120100483570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcviP6dfNj9zHE5rnSzCGw21NN706ogdbUwMHRwwtl14fd3ALau4jpnyWmMNhJaYYcVMHe7UCtQTKPB_l2kz8D59j97OgV5d4wLZ6ATQV2NN41nwzssXb5f2ioKOAmxlQr72Eq7pk79H8/s320/First+pictures+283.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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 “<em>I’ve had enough</em>” 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWmORS9GcBZKnAy61asBA9ObysD5eKKN4KaPOTG8koy2iTbNRMS67M-SZor5d25Vj2MZ2FG9ifqTL2oQfe_E00-d2POAJ2bPeIOI7fRb4BFTPiFBiXLaZtCZHjeKMFGkfa8VxdulG0vZY/s1600-h/First+pictures+273.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308120130034221570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWmORS9GcBZKnAy61asBA9ObysD5eKKN4KaPOTG8koy2iTbNRMS67M-SZor5d25Vj2MZ2FG9ifqTL2oQfe_E00-d2POAJ2bPeIOI7fRb4BFTPiFBiXLaZtCZHjeKMFGkfa8VxdulG0vZY/s320/First+pictures+273.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcb3_zDre3zPTBlLlXJTd5vJKuqMjYlZBvZtPA7AgikZYSjwXQCwshxzrr8UwtpFMvfpTbURpWT7nTLJvgwimj2NB871wT3Nd-A6v73-eu4CjcDcGSVOEsmsTNZiH3Cru1yf0jMEFZeWw/s1600-h/First+pictures+275.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308120126663618242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcb3_zDre3zPTBlLlXJTd5vJKuqMjYlZBvZtPA7AgikZYSjwXQCwshxzrr8UwtpFMvfpTbURpWT7nTLJvgwimj2NB871wT3Nd-A6v73-eu4CjcDcGSVOEsmsTNZiH3Cru1yf0jMEFZeWw/s320/First+pictures+275.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />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!</div><div> </div><div> </div></div><br /><br /><p><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz8Pjqx6-uHSD4h0lDnJVR049Vwchm_gwXvRCrmoluTKHK1KZyswUmlNd-Sk-TM0BLlXl6FcGKjirNNwvvqlw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p><p> </p><p> </p><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzUtjQiOy-sWWUQ8dnk7ACVnVZnnucJCyat07hJ4diY9v505YvCfFewdPESWA1oHEQkhy4Oa_esblMm1TnE9Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-87454546388883080872009-02-26T09:26:00.006+01:002009-02-26T12:02:40.538+01:00A bit of a rant - don't read if you're 'pro' fur!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtK-Boqq27nLY4mL6ESZ0ExLj6T_cN4Bhy7RAbYu53AClCpS7DZzghqm-zf0pGFq2y56e7kU_I0bN73dLXTqdUG7UWuAFKBpXAapxzGA2PiRpxQ_FqO-yMTRI6lGMZT_D9caoxnB5JMBg/s1600-h/First+pictures+074.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307020105012733266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtK-Boqq27nLY4mL6ESZ0ExLj6T_cN4Bhy7RAbYu53AClCpS7DZzghqm-zf0pGFq2y56e7kU_I0bN73dLXTqdUG7UWuAFKBpXAapxzGA2PiRpxQ_FqO-yMTRI6lGMZT_D9caoxnB5JMBg/s200/First+pictures+074.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />This is a bit of a rant, and also a question attached that you might be able to answer for me (and my mum).<br /><br /><strong>(<span style="font-size:85%;">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.) </span><br /><br /></strong>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?<br /><br />Here is a photo of Lily Allen wearing a white fox fur and a few other Celebs who mum thinks should know better:<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD7NTblkHabtTCtndC8RSxbQBIn_SvbIHaPzvDknEBND2ZoVdH70owZ3zY8ioo4lgPq7I4fLfI2QJDxGRqyc7Vcx92nEwtXom-QvhyphenhyphenkoGe6q-EGB7-3dBZFOVIdshd9nXCw3hC_sI1Be0/s1600-h/Disgusting+Lily.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307020103136557090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 130px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD7NTblkHabtTCtndC8RSxbQBIn_SvbIHaPzvDknEBND2ZoVdH70owZ3zY8ioo4lgPq7I4fLfI2QJDxGRqyc7Vcx92nEwtXom-QvhyphenhyphenkoGe6q-EGB7-3dBZFOVIdshd9nXCw3hC_sI1Be0/s200/Disgusting+Lily.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyJ33zoE0-jn4gJlr2cpEs9HFZOAZVjlVAtDLCuXIGW7gP3YQCgRL5T6yoyPHlG9ZTIfbbd7OUWasVC1QUx67H4dKkjORFsInw_zU-RP_xj-dESSqs9e4sYo-VOyEAqkztK8KPAfsecNc/s1600-h/Should+have+known+better.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307020108587173154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 133px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyJ33zoE0-jn4gJlr2cpEs9HFZOAZVjlVAtDLCuXIGW7gP3YQCgRL5T6yoyPHlG9ZTIfbbd7OUWasVC1QUx67H4dKkjORFsInw_zU-RP_xj-dESSqs9e4sYo-VOyEAqkztK8KPAfsecNc/s200/Should+have+known+better.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8O1M1zhcSLjFXVDmkIzxoUqr5fCANMcSbcf0eIalYxpfZwUrJbE8RZb7Zu8ugVHFLMu6a63zs3B1b7CNqCZq6Ca0RaQJKhyphenhyphens0DQKlUegVgtrQ0ZZ2Q4UNx5eum9YL-BIjLrXDX_wCh7I/s1600-h/Not+surprised.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307020107314069794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 132px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8O1M1zhcSLjFXVDmkIzxoUqr5fCANMcSbcf0eIalYxpfZwUrJbE8RZb7Zu8ugVHFLMu6a63zs3B1b7CNqCZq6Ca0RaQJKhyphenhyphens0DQKlUegVgtrQ0ZZ2Q4UNx5eum9YL-BIjLrXDX_wCh7I/s200/Not+surprised.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And here’s the article that went with Lily wearing her fancy hat <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1122483/Foxy-Lily-Allen-steps-mystery-man-viciously-expensive-Kossack-fur-hat.html">Lily wears her fur with pride!</a> . 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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20090221/wl_uk_afp/lifestylebritainfashion_20090221184011">Fur, feathers and the future at London Fashion Week</a><br /><br />Mum remembers a time when folk wouldn’t dream of wearing fur.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />We’re both quite sickened by it all. I know I don’t normally do ‘serious’ but this time, I had to.<br /><br />Here is me looking like a fur rug. Wouldn’t it be tragic if that’s what I became?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcjwXxUbx14RfjFNKSwkcFu9jQKqULXFYEEZwKJCuQBZ60NJ1_BW1ykGw2ImCuRPNXJlNiNpMN2NP3oUeXHN_ryhqqFpDiB6Cf7P47Or4GvBwFbFjB2wyp73VYdRJu-QHC4bF73CZysyY/s1600-h/First+pictures+002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307020389934477218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcjwXxUbx14RfjFNKSwkcFu9jQKqULXFYEEZwKJCuQBZ60NJ1_BW1ykGw2ImCuRPNXJlNiNpMN2NP3oUeXHN_ryhqqFpDiB6Cf7P47Or4GvBwFbFjB2wyp73VYdRJu-QHC4bF73CZysyY/s320/First+pictures+002.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div></div></div>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com47tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-19703790935380680952009-02-24T19:43:00.003+01:002009-02-24T20:36:46.832+01:00I'M BACK!<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHjMDt4-JYBNEUrtqHuDCj7Nm6mFQgtxiAicymxxyVdp0dkHIdAXuGr961_kvzy9_sp4Ifm5npcYu4gMy5MY4wElXaTJwCqxaj3F8iLEdAQuqS2KqTUXGEkR1FReEARzdz9CoCFb2IRw/s1600-h/First+pictures+011.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306437487402034866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHjMDt4-JYBNEUrtqHuDCj7Nm6mFQgtxiAicymxxyVdp0dkHIdAXuGr961_kvzy9_sp4Ifm5npcYu4gMy5MY4wElXaTJwCqxaj3F8iLEdAQuqS2KqTUXGEkR1FReEARzdz9CoCFb2IRw/s320/First+pictures+011.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 “<em>You’re bloody filthy, you stink and you look like a hairy yeti</em>.” 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)<br /><br />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 “...<em>pissed on a Leprechaun</em>…” some time this year because she said, “…<em>Luck isn’t my middle name at the moment…” </em>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 ‘<em>iron-clad’</em>, but this time she said she had diarrhoea so badly she says she could have “…<em>shat through a straw</em>…” 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />Love Henry XXXXXXXXXXX<br /><br />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).</div></div><br /><br /><br />The view from mum's hotel window in the second week, pity she was too busy pooing to enjoy it!:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6CLSOs5Th_AP9KVciqypkeYsC1I55blJr0WC0udkVS7XOGc3nT1BxeH_iO2lOypuix2jKXeCVrnl9qUwfrx1sxDJm3ckkNcWlvH2_1BB3qUs2P3v8yQKES1OX2JYIQBd-BP-ub82kKM/s1600-h/First+pictures+195.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306447938476994754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6CLSOs5Th_AP9KVciqypkeYsC1I55blJr0WC0udkVS7XOGc3nT1BxeH_iO2lOypuix2jKXeCVrnl9qUwfrx1sxDJm3ckkNcWlvH2_1BB3qUs2P3v8yQKES1OX2JYIQBd-BP-ub82kKM/s320/First+pictures+195.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The atrium of the hotel in Singapore from the 19th floor - made mum's fanny twitch!:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73AW-4g9n3teQ0R8AuOzlrTjx4C2kCmyg2IbOJxBKpN-umYO8gw5hzxeZSWM168g_zwkDa4Ayj9ttPD2k4_4HA4o67NNwACC95VDyQaNOArOvoLChDnwRntkBmlH9ZDrDVvVmV2QMqO0/s1600-h/First+pictures+053.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306447934164461522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73AW-4g9n3teQ0R8AuOzlrTjx4C2kCmyg2IbOJxBKpN-umYO8gw5hzxeZSWM168g_zwkDa4Ayj9ttPD2k4_4HA4o67NNwACC95VDyQaNOArOvoLChDnwRntkBmlH9ZDrDVvVmV2QMqO0/s320/First+pictures+053.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A calf and some cows for Braja, in Langkawi, Malaysia<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3rXTTUflCtCAcyV2HAOb57bTIif26MYN3v6kUFjpe6eAz6vyPtVXqvv9skafsVByv_w-6lE017z54J4kSr_s6G20ZIzqRcJm-k6lx-_sDwC6TCL8jlQmOHWrlDNPkJMXrQGkUK5hAyLo/s1600-h/First+pictures+223.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306447932755955842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3rXTTUflCtCAcyV2HAOb57bTIif26MYN3v6kUFjpe6eAz6vyPtVXqvv9skafsVByv_w-6lE017z54J4kSr_s6G20ZIzqRcJm-k6lx-_sDwC6TCL8jlQmOHWrlDNPkJMXrQGkUK5hAyLo/s320/First+pictures+223.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLurxn_VhNMh3y8nll61F39GHLfCgYt8o6iVRmwqokBcIAYFgSHsd4j0I6G23T6HmL92-fx_jyhbBJ3-gdTI15H9z4RM1-KDCdQk8U-qe7-LWUo2l8Wx4eyBWc3i-WJGmD9OViBdH744/s1600-h/First+pictures+224.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306447927357595682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHLurxn_VhNMh3y8nll61F39GHLfCgYt8o6iVRmwqokBcIAYFgSHsd4j0I6G23T6HmL92-fx_jyhbBJ3-gdTI15H9z4RM1-KDCdQk8U-qe7-LWUo2l8Wx4eyBWc3i-WJGmD9OViBdH744/s320/First+pictures+224.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div></div>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com43tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-32279845645552146102009-02-03T16:22:00.005+01:002009-02-03T16:38:52.999+01:00I may be gone some time.....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU5qGzpnd2-c19r90fRicltbimcZ9O1ToTMiD_Ntbp91AyOc-tF_dJhGIiRv7H57MSXl5sRiFWIqPneHbAMQykVSp2YOifhTMXnVbCBw3syo6WRLWfcFtyB9FLZEPimQjRrN4STY0rijs/s1600-h/First+pictures+050.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298592174278099138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU5qGzpnd2-c19r90fRicltbimcZ9O1ToTMiD_Ntbp91AyOc-tF_dJhGIiRv7H57MSXl5sRiFWIqPneHbAMQykVSp2YOifhTMXnVbCBw3syo6WRLWfcFtyB9FLZEPimQjRrN4STY0rijs/s400/First+pictures+050.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqTfZznPe_jmXXqAlZhjay6U9N9xYyimdhoYodtFSwiaeQIPUpReba0dwjscQGdhVYP0l80-gjdeXD_VPdHZ4h-agbKu3_65OhK9hiGA52AQhrB2RdKCdw-4iIWSJoMQoXUo3tkI_Jh8/s1600-h/First+pictures+032.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298592504473027586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqTfZznPe_jmXXqAlZhjay6U9N9xYyimdhoYodtFSwiaeQIPUpReba0dwjscQGdhVYP0l80-gjdeXD_VPdHZ4h-agbKu3_65OhK9hiGA52AQhrB2RdKCdw-4iIWSJoMQoXUo3tkI_Jh8/s320/First+pictures+032.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><strong>An Aside </strong>- 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 “<em>I hope he doesn’t vomit or poo or anything. Shouldn’t you put him in that box just in case?” </em>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 “<em>Oh Jeez Henry, were you doing summersaults whilst you were busy puking and pooing</em>?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />And last, but not least<br /><br />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 “<em>Mummy why are you trying to kill me</em>?” She swears blind she was doing it for my own good, but she always says that after she’s been particularly sadistic.<br /><br />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…….<br /><br />Here are a few photos to remember me by :<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmtcV3lAvQhjR9aStlHIEPKHZyQo5DdsJcCx8Em5nUTwnaAyuIruv9OgUJPB4jrRWr7DUHSl3BbHmWNNSGZXIPlwhpavEwq_ND35x7B45coyh5MwthSdlHBM0CdTES0khU1lqCBlXtfyA/s1600-h/First+pictures+053.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298593762174653346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 237px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmtcV3lAvQhjR9aStlHIEPKHZyQo5DdsJcCx8Em5nUTwnaAyuIruv9OgUJPB4jrRWr7DUHSl3BbHmWNNSGZXIPlwhpavEwq_ND35x7B45coyh5MwthSdlHBM0CdTES0khU1lqCBlXtfyA/s320/First+pictures+053.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5VQEIwKwj8cY2b9mwdEWDEuKYuB-xBNPnoBUQUGhH1vTT96OkPuvpxCZqIWKNp76OWFRiNry5cLqBi8DFYAa5vTDviksecOZcQTaTY_Oilg0n-f75z794BVdReG1I61IiqHOXzx0aw8M/s1600-h/First+pictures+062.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298593760992081490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5VQEIwKwj8cY2b9mwdEWDEuKYuB-xBNPnoBUQUGhH1vTT96OkPuvpxCZqIWKNp76OWFRiNry5cLqBi8DFYAa5vTDviksecOZcQTaTY_Oilg0n-f75z794BVdReG1I61IiqHOXzx0aw8M/s320/First+pictures+062.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzEHOVujKzDafK4LYvWmcL_JK1yhcSlS0nz77zYnF_MVs5Bx3rR9VadtXMY4P6ZEaSdJ5ZR0CRKmA17-n03zSfPaw11fLWRVjkkQYR0faie9JDXgW8RjV3R39G7uo7sAt3qvo_Z8ETgk/s1600-h/First+pictures+018.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298593761485687538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDzEHOVujKzDafK4LYvWmcL_JK1yhcSlS0nz77zYnF_MVs5Bx3rR9VadtXMY4P6ZEaSdJ5ZR0CRKmA17-n03zSfPaw11fLWRVjkkQYR0faie9JDXgW8RjV3R39G7uo7sAt3qvo_Z8ETgk/s320/First+pictures+018.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-91752027866884078242009-02-01T13:52:00.007+01:002009-02-01T14:09:22.527+01:00Global Gloom - I have the antidote<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPRcqwneplt-X1ob3ckyO90SY0SB1FOB-7tUdFojk5QPPhmZt931kJCvGJ19d8ydom94R5jomGqnlxXIpQm-uN75dNV1ONe5h9_vniKhodxiUqIDUlid0_4uRfTuLWLktGuasU2xoAO6s/s1600-h/First+pictures+051.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297812139600835826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPRcqwneplt-X1ob3ckyO90SY0SB1FOB-7tUdFojk5QPPhmZt931kJCvGJ19d8ydom94R5jomGqnlxXIpQm-uN75dNV1ONe5h9_vniKhodxiUqIDUlid0_4uRfTuLWLktGuasU2xoAO6s/s320/First+pictures+051.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>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. </div><div><br /><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgsb8Fx2yGOWsAoHWhqoPDL9ksTP-0iSnHwVJrVrkQ3PLRws0W2ZTyHlZeyUpKd6fZuQHUd8ytTSwBeDIRR324AHnKrENWMzI3ZsJzW0AgqtFgWguOUHZ1gkmArKE50vIIEaVOImHrTYI/s1600-h/First+pictures+084.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297812402786821298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgsb8Fx2yGOWsAoHWhqoPDL9ksTP-0iSnHwVJrVrkQ3PLRws0W2ZTyHlZeyUpKd6fZuQHUd8ytTSwBeDIRR324AHnKrENWMzI3ZsJzW0AgqtFgWguOUHZ1gkmArKE50vIIEaVOImHrTYI/s320/First+pictures+084.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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.<br /><br />“I’m so depressed,” he said, “it must be the Credit Munch.”<br />Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I stood and looked at him open mouthed.<br />“What the bloody hell has the Credit Munch got to do with you?” I asked.<br />He looked a bit taken aback.<br />“The Credit Munch is affecting everyone, Henry. It says so – on TV, in the papers, folk are talking about it all the time.”<br />“Ok then, tell me EXACTLY how it’s affecting you.”<br />“It’s making me depressed.”<br />“Why?”<br />His eyes glazed over a tad as his brain started to whirr, rather weakly, pondering the question.<br />“Because it is,” he said eventually<br />“Be more specific. Have they stopped feeding you as much?”<br />“No.”<br />“Have they changed your food?”<br />“No.”<br />“Have you had your toys taken away from you?”<br />“No.”<br />“Have they stopped petting you?”<br />“No.”<br />“Have they changed your bed, or your sleeping arrangements?”<br />“No.”<br />“So, birdbrain, why is your life any different to what it was when I first arrived in 2006?”<br />“It isn’t.”<br />“SO WHY ARE YOU DEPRESSED?”<br />I shouted, feeling all angry.<br />“Because……” he trailed off, gave a Gallic shrug and said “Phuh!”<br /><br />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 – <a href="http://www.newscientist.com/article/mg20126881.600-how-your-friends-friends-can-affect-your-mood.html?full=true">How friends affect your mood</a><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 “<em>Whilst ever I’ve got a brain that’s still functioning I’ll find another way to earn a living</em>.”<br /><br />So I’m going to start a wave of optimism right here by listing things that are still good:<br /><br />I’m still breathing.<br />My heart’s still beating.<br />I’m still seeing.<br />I’m still smelling.<br />I’m still walking.<br />I’ve got folk who love me.<br />I’ve got my toys.<br />I’ve got my bed.<br />I’ve got my food.<br />I’ve got my friends.<br /><br />I can still enjoy the simple pleasures<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMsbd7_AYnvPqg1ffTFbBH2wToyvDNEWPYrli0M-wgC_CdMpWLYCL0zmqJPtfHaez_rEYL0CBFSN5I0LJhvxSZYZEd40HYrQ-D-IYv_cxxEQ0GgbikRsNrzYmGQXa4GtGhHcjRRRwJpzE/s1600-h/First+pictures+058.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297812658386098690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMsbd7_AYnvPqg1ffTFbBH2wToyvDNEWPYrli0M-wgC_CdMpWLYCL0zmqJPtfHaez_rEYL0CBFSN5I0LJhvxSZYZEd40HYrQ-D-IYv_cxxEQ0GgbikRsNrzYmGQXa4GtGhHcjRRRwJpzE/s320/First+pictures+058.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Life is good – when you consider the alternative.<br /><br />As mum always says to Uncle Hugh “<em>Whilst ever I can pick up a bottle of fizz for less than a fiver, I’ll be happy</em>.” And she still can at the mo. (Mum's easily pleased).<br /><br />Credit Munch – bollocks to you! I will not succumb.<br /><br />Can we get out of this gloom? YES WE CAN! Let's start right now.Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-86174049009626474372009-01-30T08:58:00.007+01:002009-01-30T09:16:09.183+01:00Inondations - that's "floods" to you and me<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhin-Vsz9HldbRF2m0AD9SvTbDhyCeUQAWrxfE2Rtg-GJXLT8xylUL5E6BJUEhImBrNfhRRqaDINzL-4fNtDScP8xgsWPt4gbAKEV4gGrSoirk6mqrJPExcgNlwDGMutIcBNCTtIn9NRXQ/s1600-h/First+pictures+020.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296993452734937698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhin-Vsz9HldbRF2m0AD9SvTbDhyCeUQAWrxfE2Rtg-GJXLT8xylUL5E6BJUEhImBrNfhRRqaDINzL-4fNtDScP8xgsWPt4gbAKEV4gGrSoirk6mqrJPExcgNlwDGMutIcBNCTtIn9NRXQ/s200/First+pictures+020.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Whilst some of you lucky folk were having heatwaves, <a href="http://coddledegg.blogspot.com/2009/01/midday-387c-and-climbing.html">Lee</a>, whilst some of you were holidaying at the seaside and being literally pampered to death, <a href="http://lostandfoundinindia.blogspot.com/2009/01/i-smoked-cone-and-i-inhaled.html">Braja</a> (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.<br /><br />Last weekend in this part of France we had "<em>bohcohdanondaseeons</em>” – 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:<br /><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpheEhggXzLT248-7b0r3qF52wnacbMkoXSXpKN7nr31KJh8MOkgbZ3AZ6o4HipIt_kxwA8OoueUIupMmgOj4asovX-9ZZbfVjkTEnGZa-M25SdkQZ6FtEHsBuEP9DynTO2DYAjHScT_8/s1600-h/First+pictures+023.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296993668780664034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpheEhggXzLT248-7b0r3qF52wnacbMkoXSXpKN7nr31KJh8MOkgbZ3AZ6o4HipIt_kxwA8OoueUIupMmgOj4asovX-9ZZbfVjkTEnGZa-M25SdkQZ6FtEHsBuEP9DynTO2DYAjHScT_8/s200/First+pictures+023.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And this is photo is of the fields we pass on one of our walks – no longer fields.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCVK8H-2XIFwaFy5yOtr53CTh5RTWdv05h9isI5QVYoijlqFQeeoJHGF9Ml8D9433yiOcSeDsXWkAF632byTm5W2OOFYbPtSECZH_zq3RMavaFWWdZKxGahLXTheNsytrm0yGVf-46teQ/s1600-h/First+pictures+003.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296994076892884498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCVK8H-2XIFwaFy5yOtr53CTh5RTWdv05h9isI5QVYoijlqFQeeoJHGF9Ml8D9433yiOcSeDsXWkAF632byTm5W2OOFYbPtSECZH_zq3RMavaFWWdZKxGahLXTheNsytrm0yGVf-46teQ/s200/First+pictures+003.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><div>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 <a href="http://bigstormpicture.blogspot.com/">The Big Storm Picture</a> go and chase. Mum calls them ‘<em>bloody nutters who want their heads looking at’</em>; 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?)<br /><br />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? (<em>Henry rolls his eyes, shakes his head and sighs</em>) 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.<br /><br />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 ‘<em>plat du jour’</em>. Nothing! Mum has often joked that the worst time to have a house fire in France is between the hours of 12 and 2.<br /><br />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 ‘<em>bucketing</em>’ down, as mum puts it, the walk only lasts about ten minutes.<br /><br />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):</div><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz_MC2a3yNfoiW09IinERBCio9lkY9gpH2eqsDNZs3tHngieTB6_KKp_oG2c3059BNORePD55-Ge0o2tJ5wqg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-41534552750727023632009-01-28T09:26:00.006+01:002009-01-28T09:49:35.021+01:00Likes and dislikes of a Celebrity Pooch<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAmW_1sALSedVh7GuayiW4QbmLshC1_RZJ4tWvpUYSVe9SO_jFYPUCFCEFOV2M1noDtXT9DCFyj-qaJFsIZDIa4Hh3gGLknwp9noX8ZzbUJDGxXl6YNnCgIpp0jqEfXPzMYpnIjfLm68c/s1600-h/Henry+on+Vogue.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296258554858849522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 175px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAmW_1sALSedVh7GuayiW4QbmLshC1_RZJ4tWvpUYSVe9SO_jFYPUCFCEFOV2M1noDtXT9DCFyj-qaJFsIZDIa4Hh3gGLknwp9noX8ZzbUJDGxXl6YNnCgIpp0jqEfXPzMYpnIjfLm68c/s200/Henry+on+Vogue.jpg" border="0" /></a>I was inspired to do this post by my pal <a href="http://lifeofstubby.blogspot.com/2009/01/dewey.html">Stubby</a>, 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.<br /><br />So here goes for you folks who are hungry for more insight into my complex character and celebrity lifestyle.<br /><br /><strong>Food<br /></strong>Loves: Whatever mum and Uncle Hugh are eating. It always tastes better than anything else.<br />Dislikes: Grapefruit – it kind of makes my nose wrinkle and my eyes screw up tight.<br /><br /><strong>Place to sleep</strong><br />Loves: On mum’s knee (pictured below)<br />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!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi37qHqtEhKouJBv98oTfByVBxxPWCVfcynFg6DTiDUHadNrW9wnBgxl6kKr0GH3HvIZjHmLm38x2fMaO9Yazmgz_PkiucWK4ppe5U7D5mryK2CdDwZu4lWAopZtTM2ZAjuNsAG4ge0Do8/s1600-h/First+pictures+040.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296260643906092146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi37qHqtEhKouJBv98oTfByVBxxPWCVfcynFg6DTiDUHadNrW9wnBgxl6kKr0GH3HvIZjHmLm38x2fMaO9Yazmgz_PkiucWK4ppe5U7D5mryK2CdDwZu4lWAopZtTM2ZAjuNsAG4ge0Do8/s200/First+pictures+040.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Toy<br /></strong>Loves: My tennis ball and my new squeaky tug that I got for Christmas (pictured below)<br />Dislikes: Toys that won’t fit in my mouth – what’s the point?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0YcKw5WqPIO0e-3aP2d0Z9c7sugab39CBxGden5k2pvuercMJk5J7y60E-yeBJu_1eqvhyphenhyphen7M3xkbfqHPgDpuc7FlfEsB5hhGAvDwvaYArLI4ODyO90Uw72QZKyJ8cHHqfznqN_S0RKM/s1600-h/First+pictures+045.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296260017199503890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0YcKw5WqPIO0e-3aP2d0Z9c7sugab39CBxGden5k2pvuercMJk5J7y60E-yeBJu_1eqvhyphenhyphen7M3xkbfqHPgDpuc7FlfEsB5hhGAvDwvaYArLI4ODyO90Uw72QZKyJ8cHHqfznqN_S0RKM/s200/First+pictures+045.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><strong>Time of day</strong><br />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.<br />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.<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwt0CE_mI1hH7waXTGaveQdTPJ72Fo8nVeHphtU6Zd0rFtFzLNrXztzCi97-BL3GYSWQznetixfv3pz9zrHXA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><strong>Body position</strong><br />Loves: Curled up all snug.<br />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!!!<br /><br /><strong>Temperature<br /></strong>Loves: Between 0 and 55 degrees - perfect!<br />Dislikes: Summer when it’s too hot to walk. NOT good.<br /><br /><strong>Activities</strong><br />Loves: Eating, walking, peeing, sniffing poo.<br />Dislikes: Going to the “The Vets”, of course.<br /><br /><strong>Petting</strong><br />Loves: My chest being tickled.<br />Dislikes: My head being patted - grrrrrrr<br /><br /><strong>Animal</strong><br />Loves: Lady dogs, of course.<br />Dislikes: Most big male dogs (my blogging pals excluded) – they make me feel all prickly and want to show them who’s boss.<br /><br /><strong>Grooming</strong><br />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.<br /><br /><strong>Game</strong><br />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.<br />Dislikes: Football – those bloody balls are simply TOO big.<br /><br /><strong>People</strong><br />Loves: Anyone who likes dogs.<br />Dislikes: Naughty human pups – they need their backsides nipping.<br /><br /><strong>Noise</strong><br />Loves: Thunder and fireworks.<br />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.<br /><br /><strong>Book</strong><br />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.<br />Dislikes: I’ve only read Harry Potter stuff, so I can’t really say.<br /><br />So, there you are – for all my fans out there – hope it quenches your thirst for more minutiae of my celebrity lifestyle.<br /><br />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!<br /><div></div>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-66118862782389569692009-01-26T09:36:00.006+01:002009-01-26T12:12:55.129+01:00Are you a creature of habit?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwWen-yuE1MkW9km3CoHGPyqcBxyeaUI6AKHt6i1xi-dH1hd42ZJqVCGdwgy6uCeL5HSzmFdpzbXlnnmDM01xEjZtGan-TLPzIw9A-Ou72RnzOntuJObfKxPlIjSUFn5PoejQurwefKzw/s1600-h/First+pictures+135.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295518887553755634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwWen-yuE1MkW9km3CoHGPyqcBxyeaUI6AKHt6i1xi-dH1hd42ZJqVCGdwgy6uCeL5HSzmFdpzbXlnnmDM01xEjZtGan-TLPzIw9A-Ou72RnzOntuJObfKxPlIjSUFn5PoejQurwefKzw/s320/First+pictures+135.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Are you a creature of habit?<br /><br />I got inspired to write this post by <a href="http://profoundlyinarticulate.blogspot.com/2009/01/etiquette-du-toilette.html">Profoundly Inarticulate</a>, 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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<br /><br />Than Uncle Hugh and mum shower (not together).<br /><br />Then Uncle Hugh goes to do things with his flying car.<br /><br />Then me and mum go for a walk.<br /><br />Then I come back and snooze in my afternoon bed whilst mum does more stuff on the computer for Uncle Hugh.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />Then after mum gets back from the Supermarket, Uncle Hugh gets back from the aeroclub.<br /><br />Then they open a couple of bottles of grape juice and start drinking that whilst Uncle Hugh cooks.<br /><br />Then they eat , whilst I beg.<br /><br />Then I eat.<br /><br />Then it’s more drinking and ‘play with Henry’ time.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Then we all go to bed after nighttime pee, which me and Uncle Hugh do together.<br /><br />Then it starts ALL OVER AGAIN, the next day.<br /><br />Why do folk have routines? Do you have one?<br /><br />I can’t imagine mum or Uncle Hugh ever varying theirs.<br /><br />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. “<em>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</em>.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />There are more but too many to list.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyHoFqHotOVvCMqHbl-b9-GNrcxsRGwMJ2VXMdPUudN5NLtC2IMMQoKS0km_PXn2S4rpINKL3ROmmlN_F6HQw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-47155070838184739712009-01-25T11:14:00.004+01:002009-01-25T11:30:38.037+01:00What did Bush's letter to Obama really say?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxsQxS4uvWclx-5OcPCC8XhCfQDrtquuxOMjkSPbWsTXsmT4mcUYgb1Lv3YExQldRnGtGVEyO0THH8GrCvV-LbqKYHrsC4Wx0bOuSEt6r3QMXm__b1p4s13JW4v3OK5_VQPwVe3WdNw6k/s1600-h/First+pictures+138.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295173281168690498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxsQxS4uvWclx-5OcPCC8XhCfQDrtquuxOMjkSPbWsTXsmT4mcUYgb1Lv3YExQldRnGtGVEyO0THH8GrCvV-LbqKYHrsC4Wx0bOuSEt6r3QMXm__b1p4s13JW4v3OK5_VQPwVe3WdNw6k/s400/First+pictures+138.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3VNLCqUQnMEdoUMy8IapmnHNOcBLVmsZVyUuygKGokp899-M5yWHxrOJKbW9ksGhRX0KkJ-O2PSwlolvktESHZxG3v4dYHB2Ln8nuCGXE_WmF0tAkF-5fYE33L_YCRfDbltGi3JDobQQ/s1600-h/First+pictures+138.jpg"></a><div><br />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.</div><div> </div><div></div><div>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?</div><div></div><br /><div>I reckon the best advice Mr Bush could give to anyone would be "Don't follow my advice."</div><div></div><div>Apologies to any Bush fans out there. Remember, I'm only a dog.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZ6ReznWfe80ir7AQqaAiojH6az4TaHJX76LOpPGucqq6iCo-hWBeut826zcJ0GEQ9FbvJV_6aIlzX2KbBjk6IqUoN8puFHT71fkdqwTTmmw14k_hpMEWgPPmFa5K1lpMEiClCMt7410/s1600-h/First+pictures+127.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295176613925217362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZ6ReznWfe80ir7AQqaAiojH6az4TaHJX76LOpPGucqq6iCo-hWBeut826zcJ0GEQ9FbvJV_6aIlzX2KbBjk6IqUoN8puFHT71fkdqwTTmmw14k_hpMEWgPPmFa5K1lpMEiClCMt7410/s320/First+pictures+127.jpg" border="0" /></a>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-91508700967776955932009-01-24T11:32:00.007+01:002009-01-24T11:43:11.505+01:00A trip to the Vets<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1CC1Uh5h0n7G7P4pWqzXP4Hg1U2HEi_GMAXfLaWykinVOBpvF34CQTM7Z_g4_WFHMOE_L9zVRitvMkuADgGummFbwdvUxU_jclVyDmRd07saa9V8gOaWlj4JQJ6-2sPjPpHZjyDLQfPI/s1600-h/Vetphoto.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294806377714808002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 234px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1CC1Uh5h0n7G7P4pWqzXP4Hg1U2HEi_GMAXfLaWykinVOBpvF34CQTM7Z_g4_WFHMOE_L9zVRitvMkuADgGummFbwdvUxU_jclVyDmRd07saa9V8gOaWlj4JQJ6-2sPjPpHZjyDLQfPI/s320/Vetphoto.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />Whenever I’m poorly, she takes me to this awful place called <a href="http://henrythedogdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/mums-nasty-bitch-sometimes.html">THE VETS</a> 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.<br /><br />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 “<em><strong>NO WAY. NOT THIS TIME. OH NO</strong></em>!” This is me looking shocked:<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0kcahFPravM2xBnKDrDQAH1DqAs5zJfQan_sh6XPuMb9pLQcctSUHx6eTqAbVYdCLaT2S6ePq6ZYE8jdarsK7Xlna80darQdPKzneLpzZAjtrLKjqsvJBli-tJL6DyassFUaHV3mfI5E/s1600-h/First+pictures+126.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294806928997529330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0kcahFPravM2xBnKDrDQAH1DqAs5zJfQan_sh6XPuMb9pLQcctSUHx6eTqAbVYdCLaT2S6ePq6ZYE8jdarsK7Xlna80darQdPKzneLpzZAjtrLKjqsvJBli-tJL6DyassFUaHV3mfI5E/s320/First+pictures+126.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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, “<em>You little bugger. Get up!” </em>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 “<em>Come on, GET UP</em>!” but she was laughing so I knew I was winning.<br /><br />She pulled the lead, saying, “<em>Come on Henry. Come on boy. Let’s go for a walk</em>” in her bright “<em>Let’s have fun</em>!” 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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, “<em>Don't look at me like that. It’s for your own good sweetheart</em>”. FOR MY OWN GOOD? WHY? WHY IS HAVING ME LIBERALLY PUNCTURED WITH NEEDLES A GOOD THING? WHY? I tell you. She’s downright cruel.<br /><br />Anyway I was thoroughly spoiled yesterday evening and Uncle Hugh gave me lots of ‘Fingers of Fun’<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvnQUaYJ-bVFcFYcc2xNANUG1OMHcZTvfXNlhOR1f1tliAKpWtbG2W5iapQBiQ3p6Z3Db1v-HwUVI1d62X2C2RYtePFANB6WZFdTHOZBEhxv8wau544gGiDsu4qAbdlOtP6hYCZgAAXH8/s1600-h/First+pictures+051.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294806935063770594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvnQUaYJ-bVFcFYcc2xNANUG1OMHcZTvfXNlhOR1f1tliAKpWtbG2W5iapQBiQ3p6Z3Db1v-HwUVI1d62X2C2RYtePFANB6WZFdTHOZBEhxv8wau544gGiDsu4qAbdlOtP6hYCZgAAXH8/s320/First+pictures+051.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Then I felt a bit sleepy.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOXXZ-FIeTwuI6p2pqpsgdv8JQy1bOkKF_NSc-wco7GyeYDmT2Gd7ElZ3vvAODo4KmqGNmHw_qnkB7LpIgYGcsU4dkUi4l_BtKW_w0MlB2RHHjczhgAPFgxpoqpR645TFjUmbP2-73Q0/s1600-h/First+pictures+059.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294806939503111058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOXXZ-FIeTwuI6p2pqpsgdv8JQy1bOkKF_NSc-wco7GyeYDmT2Gd7ElZ3vvAODo4KmqGNmHw_qnkB7LpIgYGcsU4dkUi4l_BtKW_w0MlB2RHHjczhgAPFgxpoqpR645TFjUmbP2-73Q0/s320/First+pictures+059.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div>This morning I felt a bit sore.</div><div></div><div></div>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-83697584800069284642009-01-22T10:01:00.008+01:002009-01-22T10:22:47.134+01:00Mum's going back to the UK<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxRtbEojz5LVj-uFpYWJGBWUf5LtME87jbKvCOWjddd4ruwMhA-pqlBR4HNwPSLzJUHVATaYA-Jen5wYhGhl7fLxfGSNbQJGKtDBy0G_bAU5WElwY5BPejVUO96aF5PuLHCskEUQd35LY/s1600-h/Union+bloody+jack.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294041138547433186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 133px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 82px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxRtbEojz5LVj-uFpYWJGBWUf5LtME87jbKvCOWjddd4ruwMhA-pqlBR4HNwPSLzJUHVATaYA-Jen5wYhGhl7fLxfGSNbQJGKtDBy0G_bAU5WElwY5BPejVUO96aF5PuLHCskEUQd35LY/s200/Union+bloody+jack.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Mum & Uncle Hugh are going back to the UK, but not permanently. Not yet <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">anyroad</span>. 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).<br /><br />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:<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndidRVYFMwxq-j1EPJpZn3uyvtF3bsKpvUkWsjFshrgSZhDfwKMQt0k8lQI8ZFdi7yWtuU5BwbwTSovbtTMBFkEfvEehttLV7LU6zApL1OELogzAk36_Gxp27A_uh8Q_rp1szeVZGZmY/s1600-h/First+pictures+090.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294043295240355762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 237px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndidRVYFMwxq-j1EPJpZn3uyvtF3bsKpvUkWsjFshrgSZhDfwKMQt0k8lQI8ZFdi7yWtuU5BwbwTSovbtTMBFkEfvEehttLV7LU6zApL1OELogzAk36_Gxp27A_uh8Q_rp1szeVZGZmY/s320/First+pictures+090.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Here's me being bored:<br /><p><br /><br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIPhwYbXNVdpaEjFqAFiNvUZVEsS9X4FqS5reU2pJmBVm6LGVs1FoHxaEUi2V6SkodWVwFIMubX9jj5HTqx9zD2HEug3fvsUu_teQzhC5tdqA1hEDVKwe55eNWs2eEhixTJnnRm07XmdM/s1600-h/First+pictures+058.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294042905483636306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIPhwYbXNVdpaEjFqAFiNvUZVEsS9X4FqS5reU2pJmBVm6LGVs1FoHxaEUi2V6SkodWVwFIMubX9jj5HTqx9zD2HEug3fvsUu_teQzhC5tdqA1hEDVKwe55eNWs2eEhixTJnnRm07XmdM/s320/First+pictures+058.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />What is it about you humans that you have to talk about stuff <em>ad <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">nauseam</span></em>? Why can’t you just take a decision then move on? Life’s too short. Mum was saying<br />“<em>It could be really unsettling for Henry, spending two weeks every month at the kennels. What if he becomes institutionalised</em>?”<br /></p><p>Mum, it’s not a PRISON, it’s James & Jane. I have fun with them. I get to “<em>Hang out with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">mah</span> bitches. Innit</em>!” (I don’t know what ‘Innit’ means but it sounds <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">cool</span>).<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">isn</span>’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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">GRRRREAT</span>! 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.<br /><br />They don’t let me mingle with men dogs because I can be aggressive. Mum says I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">ve</span> got “<em>Little Dog Syndrome</em>” 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! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Zoë</span>, 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">didn</span>’t seem to bother her. She was a terrible flirt and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">wouldn</span>’t leave me alone. It was fab!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Mum was talking about taking me with her when she goes to the UK, but then decided it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">wouldn</span>’t be practical. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">wouldn</span>’t mind going to the UK, as long as we don’t ever go to that <a href="http://henrythedogdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/10/official-people-of-rotherham-are.html"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Rotherham</span></a> place. I think I’d rather self-harm.<br /><br />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 “<em>Is that your slipper</em>?” When you see the clip, you will know how inane that is. But as I said before, she’s <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">blonde</span> (and she <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">doesn</span>’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 ‘<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">jim</span> jams’ by the way – they <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">aren</span>’t his going out trousers. Just thought I’d clear that one up before you start thinking he might be a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">hippy</span>.<br /><br /></p><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwIY_aGG80mJOregv_OCYgAhZkNqDw05um_3tGfWVPrF80tD3iYx1fdMveeQQqbQq6j1N2C3IeEce5amlUHhA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-82237164488769000422009-01-19T17:52:00.007+01:002009-01-19T18:04:11.604+01:00Victoria Beckham loves me - official!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP1b-ZnuqYWtCpqwIJSKtTHxHKnXlML2yjvuENaCDUan1DO6xomqswG7CvPm8Sx6E3cNXcicXYvU3G-HdFFV2NejZ3W0EK5kSqDUq1jEIcVH18O1CoccBgKm19IcWRS_ylLHL5cXF4egs/s1600-h/Posh+%26+H.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293049002926315442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 245px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP1b-ZnuqYWtCpqwIJSKtTHxHKnXlML2yjvuENaCDUan1DO6xomqswG7CvPm8Sx6E3cNXcicXYvU3G-HdFFV2NejZ3W0EK5kSqDUq1jEIcVH18O1CoccBgKm19IcWRS_ylLHL5cXF4egs/s320/Posh+%26+H.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Move over David <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Beckham</span>, I’m the new guy in Victoria’s life. It’s official. It has to be because <a href="http://lostandfoundinindia.blogspot.com/"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Braja</span></a> sent this photo to me, so it must be true.<br /><br />I’m so excited I don't think I'll sleep tonight.<br /><br />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, “<em>Totally <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">fooked</span></em>” in the UK according to mum. And that’s where all her money is. I thought it was “<em>Totally <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">fooked</span></em>” before, but <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">apparently</span> last year was just the tip of the iceberg. Today everything went crazy and 19<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">th</span> January has proven to be the worst day in the history of the UK – so there you go <a href="http://coddledegg.blogspot.com/2009/01/no-ill-stick-with-dodgey.html">Lee</a>, those ‘Blue Monday’ guys were right after all – at least as regards the Brits <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">anyroad</span>.<br /><br />SO! Considering that all things ‘brand’ <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Beckham</span> seem to attract lots of money no matter what date it is, I reckon my future is assured. After all, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">hasn</span>’t she just been paid lots of plastic to pose in Armani underwear? And <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">didn</span>’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’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">ve</span> worn a <a href="http://henrythedogdiaries.blogspot.com/2008/11/mums-making-me-wear-baby-gro.html">'baby-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">gro</span>'</a> 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?<br /><br /><div>Yes – this is the DREADED baby-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">gro</span> that mum made me wear for a while in November when I was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">shorn</span> too short in the cold snap:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXAkOcINxivpHuLEO1yOyA-LYgZ38GCa_eVQZcKgaAZkqvVSYkLwkNludMcWc7wpHJlHO16CXEkY63Oqu2_Bo_Ukzoysqi_5q10oyuJF9iTDdMI1P8XBkgdLObl7CFKs2DdfOZMdMOA7s/s1600-h/First+pictures+104.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293049818394007506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXAkOcINxivpHuLEO1yOyA-LYgZ38GCa_eVQZcKgaAZkqvVSYkLwkNludMcWc7wpHJlHO16CXEkY63Oqu2_Bo_Ukzoysqi_5q10oyuJF9iTDdMI1P8XBkgdLObl7CFKs2DdfOZMdMOA7s/s320/First+pictures+104.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrghZe0z3JEgASAwtKzs7Q29kB-VH2oZz4vRFm0yo1z-yjns_HweJR580wsS_z2bh6u0k5rDoa_JyiVxKmxM00QFOiPy0Wq6IgAtwHDFC8JocgTP4R7a1YAfXnNTs0pkMkWfg4YSav8Qw/s1600-h/First+pictures+103.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293049816883923714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrghZe0z3JEgASAwtKzs7Q29kB-VH2oZz4vRFm0yo1z-yjns_HweJR580wsS_z2bh6u0k5rDoa_JyiVxKmxM00QFOiPy0Wq6IgAtwHDFC8JocgTP4R7a1YAfXnNTs0pkMkWfg4YSav8Qw/s320/First+pictures+103.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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.</div><div></div><div>Bring on Armani. Bring on the Undies. Bring on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Beckhams</span>!</div><br /></div></div>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-4835342507546379512009-01-18T09:46:00.011+01:002009-01-18T10:31:39.248+01:00Say hello to Lady Jicky's new pup, Kenzo.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjm7klMU8l5-YTui7thysrnDb1qm5W-pF8cN3i0VhQ9oimWj03gzHyHcKdtT0pzebcwBCLkwMsSshOYvc7f9L4tiL-E1TohnOpYfKhzSXqbLqZjPUlekE3Viy-b9IqmpZQg-XjHJLn5Xk/s1600-h/Dsc01135c.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292563805657518674" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjm7klMU8l5-YTui7thysrnDb1qm5W-pF8cN3i0VhQ9oimWj03gzHyHcKdtT0pzebcwBCLkwMsSshOYvc7f9L4tiL-E1TohnOpYfKhzSXqbLqZjPUlekE3Viy-b9IqmpZQg-XjHJLn5Xk/s200/Dsc01135c.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><div><div><br /><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p></p></div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9OLcKYtPfwnRBqrKkCnVU73n_7V7D_eiWEI49HsW9esfCEHzqkq45TY6vw0EcH8fHhsChDmSOZYOsj7h1R8_oatVmhoOFNje9a_wV7dJghcbA-raQW9Seq8ucgIdDJyPBVBFH2wlhVJ4/s1600-h/Dsc01154c.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292559413140743138" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9OLcKYtPfwnRBqrKkCnVU73n_7V7D_eiWEI49HsW9esfCEHzqkq45TY6vw0EcH8fHhsChDmSOZYOsj7h1R8_oatVmhoOFNje9a_wV7dJghcbA-raQW9Seq8ucgIdDJyPBVBFH2wlhVJ4/s320/Dsc01154c.jpg" border="0" /></a> 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:)<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZUCphc9fW5vVEd3h_KcNuVMqmTeWfz3EcfjZHJYPxxP47gAwdJjpWi_wqA4wJM5az94XBi_ttHhRW-uN-TQxWJvb9Etq7tDm2J0CCWL6gRBtpPNR05eahZ_FCyM_OpDqqkcR4uHAWoCk/s1600-h/Dsc01139c.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292561907500950642" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZUCphc9fW5vVEd3h_KcNuVMqmTeWfz3EcfjZHJYPxxP47gAwdJjpWi_wqA4wJM5az94XBi_ttHhRW-uN-TQxWJvb9Etq7tDm2J0CCWL6gRBtpPNR05eahZ_FCyM_OpDqqkcR4uHAWoCk/s320/Dsc01139c.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVwSguu7O2hsaLKA8xDg6yyem6xxOp_-7_GF6rZdDjOoFtjnholqsFhsc0AJvTb1Xytt9tFof91Ez0rPhbP_QUwBaME2IA8HOk1dt8KMW2qTbVQm7ftZsjpnxsoNlD5cqRy8VPMz6o5Nc/s1600-h/Dsc01143c.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292562217108223218" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVwSguu7O2hsaLKA8xDg6yyem6xxOp_-7_GF6rZdDjOoFtjnholqsFhsc0AJvTb1Xytt9tFof91Ez0rPhbP_QUwBaME2IA8HOk1dt8KMW2qTbVQm7ftZsjpnxsoNlD5cqRy8VPMz6o5Nc/s320/Dsc01143c.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Welcome to our world, little Kenzo - I'm sure you'll be much loved by everyone.Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5940678610715375217.post-58589478768979987492009-01-15T20:22:00.008+01:002009-01-16T08:42:55.788+01:00Houston, we have a problem.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi46F35k658NmKV73VjO-ZudSBlXiSX2rJlDjJ3rz5866x7rvE-Wz5hCgxAAbtNmFzDcN-pPOlt1t9z4S-c5aNhkigwNZaqHwtxEWzFQW8zX7wj1YvufrlymAZM5VdPl8eOoAeqwrBddJE/s1600-h/space+rocket.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291603209556235362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 103px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 129px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi46F35k658NmKV73VjO-ZudSBlXiSX2rJlDjJ3rz5866x7rvE-Wz5hCgxAAbtNmFzDcN-pPOlt1t9z4S-c5aNhkigwNZaqHwtxEWzFQW8zX7wj1YvufrlymAZM5VdPl8eOoAeqwrBddJE/s320/space+rocket.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>“<em><strong>Houston, we have a problem</strong></em>” - 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.<br /><br />Honestly, she is a right drama queen sometimes. Agreed, it must have been a tad scary, especially for someone who’s <a href="http://henrythedogdiaries.blogspot.com/2009/01/flying-scares-mum-what-scares-you.html">afraid of flying</a>, 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.<br /><br />Anyway, I’m digressing. Mum said that after the engine stopped and Uncle Hugh got on the radio and said “<em>Jersey Tower we are a Cessna 210 with complete engine failure. Request emergency landing</em>” she said she thought “<em>Oh dear</em>!” (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 “<em>WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE! WE’RE GOING TO CRASH AND BURN</em>!” 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 “<em>No</em>”.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“<em>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</em>.”<br /><br />The incident closed the whole of Jersey Airport for about half an hour. </div><div></div><div>You can actually read about it <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/jersey/7826907.stm">here</a>. 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, “<em><strong>Lucky the black cat goes missing at St Brelade</strong></em>” was the headline in one of the local papers. </div><div><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />In the end, they had to ply her with copious amounts of alcohol otherwise – as Uncle Hugh said – “<em>We wouldn’t have got back until February</em>” That’s why I’m back later than I said I would be.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://lostandfoundinindia.blogspot.com/2009/01/who-you-callin-imaginary-buddy_08.html">Braja</a>??????<br /><br />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 (<span style="font-size:85%;">Yes, Lee – it is sweet and twee, but it is SHORT</span>). 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. </div><div></div><div></div><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyb1QIhFvHnKe67tejU3RVKZCT9R8NeSB1eP8JOM089j-o_lEWoEJUAuXFXXANlMecXi50dMRzhWZLvP47pnw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Henry the Doghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14338889319568692778noreply@blogger.com40