Archie (our dog) is not terribly good at entertaining himself. ‘Go and play with the cats!’ I say, but we both know that as playmates, they are worse than useless. He leaps around in front of them: ‘Come and play girls! We can roll around in a slobbery ball!’ They stand stock still ‘Who is this idiot?’ and if he goes too close, they shoot off and he goes crashing after them: ‘I think we’re playing catch!’ but they flash effortlessly through the cat flap and he comes to a skidding stop at the garden door. They stare at the poor galloping fool through the glass: ‘You can’t even get through on your own – you need Mummy to open the door for you – big baby!’ When I let him out, as fast as he can career after them, they are up on the fence ‘Ha ha stupid dog. Can’t catch us.’
So he comes back to me: ‘Woof’
‘Archie you’ve just had breakfast, soon it’ll be lunch, so stop woofing for food.’
‘Woof’
‘I said stop it’.
He nods. ‘WOOF’
‘STOP IT. STOP WOOFING’
‘WOOF! WOOF!’
‘OK, let’s play tug tug again’ I give in. ‘Tug-tug’ is a pretty challenging game of tugging a rope – you wouldn’t get it. Growling and panting optional. Then there’s ‘Fetch It’ where you throw a ball and he watches it receding into the distance: ‘Jesus that’s twenty gallops are you kidding? You think just because I’m a dog you can give me the run around. Think again, sister.’ Or ‘Football’, where you kick a ball for him to retrieve, and he chews your shoelaces and won’t let go.
If he’s feeling a bit sexy, it’s ‘Tickle Tummy’. He’s on his back before you can say Jack Robinson, nose to the sky, eyes squeezed shut and hind legs spread for all the world to admire his naughty bits. ‘Tickle my tummy, please’. And you do.
But he does get ignored so I can play grown-up games like work and moving mess from one room to another. I get the disapproving eye: ‘Jesus, when I booked into this hotel, I was told my every need would be catered for. Well I’m bored, and you look like you’re going to start another round of washing up, for crying out loud. I’m going to pretend to be asleep – but you can forget about leaving this room because I will LEAP up and walk right in front of your feet if you do...that’ll teach you...grumble grumble..’
Or he chews the kitchen (but not the chew toys). Or the washing! A big gusset man, Archie; if he hits gold and gets some pants out the dirty washing before I’ve noticed, he’s off to his favourite corner: ‘Don’t even think about getting these off me, I’m not listening’. But I try, for yay, I have pulled strips of pants from his bottom. He’s had eight gussets so far.
He found his voice around ten weeks old, growling fiercely at the Forsythia. ‘He’s turning into a man!’ I thought, so proud, and I was right for next it was the humping – anything - male, female, but for preference the green bath towel, which he gathers up with his front paws into a lump, pushes between his legs and vigorously humps. That is why I now run hell for leather up the stairs when I want a shower – to lock him out.
If he beats me to the shower, things can become a bit hairy; emerging from the steamy cubicle, twenty kilograms of dog throws itself at my dripping self, hanging on with front paws to the towel I’m yanking around my shivering form, but which he’s intent on humping. I’ve tried holding the towel above my head, but that was just a crazily good jumping game and didn’t do anything for getting me dry. My best bet is a two towel job - Archie humps my towel-clad right hip while I dry the left, then it’s a quick swap-sides, him humping left-wise and me drying the right. It’s quite scratchy, so mostly I’m just plain mean and throw two or three towels right over him, to confuse and knot him up for a whole thirty seconds, which if I work fast, is long enough for me to dry, put on pyjamas, and of course cleanse, tone and moisturise. Phew!
Showing posts with label dog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dog. Show all posts
Friday, 24 June 2011
Friday, 1 April 2011
GRRRRRRRR!!
I am keen on Puppy Training, I mean very keen. I’m the swotty one who went to the first class without the dog so’s I could take notes. You see I’m scared of dogs - behind every cutie-pie there’s an American Pitbull straining to get out and eat my hand for breakfast! So I need to be in control, or I’ll be cowering in a corner and Archie will be the one wearing the trousers as well as eating the shoes.
I have already faced my doggy demons. Guided by various American videos, I have placed my hand between Archie’s teeth, waited for him to start munching then roared ‘OWWWWWWW!’ This will teach him not to bite, hopefully while there’s still some flesh on my fingers. If that doesn’t work, I have to reinforce the message by bearing my teeth, looking in his eyes and GRRRRRRRRROWLING fiercely. GRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!
At puppy training the first lesson is that all family members are above poochkins in the pecking order; so when the children rise of a morning, they should not dive upon Archie and shower him with love-talk (‘Archie darling! Hello Archie! You’re so cute Archie Parchy - I love you!’) for ten minutes, then throw me an aside ‘I’m bored of Branflakes’. No, they should greet Mother and each other ‘Good morning brother!’ ‘Did you sleep well, little sis?’ before Archie even gets a look in. All of which is well-nigh impossible because they hate each other, but we’re working on it.
Anyhow, I was on the phone to the puppy-trainer, Sue, about plops, before the first session. Praise the good and ignore the bad, she said. ‘Yes, I know, I know,’ I said and explained I’d been swooping on Archie mid-poo and charging into the garden with him, his four little legs wiggling in the air, and me yelling ‘GOOD BOY’ as the product landed outside the back door. Sue was silent for a minute then said that my zeal would terrify him into pooing in secret places and that I should ‘keep calm’. I should ‘name it’ wheresoever it may fall (‘Poo!’ point and smile, gritted teeth), and merely congratulate the successfully placed ones (which is where standing outside in the dark freezing your b------- off comes in).
So the garden door is now permanently open, to calmly encourage the chances of success, though Alan The Dog Expert keeps closing it because he gets chilly (‘Don’t sit about then!’ I say. ‘There’s the hoover’). ‘Take him out, take him out!’ he says in the next breath - ‘then he’ll learn to poo outside!’ DER. ‘Excuse me’ I say, ‘what do you think I’m doing every five minutes from 6am to midnight?? Stop shutting the door. GRRRRRRRRRRR!!’
I have already faced my doggy demons. Guided by various American videos, I have placed my hand between Archie’s teeth, waited for him to start munching then roared ‘OWWWWWWW!’ This will teach him not to bite, hopefully while there’s still some flesh on my fingers. If that doesn’t work, I have to reinforce the message by bearing my teeth, looking in his eyes and GRRRRRRRRROWLING fiercely. GRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!
At puppy training the first lesson is that all family members are above poochkins in the pecking order; so when the children rise of a morning, they should not dive upon Archie and shower him with love-talk (‘Archie darling! Hello Archie! You’re so cute Archie Parchy - I love you!’) for ten minutes, then throw me an aside ‘I’m bored of Branflakes’. No, they should greet Mother and each other ‘Good morning brother!’ ‘Did you sleep well, little sis?’ before Archie even gets a look in. All of which is well-nigh impossible because they hate each other, but we’re working on it.
Anyhow, I was on the phone to the puppy-trainer, Sue, about plops, before the first session. Praise the good and ignore the bad, she said. ‘Yes, I know, I know,’ I said and explained I’d been swooping on Archie mid-poo and charging into the garden with him, his four little legs wiggling in the air, and me yelling ‘GOOD BOY’ as the product landed outside the back door. Sue was silent for a minute then said that my zeal would terrify him into pooing in secret places and that I should ‘keep calm’. I should ‘name it’ wheresoever it may fall (‘Poo!’ point and smile, gritted teeth), and merely congratulate the successfully placed ones (which is where standing outside in the dark freezing your b------- off comes in).
So the garden door is now permanently open, to calmly encourage the chances of success, though Alan The Dog Expert keeps closing it because he gets chilly (‘Don’t sit about then!’ I say. ‘There’s the hoover’). ‘Take him out, take him out!’ he says in the next breath - ‘then he’ll learn to poo outside!’ DER. ‘Excuse me’ I say, ‘what do you think I’m doing every five minutes from 6am to midnight?? Stop shutting the door. GRRRRRRRRRRR!!’
Friday, 18 March 2011
Doggie-doo
We’ve bought a puppy. Visitors are queuing up to hold the little bundle of fluff, followed closely by me, the dettol and the paper towels.
It’s all Bonnie’s fault; she’s the dog-lover, and we are not talking whim here; she’s learnt all the breeds, and it’s been ‘Look at the cute dog!’ every five minutes for as long as I can remember. ‘I only have to wait another six years till I can have one!’ she exclaimed the other day - that was what broke me.
‘Alan’ I said ‘I really think we should get a dog while Bonnie’s still actually living at home’. He hurrumphed about. ‘You know nothing about dogs – it’s like having another baby. And what about when we go on all those exciting foreign holidays?’ ‘We don’t.’ ‘What about the garden?’ ‘It has nothing in it’. ‘It would need walking every single day – 6.30am!’ ‘My job!’ ‘Poo?’ ‘Love it!’
Being enthusiastic and excited got me nowhere. Only when I tried to look really grim (this will not be good or fun in any way) did he come round. I’d reserved a hound within minutes, which is how I came to be driving out of Taunton on Sunday morning with a pooch in a cat-basket snuggled in his doggy-mummy’s blanket, bound for home.
‘Leave him in the basket for the journey’, said the owner. But I knew better, and out he came for a delightful cuddle with Mummy at the first service station. I popped him back in, and that’s when the yelping started. Be firm, I thought; he’s just like a baby who doesn’t want to go back in his car-seat. The barking rose to hysterical shrieking, and then... the stink. He’d pooed in the cat-basket and I couldn’t get off the motor way. He was spinning around inside the basket, biting his tail, having a doggy-breakdown. ‘Get me out, Wicked Step-mother!’ he cried. His golden fur was brown and wet with poo, as was the interior of his temporary accommodation. I couldn’t stop in the hard shoulder to stop a pooey puppy crying...could I? ‘It’s all right, Doggy!’ I yelled over the racket, but there was nothing all right about this situation at all.
Three days later I pulled into a Sainsbury car park, and took the pooey puppy (with my bare hands) out of his poo-smeared prison. Armed with a packet of baby wipes, I set to, wipe-wipe-wiping every inch of his tummy, toes, willy, bum, mouth and ears. It was possibly the most disgusting thing I have ever had to do. Doggy-mummy’s blanket went in the bin (bye bye Mummy), along with his new pooed-on doggy toys.
He had to go back in the (baby-wiped) cat basket for the remainder of the journey, which oddly enough he didn’t fancy, so he barked all the way home (two hours). All I had to offer him by way of comfort and distraction was some wiggling fingers (if I fed him he might poo again). I was stressed. I texted Alan to get Bonnie out of the house; this stinky hound was supposed to be the best surprise of her life. He’d needed a bath first – another lovely surprise along with being removed from his mummy, siblings and home, and being incarcerated with his own poo for hours on end – the psychological damage meant we may as well have got a dog from Battersea in the first place...
All dreadful experiences come to an end, and little Archie (named by unanimous vote while I was out) was duly bathed, blow-dried and presented to Bonnie later that day. When the penny dropped that this pup was actually ours for keeps, her look of disbelief and joy brought a tear to Alan’s eye. Alfie was pretty amazed too. ‘Is it second-hand?’ he said. That’s my boy!
It’s all Bonnie’s fault; she’s the dog-lover, and we are not talking whim here; she’s learnt all the breeds, and it’s been ‘Look at the cute dog!’ every five minutes for as long as I can remember. ‘I only have to wait another six years till I can have one!’ she exclaimed the other day - that was what broke me.
‘Alan’ I said ‘I really think we should get a dog while Bonnie’s still actually living at home’. He hurrumphed about. ‘You know nothing about dogs – it’s like having another baby. And what about when we go on all those exciting foreign holidays?’ ‘We don’t.’ ‘What about the garden?’ ‘It has nothing in it’. ‘It would need walking every single day – 6.30am!’ ‘My job!’ ‘Poo?’ ‘Love it!’
Being enthusiastic and excited got me nowhere. Only when I tried to look really grim (this will not be good or fun in any way) did he come round. I’d reserved a hound within minutes, which is how I came to be driving out of Taunton on Sunday morning with a pooch in a cat-basket snuggled in his doggy-mummy’s blanket, bound for home.
‘Leave him in the basket for the journey’, said the owner. But I knew better, and out he came for a delightful cuddle with Mummy at the first service station. I popped him back in, and that’s when the yelping started. Be firm, I thought; he’s just like a baby who doesn’t want to go back in his car-seat. The barking rose to hysterical shrieking, and then... the stink. He’d pooed in the cat-basket and I couldn’t get off the motor way. He was spinning around inside the basket, biting his tail, having a doggy-breakdown. ‘Get me out, Wicked Step-mother!’ he cried. His golden fur was brown and wet with poo, as was the interior of his temporary accommodation. I couldn’t stop in the hard shoulder to stop a pooey puppy crying...could I? ‘It’s all right, Doggy!’ I yelled over the racket, but there was nothing all right about this situation at all.
Three days later I pulled into a Sainsbury car park, and took the pooey puppy (with my bare hands) out of his poo-smeared prison. Armed with a packet of baby wipes, I set to, wipe-wipe-wiping every inch of his tummy, toes, willy, bum, mouth and ears. It was possibly the most disgusting thing I have ever had to do. Doggy-mummy’s blanket went in the bin (bye bye Mummy), along with his new pooed-on doggy toys.
He had to go back in the (baby-wiped) cat basket for the remainder of the journey, which oddly enough he didn’t fancy, so he barked all the way home (two hours). All I had to offer him by way of comfort and distraction was some wiggling fingers (if I fed him he might poo again). I was stressed. I texted Alan to get Bonnie out of the house; this stinky hound was supposed to be the best surprise of her life. He’d needed a bath first – another lovely surprise along with being removed from his mummy, siblings and home, and being incarcerated with his own poo for hours on end – the psychological damage meant we may as well have got a dog from Battersea in the first place...
All dreadful experiences come to an end, and little Archie (named by unanimous vote while I was out) was duly bathed, blow-dried and presented to Bonnie later that day. When the penny dropped that this pup was actually ours for keeps, her look of disbelief and joy brought a tear to Alan’s eye. Alfie was pretty amazed too. ‘Is it second-hand?’ he said. That’s my boy!
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