For those of you not up-to-speed with current (ever-changing) technology, even the most basic of mobile telephone handsets these days come complete with digital cameras. The enthralling handset that my partner acquired some two weeks ago sports a camera more efficient than her actual, individual, digital camera. Sadly, this technological advance is squandered upon such a simple female mind.
Can you imagine, dearest reader, with which subject my partner has been developing her mobile 'phone photographic skills?
No...? Perhaps a second guess, then...?
Yes - that's right. ME. Some of the most abusive, disrespectful images ever committed to computer technology have been recorded of my sweet, unsuspecting self, complete with insulting and derogatory captions. Just witness for yourself, should you not believe me:
I understand that this particular model of handset (the Nokia 6303) also features a "video camera", which my partner has hinted may be employed in uploading to this blog a video of my good self - snoring, chuntering, and, indeed, singing in my sleep.
Do not be surprised, therefore, if you should hear that this piece of telephonic faecal matter has mysteriously disappeared. For I shall admit no responsibility... Oh no. 'Twas never me, your honour...
If only ALL such crimes went unpunished....
Retribution was swift and cutting. Shortly after the Night of the Isolated Bitches (described previously), Rex and I were hauled off to the vet's and returned, a day or two later, each minus a couple of ounces... Yes. Our love-spuds had been tossed into the barbecue of fate.
And don't think the smug grin on Dave's face as he drove us back to the shelter escaped me, either.
Kipper was spared this most insulting of fates, as his heart-condition forbade all but the most vital administering of anaesthetic. As this was not an 'essential' surgical procedure per sé, our jammy pack leader was excused. D*mn him... Although he did express sincere sympathy upon our return to our pens.
In actual fact, it didn't come as a complete surprise. All dogs and bitches were generally castrated and spayed respectively before leaving the shelter. All too often, boxes of unwanted pups had been dumped by the shelter's gates - a sad indictment of today's somewhat louche world. Hence the policy of sending adopted canines into the world without the ability to produce future generations of abandoned pups.
Rex was unbarkably livid about the whole affair, and complained unceasingly about his deprivation for a good, long while, although he was infinitely appeased some sixty days later - when news of the birth of two, healthy, attractive Boxer-cross pups to one of the shelter's bitches filtered through to us. From that day forth, Rex strutted about with a proud smile on his face and not a single further whimper of complaint passed his lips.
As for me - I remained philosophical about the whole matter. I still felt fortunate in my escape from my terrible past life; I drew comfort from the fact that never would I die from Testicular Cancer; and then, there was the story of Rats.
Rats was a wire-haired Jack Russell/Dachshund cross who lived in the pen opposite Rex. We all, to a dog, remembered the episode that Rats had, one evening, related to us of how one of his testicles had once become trapped in an automatic sliding door. The whole block had almost shook with the collective shudder of each and every dog as Rats described the excruciating pain of having a door slam shut on one of his gonads. The unfortunate 'nad had subsequently swelled up to the size of a football and poor Rats had found no peace neither night nor day, as no standing, sitting or reclining position ceased to press pain upon this most tender of parts. The fact that this would never happen to ME from this day forth was consolation enough.
Rex and I returned to two new developments: the arrival of a new resident, Pebble, and preparations for the impending visit of the Grande Dame of dog rescue shelters everywhere - Miss Dorothy Smart.