The Dog's Blog

Thursday 5 January 2012

2012-01-05T19:21:00.002Z

Jasper Horatio Stafford died at 17:15 today.

A fuller tribute to him will follow. For now, my heart is not so much broken - but completely shattered.

Thank you for reading.

Wednesday 4 January 2012

2012-01-04T21:28:00.000Z

Another dictated post. I continue to weaken.

My partner managed to talk me out of dictating a strongly-worded letter to the Bishop regarding the incident in the churchyard yesterday evening.

Alas, I have not the strength to write the entry alluded to last evening. Perhaps my partner will share it after I... well, another time anyway.

I have been able to swallow some nourishing oxtail soup this evening - most delicious, but I fear the time for deriving nourishment from Earthly food is past.

The ongoing rattle, to which Edward the Rottweiler alluded in our recent conversation, has grown more pronounced. It has a Latin name: Singletus.

I saw Kipper again today. He was accompanied by more of my friends from former times. With a wagging tail, I recognised Rex from the rescue home. Rats was there too. A jolt of alarm dashed through me as I looked about me to see if I could spot my late wife, Isolde, and saw her standing a short way off - in the company of my other late wife, Ellie, and my former girlfriend Candy.
"Quick, Kip! Hide me!" I yelped, "I'm toast if they see me!"
But Kipper just laughed.
"It's alright Jazz." he smiled, kindly. "It's alright. Only love, forgiveness and peace are waiting for you here. Don't be afraid - you have lived the worthy life of a good boy." He smiled again and wagged his bushy caramel-coloured tail with its quirky white tip. As I grew relaxed and tranquil once more, Kipper glanced behind him at some larger, shadowy and indistinct forms, which were moving in the background. I could not identify individuals, but the shapes were unmistakeable.
"There are people in Heaven too?!" I gasped, incredulously, for I am not deceived as to why Kipper and my friends were coming to greet me. I have been many things in my life, but a fool I never was.
Kipper nodded.
"One, perhaps, above others in love and greatness - but you have nothing to fear from any of them. Trust me. There is no pain here. No despair."

"I trust you Kipper." I replied. "No pain."

He nodded and smiled again as he and my other friends faded from view.

My partner is beside herself in her agonies - above all, she dreads having to make "the decision" and desperately hopes that nature may peacefully take its course. In her desperation, however, she found this little poem on this wonderful resource which has given me a voice - the internet (edits and emphasis are my own):

If it should be that I grow frail and weak - and pain should keep me from my sleep,
Then will you do what must be done,
For this last battle cannot be won.
You will be sad - I understand,
But don't let grief then stay your hand,
For this day, more than all the rest, your love and friendship must stand the test.

We have had so many happy years,
You would not want me to suffer so.
When my time comes, please, let me go.

Take me where my needs they'll tend,

Promise to stay with me until the end
Hold me firm and speak to me,
Until my eyes no longer see.

I know in time you will agree
This is a kindness you do for me.
Please don't grieve - it must be you
Who must decide this thing to do;

We've been so close -- we two -- these years,
Don't let your heart hold any tears.

~(Author unknown. Annotated by Jasper Horatio Stafford)~

I will post again here shortly - whether it is to say that I am momentarily spared, or whether it is to take my leave of you. But I beg you. No tears. No tears for me. I am not afraid - and I am thankful.

Trust me - I am thankful, truly thankful. And I welcome this new stage of my life, which will bring me the peace that passes all understanding.

I was born into anonymity, sold into misery and saved from untimely death. Now I fall prey to cancer, that silent, abhorrent and unworthy killer. But - for a brief, shining, moment in between these extremities I lived.

I really, truly, LIVED. For all-too-short a time I was Jasper Horatio Stafford. And what an honour that has been.

I hear the beginnings of a whisper... "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus et Sancti..."

No tears.

Good night.

Tuesday 3 January 2012

2012-01-03T19:15:00.004Z

Back to work today for my partner and I, amidst some of the worst storms I can recall. Wind and rain lashed down, houses lost power, trees fell all over the place - but, a few short hours later, all was calm. The sun even peeped out for a while. But it sounds like the wind is getting up again, so my partner has seen me guarded against the cold with a thick blanket around my shoulders now that I have dined.

Before I proceed any further, I must apologise to those dear friends who have been in touch with me. I am sorry that I have been the cause of spilled tears. It is not my intention to cast grief amongst anyone - my partner will, indeed, be bereft when I am gone; but I have had a long, mostly happy and very full life. I have enjoyed a stage career, shared my thoughts, hopes, mishaps and opinions with you via this blog, penned a regular monthly column in a local magazine and have delighted in all of my manifold friendships - including this one which I share with you, dear reader. Truly I have been blessed far beyond what I had any right to deserve. I had to bark these words to Eddie and Angus, who bounded across the road to see me when my partner and I were surveying our garden for potential tree-damage, just after we returned from work. Both Rottweilers looked red-eyed, but I hailed them most heartily.
"Evening boys!" I barked. "All well?!"
"Tolerably so, I thank you, dearheart." replied Eddie, before Angus burst out
"Oh, dearest Jazz! Edward has told me all about your illness! I am SO sorry - you have always been a good friend to us. Is there anything we can do?" Before I had a chance to respond, Eddie cut in.
"Yes!" he barked, "We wanted to offer you something to ease you in your extremity. Angus thought you might like a fruit basket - but I wondered if you may prefer a selection of continental meats?"

A-thousand-and-one double-entendres flashed through my mind concerning Edward, Angus, fruits and continental meats, all of which I ignored (not without great effort), as my two friends were being very sincere in their affection and I did not wish to offend. I contented myself with responding that their friendship and continued good-humour was better than any bodily comfort, and assured them of my gratitude for their continuing amity. My partner is ensuring that I have the most delicious of fresh-cooked meats and morsels to sustain me in my frailty - I cannot manage any more than what she offers and it would distress me to see delicious gifts going to waste. The two Rottweilers were happy with this response and tottered back to Eddie's house much more content than when they left it.

If only they had known that I was very nearly hastened to my end a little earlier this evening. My partner needed to visit a shop in our small town to collect something, in between out return from our workplace and our arrival at home. She found a parking space in the road leading to the train station and we took a short-cut through the graveyard to the shops.

Never again, my friends, never again.

As we walked along the dark path, all of a sudden a brightly-lit spectre loomed up before me, swaying gently amidst the grey and ageing stone tablets.

"Ahhhrrrrrrrgggaaaaaahhhhh!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. I fell to the ground in front of the shining apparition. "OhHolyMaryMotherofGod, OhJesusandHisBlessedSaints, OhHolyMa-"

"JASPER!" shouted my partner, hauling me to my feet as I wailed and quaked before the spectre. A moment's secondary glance led me to feel more foolish than I have done for quite a considerable time.

Someone - for reasons best known to themselves - had strung a load of white Christmas fairy-lights around a large gravestone. They were brightly shining in the darkness and swaying in the increasingly strong breeze. Why? In what world is this a good idea?!

I grew gradually calmer - but it took an intense cuddle lasting almost ten minutes, six slices of cooked chicken-breast and a quantity of breaded-ham before I stopped whimpering entirely. I am going to ask my partner if I can sleep with the bedroom light on tonight.

Tomorrow - a tale of humiliation and debasement from my past, with which to entertain you (although possibly not, if you are a gentleman reader...).

Good night.

Monday 2 January 2012

2012-01-02T13:34:00.001Z

"What's that dreadful rattling sound?" asked Eddie the Rottweiler.
"Erm..." I hesitated and then sighed heavily.
"There it is again!" Edward looked at me, frowning. "It's not - it isn't coming from you, is it Jazz?"
I looked up at him. "It is!" he barked. "It is coming from you! Whatever are you doing?! You're not channelling the spirit of some ghastly hell-cat, are you darling?!"
"Actually, Ed., I'm not that well these days. Very poorly indeed, if I'm honest." I took a deep breath. "I've got cancer, Ed. I'm dying."
"No!" gasped the Rottweiler. "No, no, no! I mean, I know that you've been losing a lot of weight lately - I thought you were trying to set a good example to dear Angus..."
I smiled sadly. "Well, what are you waiting for?!" continued Edward, his lip trembling, "You've got to get yourself to a hospital! Get it out; get it out of you now!"
"I can't." I replied. "It's too late. There's nothing anyone can do."
Eddie was temporarily rendered speechless - quite a feat for any dog, as Ed generally always had some (usually scathing) comment to make.

"How long?" he whispered after a while. "Have they said?"
"Um, about two months..." I began.
"Two months!" spluttered Eddie, "Two months! J*s*s, Jasper, you've known about this for two months?! Why the h*ll didn't you come and scratch at my door - or at least leave a weemail on my fence?!"
"Ed - no - "
"I mean, I don't know what I could have done, but I'd have tried to do something for you!"
"Eddie, no, it's - "
"Angus's human companion is a nurse - we could have got you - "
"EDWARD!"
Finally, I succeeded in silencing him again. "You don't understand." I barked, as gently as I could. "I didn't find out about it two months ago. I've been ill since at least the summer. I mean to bark that the date given for my death was two months ago. I'm on borrowed time."

Eddie sat down suddenly on the pavement, the ghost of the word "No" formed on his lips.
"It's alright, Ed." I smiled. "It's really alright. I'm not in pain, just tired all the time. And I'm ready."
"But J*s*s Chr*st, Jazz," whimpered Edward, looking stricken, "You're younger than me!"
"Yeah," I replied, with a shrug and a sad philosophical smile, "Mad old world, isn't it?"
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Ah, you're a good man, Eddie." I smiled. "You just look after Angus, old son." My friend nodded. "And let him have the odd pudding now and again, eh?!"
Eddie strained to poke his large snout through the posts of my fence and planted a gentle kiss on my snout.
"See you around, dearheart." he smiled and, with that, he turned and ran back to his own house without glancing back.

I am growing increasingly tired. I can still get up and down my stairs unaided, although sometimes I do require a little assistance to jump into bed or my car. Do you recall the time of my partner's Jane Austen play? (If not, see here: Jane Austen). The piece closed with the letter written by Cassandra Austen to a niece, describing the last moments of her beloved younger sister. At the time (2007) I could not understand why anyone should wish for such things...

'When I asked her if there was anything she wanted, her answer was she wanted nothing but death, and some of her words were: "God grant me patience, pray for me, oh, pray for me!" Her voice was affected, but as long as she spoke she was intelligible...'

Now, I believe I understand what Jane Austen meant...

But be of stout heart, dear reader, for I am not afraid.

Good afternoon.

Friday 30 December 2011

2011-12-30T16:42:00.000Z

I would have dictated this entry from my bed, from which I was struggling to rise. I am tired today.

My partner has been out to the shops, but I didn't want to accompany her, so she allowed me to remain in my bed. I decided to get up when she returned, so here I am back at the keyboard to bark to you. It turns out that I made the right choice in getting up, as my partner returned with a packet of cooked chicken roll just for me. I also ate the last of the Christmas sausages, which were a gift from my pretty neighbour Rosie. I also managed half a tin of dinner last evening, though my partner had to hand-feed it to me.

I must continue to reassue you that I am not in actual pain - but I am not deceived. I understand that I will not recover and the time remaining to me is short. But let us not paddle in those waters just now.

For almost the third day in a row I have had the gross misfortune to encounter the ghastly little scrote Peaches when I was taking the air in the grounds of my estate. After our last little affray, he did not deign to stop on seeing me, but slowed his pace considerably and mewed loudly
"Can anyone smell rotting flesh?!"
"What's that Pea?" I replied cheerfully, "Have you been testing out a new cologne?"
Peaches stalked off, muttering vile insults under his breath. I cared not.

As I was about to turn and re-enter my house through the French windows, a door opened further up the street and out bounded Edward the Rottweiler. I hadn't seen him since the summer, when he had had a furious spat with his fellow Rotti and long-term gentleman "companion" Angus and refused to appear in public - only speaking to his friends under the gap of his garden fence panelling. Angus had been on a summer holiday to Scotland with his human partners and had, apparently, had a holiday romance with a dog called Benji. Eddie had resolutely refused to entertain Angus's protestations of innocence, denials and requests to be allowed to explain the truth and had been playing the wronged holy martyr for all he was worth. Even Archie from the end of my row of houses had got fed up in the end and started ignoring Edward - and Archie is remarkably patient for a young Jack Russell Terrier.

Sighing over this sorry state of affairs, then, I watched Eddie bound towards me.
"Jazz! Darling!!" he barked.
"Alright, Ed?" I smiled, glad to see a friendly face after being confronted with the face and then the bottom of the scheming Peaches. "How's it hanging?"
"Divine, dearheart, simply divine. I had the most fabulous Christmas! Angus excelled himself with his gift this year!"
"Oh yes?" I replied dubiously, casting my mind back to the troubled history of the summer, preceded by the misunderstanding over Angus's Christmas gift from last year - an handsome designer jacket, but I shall not torment you with a repetition of that sorry saga.
"Yes! A brand-new beanbag bed!" beamed Edward, wagging his tail happily. "Bright pink, with a repeating pattern of black paw-prints. Utterly exquisite."
"That's a very thoughtful gift." I remarked, wondering what on Earth had happened to Eddie's former venom towards the beleagured Angus. "Yes," continued Eddie, utterly oblivious to my confusion. "He tells me that he dallied with a distinguished tartan print, but felt it might seem a little crass after the business over the summer."

He proceeded to laughingly relate the events since last I had barked with him. It transpires that Angus had NOT had a holiday fling with a dog called Benji, but had been taken to a demonstration of a traditional Highland Fling (a traditional Caledonian country dance) and then to a tour of the distillery where they produce Glenmorangie (a fine whisky).

I'll admit that I found it hard to smile at this, as I had long-suspected Angus's innocence and had been forced to repeatedly listen to Eddie's foul, poisonous invective against him. Nevertheless I have also long been aware of the futility of raking over old coals and, despite the fact that Eddie and Angus can often be a right pair of vicious old queens, there was a clear deep and lasting affection between them. So I sighed, grinned (as I knew I must), and limited myself to barking
"Ed, you daft old s*d, you really ought to go and get your hearing checked."
"What?! Oh no, nothing wrong there!" replied Eddie, imperiously, "And besides, I gave dear Angus a beef shin-bone to make amends. All grandy and dandy now!"
"Oh, that's alright then." I sighed, with inwardly raised eyebrows. "And did Angus enjoy the Christmas festivities too?"
"Absolutely!" wuffed Eddie, "Though I had to be very strict with him again about what he ate. Honestly, the boy is a slave to the expanding waistline."
"Oh dear."
"Well exactly." nodded Eddie sanctimoniously, "Though I fear I may have carried it a little too far this year. Dear Angus was so hungry on Boxing Day that he stole the box of crickets from atop Pickle's vivarium and scoffed the lot!" [Pickle is a salamander who lives in the same house as Eddie. He is an affable chap, though he has been reduced to frequently hiding whenever Angus visits (the reason for this? Click here: Pickle's torment)].
"A whole box of crickets?!" I spluttered.
"I know." nodded Eddie. "Well, they weren't to know that they're virtually fat-free, the poor dears."
"Look, Ed," I hesitated, "Far be it from me to suggest... but - well - why don't you let Angus have the odd pudding now and then, eh? Life is for living, my friend."
"But his hips - more pudding would..."
"I know, I know!" I grinned, "A moment on the jaws; a lifetime on the paws... But let it go Ed. Life is for living. Living. And it's over all too soon."

Edward looked up at me, almost as though seeing me anew for the first time. And then he asked the question which I knew was imminent, but was dreading nonetheless...

Good night.

Wednesday 28 December 2011

2011-12-28T14:09:00.001Z

Had a bad day yesterday; bit better today.

I was able to assist my partner in opening her Christmas presents on the 25th, which was most enjoyable. However, she returned from assisting with the old folks' home Chrimble lunch with a wretched migraine and had to take to a spare bed in her parents' house and eschew her Christmas dinner. I could hear her crying from my station downtairs by the Christmas tree and festive candle-arrangement.

I didn't fancy my Christmas dinner either, I have to bark. It would be fair to say that I have little appetite at all. My partner's mother gave us some food when we departed in the evening for our own house. Although I couldn't face it when we returned, the following day my partner sat on the floor beside the sofa where I was reclining and broke up the slices of turkey into small pieces and fed them to me individually. This was much more tempting and I accepted each morsel with alacrity, savouring the taste and the renewed sensation of food in my belly.

My partner was hopeful that this was some sort of breakthrough - but I could not manage my regular evening meal. We are therefore going to the shops in a minute and my partner will buy some fresh cooked meat for me, in the hope that this tempts me to continue eating. Do not misunderstand me - I am not playing on my predicament in order to secure more noble fare; I am finding it hard to digest my tinned dinners - smaller fragments of roasted meat or fish are just what I need. The fact that these items are also incredibly delicious is a welcome side-effect...

After I was unable to have my dinner last evening (although I DID manage two toothbrush sticks [Bakers' Dental Delicious] this morning), my partner went into our garden and I heard her crying piteously again. I would have joined her, but I was feeling too tired to rise. I craned my neck, in order to see through the French windows around to the front of our house (my partner, in an attempt to conceal her tears from me, was hiding around the corner). I hated the fact that she was alone in the dark, weeping without consolation. I was surprised, however, as my eyes became accustomed to the dark street outside to see that she was not entirely alone...

Honey and Kittenjasper, the two cats who live directly opposite my house, were sitting - on the roof of a car and on the pavement respectively - keeping a quiet vigil whilst my partner wept. She noticed them too. As my partner's burst of grief subsided she began to dry her eyes. At this, Honey jumped down from the roof of her car and she and Kittenjasper (no longer a kitten, but the name stuck) went back into their house, the cat-flap clicking closed behind them. I felt a rush of gratitude for their quiet compassion.

If only ALL cats were as thoughtful... I had the misfortune to encounter Peaches (that dark aberration who terms himself 'a cat') this morning as I downloaded my first weemail of the day in the garden. By the sniff of things he was returning to his house after a night of foul mayhem.
"Jasper!" he simpered, his tail twitching malevolently, "How nice it is to see you dying at last! You ARE dying now, aren't you...?!"
"I prefer the term 'having an end-of-life experience'." I muttered, not even looking at the beast.
"Eh?! Oh well, at least you won't have to worry about catching a cold - not where you're going..." grinned Peaches.
"Oh no - and I shall be sure to stoke up the furnaces in readiness for YOUR arrival." I barked.
"Sorry Jazz - didn't catch that," replied Peaches with a malevolent smile. "Were you talking just then, or was it just your long, drawn-out, death rattle?"

All of a sudden, I looked over Peaches' shoulder with a horror-struck expression.
"Eddie! NO!!" I yelped (Eddie being my friendly Rottweiler neighbour), "Peaches was only being cheeky! He meant no harm! I BEG you to spare him!!"

Peaches squealed and streaked off across the road like a bolt of lightening for the safety of his home, before Eddie pounded him to a pulp. Alas for Peaches' future credibility, there was no Eddie there. There never had been - but Peaches didn't know that. Chuckling to myself, I turned to re-enter my house, only to find Honey at the other end of my garden. She blinked her pretty ginger eyelids at me.
"I have always thought it was brilliant, the way you've stood up to Peaches." she mewed, after a pause.
I wasn't sure what to bark. Honey gazed at me sadly. "Who's going to deal with him now?" she asked.

"You are, Honey." I replied, with a small smile.
"Me?! Oh no - he will kill me for sure!"
"Ah, well, there's the thing." I sighed in reply, feeling tired all of a sudden. "Peaches is a bully. And, like bullies of all species the world-over, he is also a coward. Turn that to your advantage, my dear, and he won't so much as lay a claw on you."
"Thanks Jazz." said Honey, finally, with a watery smile. "See you around." She walked along the top of my fence and jumped down into the road on the way to her house. Kittenjasper was waiting for her, sitting on the pavement. As Honey reached him, he nodded to me, with a half smile. I'm not sure he can quite bring himself to forgive me for rescuing a shrew from his clutches earlier this year.

My partner and I are going to the shops now - my partner hasn't been paid yet, so she is going to use her Christmas vouchers to buy some fresh cooked meat for me, in the hope that I might be tempted to eat. Bye for now, then.

Good afternoon.

Saturday 24 December 2011

2011-12-24T18:29:00.001Z

I have just returned from a delightful little potter on the local common. It was a nice way to spend the morning. I had a bit of a run and a sniff about, and met a delightful family with a feisty, friendly whippet who was full of the joys of Christmas.

As I approached the top of the common (a regular haunt of young local ne'er-do-wells), I happened upon a most bizarre sight. Fixed to a tree was a very large wooden cross with decorative edging. All around it were photographs, little paper windmills, mirrors, baubles, etc. At the foot of the tree was an odd assortment of paraphernalia and a number of candles. A few garden chairs and other bits of furniture/baggage were srewn randomly about. There was no obvious evidence of someone living there. Most peculiar. I turned to glance back at my partner.
"I think we've got a bit of a 'Big Fat Gypsy situation' going on here." I muttered. She nodded and we looked at the odd, shrine-like arrangement in silence. As we turned, we met the young family and mentioned the strange site. The mother replied that she thought it had been put there by the friends of a young local man, killed in a road accident recently.

The fellow had lived in the same street as me, though I did not know him or his family. As tragic as his untimely fate had been, it had been entirely self-inflicted. In the wee small hours one night, stoned out of his gourd and drunk as well, the lad decided to drive to his girlfriend's house, eschewing the inconvenience of a seatbelt. Alas for his family and friends, the inevitable happened and his end came swiftly and suddenly (although I understand that the lack of a seatbelt was ultimately the deciding factor). That is the trouble with those who live life on the edge - one can all-too-easily topple too far and fall off.

After musing that it was, perhaps, fortunate that at least the late fellow had not taken innocent lives along with him, we bade each other compliments of the season and parted company. As I trotted off, it occurred to me that, when I am ultimately claimed for Heaven myself, I would rather have a tree planted in my memory than have items nailed into a living tree at a local countryside site and surrounded by what is not far removed from fly-tipping (and I am certainly intending no disrespect whatsoever to the deceased, nor to the no doubt well-intentioned efforts of remembrance - but the place on the common really is a litter-strewn, sordid, foetid eyesore). Yes. Plant me a tree then, against which generations of dogs can gratefully download their weemails. But do not befoul the coutryside with items which pose a very real threat to the welfare of England's wildlife.

Only a short walk then; but interesting nonetheless. I did not want to get back into my car at the end. I procrastinated by drinking deeply from every puddle I encountered - a draught of chilled puddle water is my very favourite tipple, after all.

And, barking of procrastination, it is long past time that I posted the final instalment of my "Evolution of Jasper" series. I must apologise, particularly as the last instalment concluded on something of a cliff-hanger (here: previous episode) and even more so, as the final part has been complete for some time now. But I have been putting-off sharing it. I have very much enjoyed sharing the story of my early life with you and I suppose that I did not want that enjoyment to be over. It was almost as though my posting of this final episode completes a certain purpose to my life - and I have never been fond of endings and goodbyes (unless Peaches the cat is involved...).

But what would have been the point to completing the last instalment and then keeping it to myself? That would have been foolish indeed. So it with the greatest pleasure that I share with you now:

PART THIRTY-EIGHT

I felt utterly wretched. Not only had I been abandoned by my partner, whom I now loved more than anything, but I couldn’t understand what I had done wrong to deserve such a fate.

“Excuse me…” said a little voice beside me.

“Go away.” I sniffed. I was in no mood to be comforted.

“Are you alright?!” said the voice . I was about to make a sharp and rude retort, but my nose told me that the voice was female. I lifted my head and looked around. A pretty caramel-coloured spaniel bitch in the next pen along was looking at me with kind concern. “Why are you crying?” she asked, in a gentle bark.

“Because I’ve been abandoned here for being naughty and I don’t know what I’ve done!” I replied in a shaky voice.

“No you haven’t!” beamed the spaniel, wagging her tail. I looked about me again, and began to wonder if they’d put me into some kind of psychiatric block.

“Um…” I began warily, “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but…”

“You silly dog!” yipped my neighbour, “You haven’t been left here! This is just where you stay when your people are away for a bit – your person will come back and get you soon!”

“Really?” I whispered. I allowed myself to feel hope whilst keeping also in mind the lesson of Pebble – a worthy young friend from my rescue-kennel days who had been cruelly abandoned by the humans he trusted and who, for many months, persisted in the tragic delusion that his family were coming the next day to fetch him.

“Of course!” smiled my lovely new friend. “This is just a boarding kennel! I’ve been here a few times before. I don’t usually come here, it isn’t terribly nice, but the one I normally go to was full up. My name is Pepé. My people have gone on holiday but they’re coming back for me on Monday. How nice to have a neighbour to talk to! There was a Labrador in there until a few days ago, but he wasn’t very chatty.”

I sniffed about me. There was a distinct whiff of Labrador in my pen – and everything about the spaniel next to me smelled honest and sincere. I decided, therefore, that Pepé was to be believed and stood up, feeling immeasurably better.

“I’m Jasper.” I said, sniffing at the pretty lass through the bars. “I’m sorry to have blubbed. It’s just that I used to live in a rescue home and I thought I had been left at a different one.”

“That’s OK.” Pepé smiled. “I’ve never been in a rescue kennel before. What’s it like? There are two dogs from a rescue home in the next-door house to where I live. I go to shows where I have to win prizes for being pretty and some of the other bitches at one of them said that I oughtn’t to play with those dogs because dogs from rescue homes are dirty and bad.”

“Well, you SHOULD play with them.” I said, trying not to sound annoyed. “I’M not dirty or bad, am I?”

“Actually, no.” replied Pepé. “For a handsome Staffie you are remarkably clean…”

She said one or two other things, but I stopped listening after she said I was handsome. Eventually, however, my good manners overcame my vanity and I realised that Pepé was still barking.

“…so I’m glad that you have said it’s not true because they are both very nice dogs and I have often thought that I would like to share my toys with them.” She concluded.

“I am sure that they would like that very much.” I replied, hoping against hope that she was still talking about her two ex-rescue neighbours.

I went on to tell Pepé all about my time in the rescue home (though prudently keeping the tale of “The Night of the Isolated Bitches” to myself), how I had arrived there, and my various escapades since being adopted by my partner. We had to stop halfway though, as the man (and his cigarette) brought us our dinners and then let us out, one at a time, into the field for brief exercise and lavatory.

Pepé was an excellent listener, laughing and gasping in all the appropriate places. She even shed a few tears when I related the death of poor Kipper. She asked plenty of questions and, in turn, she told me all about her life as a “show-dog”, her regular grooming and pampering sessions and all the prizes that she’d won. I have to bark, I didn’t envy her this life, but she was clearly loved for who she was as well as how she looked and performed by her partners and she enjoyed her showbiz life. It was almost sunrise the next morning when we stopped chatting.

My delightful friend helped the time to pass quickly and enjoyably, which was a mercy, as nothing about the boarding kennel itself was remotely enjoyable, nor even particularly quick. The staff were surly and brisk, exercise was limited to the field, and the cleaning of our pens left a great deal to be desired. I understood why Pepé had only been placed here because the other place was full.

Come the Monday, my heart leapt within my breast as I heard the familiar sound of my partner’s car turning into the driveway at the bottom of the field. I jumped up and dashed to the door of my pen, my tail wagging nineteen-to-the-dozen.

“There you are!” beamed Pepé, “I told you she’d come back for you! My people will be back in a few hours, when it starts to get dark.”

“Oh, thank you Pepé!” I yipped, beside myself with joy, “You were right all along!” I jumped and strained for the earliest glimpse of my partner, which couldn’t come quickly enough for me.

At last I saw her. My partner was clearly equally eager to reunite with me and beamed broadly as she heard my yelps of delight. The chain-smoking proprietor trudged up and fixed the lead to my collar. As he grabbed my beanbag and my chews, I bid a hasty farewell to Pepé, thanking her for her barks of comfort and wishing her well for the future. Such was my eagerness to get to my partner, the smoking man couldn’t withstand my strength, and I raced down the hill, the lead trailing behind me, and jumped into the open arms of my partner.

As overjoyed as she was to see me, I could see shock registered in her eyes. She noticed that I’d seen this and explained immediately.

“Jasper – you reek of wee!” As my beanbag was handed over, my partner was astounded to find that my bed was damp and also smelled strongly of my urine. She began to apologise straight away. “I’m so sorry – so, so, sorry. I promise I will never leave you in a boarding kennel again.” Of course, I forgave her instantly.

Finally, and yet for the first time in my life, I realised that I was safe. I knew that I was home. I knew that I was loved.

I had become the me that I was always destined to be. I was then, am now, and always will be, finally Jasper.

So how does one end a series such as this? Beginning was easy enough - but how to conclude a story of such a life saved? How two such diametrically-opposed individuals came to be together, to survive their initial mutual dislike, to become two souls united as one, to the point where each saved the other in so many ways? But alas; there is where my voice falls silent and my paws cease to tap at the keys. I possess not the skill necessary to put into barks how much my partner has come to mean to me. I have endeavoured to repay her love and faith in me; I hope I have succeeded. To the words of another, then, I turn - and I realise that I am straying dangerously near melodrama here, but this beautiful song by Kate Rusby is all that I want to say. If I was clever enough to be able to write a song for my partner, these are the words I would choose:

Kate Rusby - Falling

Something of a rollercoaster early life then. But I would not change a single thing - it made me the dog that I am today. It made me Jasper - and for that, I will always be grateful.

THE END

Well... I am not quite sure what I was expecting to happen when I uploaded that final instalment. I suppose I thought that, as soon as I had barked "The End", a bolt of lightning would crash down and eliminate all mortal trace of me from this Earth. But here I still am! Granted, I may not be destined much longer for this World - but here I still am...

I wish you a very happy Christmas and every conceivable happiness for the new year and beyond.

Good night.

Friday 23 December 2011

2011-12-24T00:41:00.007Z

So, inevitably, my permanently-baffled canine best chum, Ewan, has found himself floundering about in hot water once again. His latest blunderings had their genesis back on 4 December when he, his long-suffering mate Fizzy, and I went to investigate Owl - the over-sexed and under-moraled tomcat from the farm across the lane from our workplace - following the latest in a long line of litters of increasingly inbred kittens emanating from Owl's loins. (My report into our investigation is here: Owl).

Fizzy had revealed that one of the farm dogs had barked to her that Owl, when no queen-cat was within clawing distance, had been known to "have a go on" a passing farm duck or hen in order to sate his revolting appetites. And, you may recall dear reader, that this snippet of gossip guided Ewan down a dark and bewildering path of inter-species breakfast items. Briefly, he expressed delight at the prospect of finding an hideous part-kitten, part-chick foetus in his dippy-egg (a soft-boiled egg, into which he dips his breakfast biscuits - I believe that this is popular among human pups, who like toasted bread "soldiers" to dip into their egg). I did try to enter into the spirit of his imaginings - I really did - but the mere idea of discovering such a monster in my breakfast egg provoked in me nothing but nausea.

Alas, I now find that the matter was not laid to rest there - at least, not for Ewan. When next he and Fizzy and their partner (one of my partner's colleagues) arrived at work, it was clear that a state of high dudgeon towards Ewan existed. He twitched nervously whenever his partner walked by him (which hinted at the fact of a previously-spanked bottom) and Fizzy wasn't barking to him at all. My marshmallow-brained friend wandered aimlessly around the office, trying to be conciliatory, but it was clear that he had committed some kind of major misdemeanour. I was trying to nap, having slept only fitfully the previous night. At length, I could avoid Ewan's eye no longer.

"Go on then." I sighed, emerging from my bed beneath my partner's desk and sitting beside the forlorn wanderer in the middle of the passageway. "What did you do?"

I won't insult your intelligence, dear reader, by repeating Ewan's explanation verbatim. Suffice it to bark that, on his arrival home after our afore-barked investigation, he had sought out and cracked open all of the eggs in his house, attempting to find a feathered and beaked "chickitten" foetus inside one of them. His partner had returned from her living-room to find her kitchen floor and surfaces covered in sticky, eggy, mess. Quite apart from having to clean up this ovum-based turmoil, the financial implications of having a month's-worth of eggs utterly wasted did NOT sit well with Ewan's partner. Fizzy (Ewan's exquisitely beautiful, smart, diminutive black Labrador wife) was annoyed partly because of the human anger in the household, but largely because Ewan's "investigations" had not been limited to the kitchen. Egg-gunge and eggshell fragments were liberally strewn across Ewan and Fizzy's shared marital basket. No matter how hard Fizzy endeavoured to clean the basket, a rogue sharp piece of shell lurked within to prick her flesh. She was unbarkably livid.

"Right." I decided, after listening with ever-decreasing patience to Ewan's explanations. "Ewan. Listen to me. Chickens - and poultry in general - CANNOT make babies with cats. A cat could NEVER be a chicken's daddy. A cat can only be a cat's daddy, a chicken can only be a chicken's daddy and a dog can only be a dog's daddy. ALL mummies have eggs - but only PROPER daddies can turn eggs into puppies. Got that?!"
"Oh! Right. Yes. Brilliant!" grinned Ewan enthusiastically.
"And the egg bit? Do you understand about eggs now?"
"Definitely. Yes. Yes I understand all about eggs now as well. Brilliant. Yes."
"Really?"
"No."

Abandoning all hope of a quiet and restful morning, I sighed and prepared for another flogging of this long-dead horse...

Let me assure you, sweet reader, that I strongly debated within myself as to the wisdom of pursuing this subject with Ewan. I had not forgotten that my last attempt to explain the mysteries of the female menstrual cycle to Ewan, using analogies that I thought he'd understand, ended in violence, recrimination and an ill-advised suggestion of Ewan's involving a potato, Fizzy, and the lips she doesn't kiss with (if you really want to acquaint yourself with this, it's here: The Potato Affair). I know that I vowed at the time that I would never again endeavour to explain ladies' matters to Ewan - but three years had passed since then, and I pitied him in his disgrace.

"Right then, Ewan." I sighed reluctantly. "Ladies and eggs. Here's the thing. ALL ladies have eggs inside them, which can turn into babies if their man does his bit properly."
"Which bit, Jazz?" asked Ewan, puzzled. "Is it a magic bit?"
"Well..." I hesitated, "I suppose you could say that a magic wand IS involved... But let's leave that for now. So. Eggs. All ladies have eggs in them. Alright?"
"Yes. Brilliant. Eggs."
"Good. OK then. Things with feathers or scales - "
"Mummy's got scales in her kitchen!" interrupted Ewan eagerly.
"Not those sorts of scales, Ewan." I muttered. "I'm barking about lizards, snakes, and crocodiles."
"Are they the ones with the feathers?" whispered Ewan.

Bl**dy h*ll.

Trying to battle a rising urge to bite Ewan hard, I gritted my teeth and began again with forced calm.

"No, Ewan." I barked firmly. "Those animals have scaly skin. Chickens, ducks, geese, things like that have feathers."
"Oh, right. Brilliant. Yes."
"Well, animals who have scales or feathers lay their eggs outside of their bodies and then sit on them to keep them warm. Ladies like Fizzy, your mummy, my partner, queen-cats, mares, vixens, mice... they have their eggs inside their bodies - and when their man, erm... 'waves his magic wand', the egg turns into a baby inside them and comes out as a proper baby and not an egg. Alright?"
"Oooo... ummm..."
"Here it is again." I frowned. "All ladies - eggs. Ladies with feathers or scaly skin - eggs outside. Ladies with fur or smooth skin and hair - eggs inside. Right?" (I decided not to even venture near the Piscine world. Fish aren't normal - trying to explain their whole procreative mess to Ewan could well have been the death of us both).
"Right. Got it." nodded Ewan, to my inexpressible relief. I flopped back down onto my bed, exhausted, as Ewan trotted off happily wagging his tail, delighted with the information he had just learned.

Not fifteen minutes later I was abruptly jolted back into wakefulness by a sudden volley of sharp, angry, female barking, which culminated in a shrill yelp of pain. Ewan bolted back into my office, bleeding from a nasty bite to his ear, and squealing loudly.
"She bit me, Jasper! She bit me!!" he wailed as he jumped over my prostrate form and attempted to hide behind me. Fizzy, however, obviously felt that Ewan had been punished enough, as she did not pursue him.

Wearily, I raised myself to my paws and turned to look at my cowering friend. Two puncture wounds indicated where Fizzy had nipped him. After ascertaining that the incisions were only superficial, I began to clean them.
Between licks, I muttered "You asked Fizzy if you could dip a breakfast biscuit into one of her eggs, didn't you?"

"I did, Jasper, yes." replied Ewan, solemnly. I nodded resignedly, and sighed to myself as I finished patching up the ear.

There really is no hope for the lad. But no-one could ever accuse me of not trying to help him to help himself...

Good old Ewan. I hope he never changes.

Thursday 22 December 2011

2011-12-23T00:36:00.002Z

My ending is beginning.

Forgive me for sounding melodramatic - perhaps it is an after-effect of my former theatrical days.

I hope that, all being well, I will see the new year in. However, I am not deceived as to the unlikelihood that I shall live to see the end of January 2012. My 'Evolution' series is complete and ready to be shared with you. I am two-thirds of the way through the amusing (although I bark it myself) post I originally intended to publish this evening (Ewan and his late eggy-misadventures) and hope to finish it for you tomorrow. But late developments mean that I can be nothing but open with you at this precise moment in time. Please forgive me.

**********************************************************************************

I saw Kipper this evening. My old friend from the Dog Rescue home (Kipper). I was in a deep, deep sleep. He was standing, strong and proud, in a lush green grassy field, his mighty tail wagging wildly at the sight of me.
"Jasper!" he barked, grinning at me.

I was puzzled - how did he know my name?

Kipper grinned again, winked, and looked over his shoulder. Behind him, a short way off, stood my late wife Isolde - also looking strong, healthy, whole again and wagging her pretty tail. "It's herself." grinned Kipper, wagging his own tail again. "She says you don't like being called Captain these days. Your name's Jasper..."

I opened my mouth to reply - but no sound came out. As I blinked, the scene began to fade away. I didn't want them to go. "It's OK mate," barked Kipper, as I felt myself falling away, "Don't be afraid. It doesn't hurt. We'll come to meet you. It's OK..." And then, he was gone.

Coughing and spluttering, I opened my eyes. It was pitch-black and I was in my bedroom. Sleepily, my partner turned over at her end of the bed and mumbled "You OK, Jazz?"

I coughed again. My partner gently manoeuvred me closer to her and placed a blanket around me. I gazed up at her, and she, in return, looked into my eyes.

And she saw.

I wish this could be as easy for her as it will be for me. After all, events are now removed from my paws. The hardest things I have yet to do (and in these I have no choice) - are to wait and to bark goodbye.

Saturday 17 December 2011

2011-12-17T22:54:00.002Z

Fond greetings, dear Reader. I must apologise once more for a lengthy absence - I have not been well of late.

My partner has discovered a secondary tumour in my throat. Be not alarmed - I continue well, buoyant, and pain-free. In fact, I am better than when I last barked to you - but 'tis only fair to inform you that my partner and I have been investigating local funeral parlours. We have settled upon a respectable local firm and, together, chosen a casket; an exquisite traditional English wood, as stout and true as my heart. It has been set aside for me for when the time comes, but who can say when it shall be needed? Perhaps in the next few weeks - or yet perhaps not for the next few months nor years. I have already exceeded my surgeons' forecasts and continue to thrive. So let us cast away, for now, such gloomy thoughts and be of good cheer. It IS nearly Christmas, after all!

The reason for the minor improvement in my health is that my snout-tumour burst open approximately ten days ago. "Urrrgh!" I hear you cry - well, yes and no. I am somewhat outwardly scarred, though my partner's early diligence in tending to the wound has meant that it is healing nicely. But - oh! - the exquisite relief! The bursting and subsequent seepage relieved the pressure on my snout enormously, with the results that the lump is about one-third of the size it was at its worst point and my breathing is much eased.

I am glad to report this progress, for my illness has taken a great toll on my partner. One night recently, I awoke at around 3.00am to find her on her knees beside me, wailing in anguish, pleading and begging - literally begging - God to save me; to take the tumour from my snout and put it into her own. She has also been volunteering madly for every local good cause, for example, in addition to signing up for The Cinnamon Trust, she has also spent this afternoon at the local church, doing activities for children, and is giving up her Christmas Day to prepare and serve Christmas Dinners to residents of local home for the elderly. All this, in the hope that it might buy me a few extra months of continued existence. But none of us can change the fates - each of us has a pre-ordained beginning and a pre-ordained end. I am content in mine, secure in the knowledge that I am loved, valued and appreciated by those I hold most dear. And, if you are reading this, I extend this to include you my friend.

Incidentally, for those of you not repulsed by the idea, would you like to know what a tumour, burst and laid open for all to witness, smells like? Certainly nothing I would have expected...

Sherbert Lemon. A popular tasty and pleasantly-scented boiled sweet. That is what my tumour smells like. How odd that something so wretched should smell so delightful.

To other matters. Regular readers will be interested (and perhaps not a little relieved) to learn that I have now completed the final instalment of "The Evolution of Jasper" (this being my autobiographical series). I shall share it with you tomorrow - along with the chaos that ensued when I decided to take the advice of a Lady (Miss Till) in respect of promoting my bubble-brained friend Ewan's understanding of the female reproductive system. Never - I repeat - NEVER again. Oh, dear me, no.

Until then,

Good night.

Sunday 4 December 2011

2011-12-04T12:26:00.000Z

'Tis one life's eternal mysteries that those who have genes least-worthy to be passed on to the next generation are often the most fecund.

Another litter of kittens has been born in the workplace haystack. That's four separate litters this year alone. Each new litter has been virtually identical to the last and 'tis no mystery whatsoever as to from whence they sprung.

One of the latest batch

Owl. The rampant, over-sexed tom-cat from the farm across the road. After each fresh litter, the farmer has taken steps to assure my partner and colleagues that Owl has "been done" (that certain surgical procedure of which we do not bark). They remain unconvinced. The problem, you see, quite apart from the kittens themselves is that the woodlands beyond the work-yard are a Site of International Nature Conservation - home to a rare species of bat and an even-rarer species of dormouse. Easy pickings for the feral cats who are threatening to over-run the woods, all of whom emanate from the over-active loins of Owl.

The further problem is that most of these kittens are terribly inbred and subject to genetic problems. The only queen-cat who was able to keep Owl's appetites in check was the mother of the original litter who, regular readers may remember, was killed in a car accident on the crossroads at the bottom of the hill. All subsequent kittens are, therefore, the offspring of cousins, of brothers and sisters, of nieces and nephews or of father and descendant. Revolting in and of itself, not to mention the ghastly mutations that are the tainted results of such foul couplings.

Even my marshmallow-brained chum Ewan grows weary of the presence of kittens - and he is generally doting towards innocent newborns of any species. After the appearance of the latest litter, Ewan, Fizzy and I decided to investigate whether the farmer's most recent protestations concerning his fecund feline were true.

We trotted along the lane towards the farm-yard, chatting as we went. Stopping just before the main lane (which we aren't allowed to cross by ourselves, as it's busier than the other little roads) we peered into the farm-yard. Sure enough, there was Owl, swaggering about the place with the smug grin of a fellow who knows he gets more action than he has any right to. I shook my head and tut-tutted.
"Maudie" [one of the farm dogs, a feisty wire-haired Jack Russell] "says he even tries to have a go on the chickens and ducks sometimes." barked Fizzy, a note of marked disdain in her voice.
"That's gross." I snorted. After a brief pause, Ewan began to cackle with mirth. "What's up with you?" I asked.
"Just imagine!" laughed Ewan, "If Owl makes a chicken have a kitten!"
"Erm..." I muttered, wondering if I ought to stop Ewan there or wait to see what else had popped into his simple head.
"Sometimes I likes a dippy-egg for my breakfast." giggled Ewan. "Just imagine if when Fizzy bites the top off for me and there is a little chicken-kitten inside!"

Fizzy and I exchanged a glance.

"Well, Ewan," I managed, after a pause, "If I had a boiled-egg for my breakfast and I nipped the top off to find an unbarkably horrific beaked kitten foetus inside I'm not sure that laughter would be my first response..."

Fortunately for our collective sanity, Owl turned his back to us and stalked off down the hill towards the piggery. We watched him go.

"Well, either those are two of the largest rectal tumours I've ever seen," I sighed, "Or Owl hasn't been done."

Fizzy laughed and, after a moment, Ewan joined in. I'm not convinced that he fully understood what he was laughing about, but his laughter was joyful to my ears all the same...

Good afternoon.

Tuesday 29 November 2011

2011-11-30T00:08:00.001Z

I return - not for the first time - with an apology for my lengthy absence.

My partner seemed to enjoy her time in London, at the BBC and elsewhere, with her friends despite my absence.

Chris Evans, Moira Stuart, Lynn Bowles, Ken Bruce, Jeremy Vine, Tony Blackburn, Len Goodman, Sir Cliff Richard, Nicky from Westlife - these are just some of the "entertainment professionals" with whom my partner had least some interaction at the BBC. Alas, worthy and decent though these good folks are, none can eclipse my own celebrity. I did, at least, have a small presence at the Radio 2 HQ however - see if you can spot your very own Jasper Horatio Stafford in this (slightly out-of-focus) snap of my partner with Nicky-from-Westlife:

My partner failed to recognise the (admittedly passably attractive) young gentleman at first, and confessed this to him - he did not seem to mind. In the absence of any celeb-chat therefore, and noting the charming Irish lilt of the fellow's accent, my partner instead decided to apologise on behalf of our ancestors for the appalling cruelty meted out to the Irish by English oppressors throughout the ages, including (but not limited to) their inexcusable failure to act during the truly horrific Irish Potato Famine. She thinks he appreciated that. As for myself - I am just wondering if there will ever come a time when my partner ceases to embarrass me in such open and public ways... For goodness' sake...

Away with such trivialities - let us return to the true celebrity of this forum...

I have been a trifle unwell since my last post. I continue to be in good form and am suffering no actual pain, but the tumour in my snout is now visible to the casual observer and is no insignificant irritation to me. I wondered where the wretched thing would ultimately manifest itself and settle for the long-haul. 'Tis at the base of the right-paw side of my snout, not too far from my eye, and is approximately the size of a Robin's egg. It occasionally impedes my regular breathing, though not often to be more than an irritation, and my liveliness, appetites and energies remain undiminished. My partner has procured a supply of anti-inflammatory medication, which she feeds me through a dropper each morning (I am a good boy for my medicine-taking), and this helps to keep secondary swelling and infection to an absolute minimum.

Unfortunately, my return from the last vets' trip coincided with Peaches the cat's nightly amble back to his house from the allotments and the river, which takes him past my house. The impudent fat furry fungus squinted at me in the autumn dusk, an ugly smile spreading across his foolish face, as he registered the lump on my snout.
"Bl**dy h*ll, Jasper." he sneered, "Is your tiny brain finally trying to eat its way out of your thick head?!"
I ignored him.
"I hope it makes it out of there!" continued the abominable feline, "Then you'll be nearly as clever as your meatball-for-brains friend Ewan!"

"Funny, aren't you." I muttered, dangerously, not giving Peaches the satisfaction of provoking an angry bark, "I must look out, in case my sides should split with laughter at such wit from our greatest living comedian..."

Peaches was not so contented with this response as to hazard another cheeky insult and, on my taking a step towards him with teeth bared and a malevolent twinkle in my eye he fled, squealing (no doubt remembering our last encounter). Satisfied that the ghastly beast would not return (at least for that evening) to further insult me or my friends, I accompanied my partner into our home for a late dinner followed by a chapter of our book (we're now on Mansfield Park Volume I, Chapter XII) and then sleep.

I recall that, in my last blog entry, I promised you, dear reader, an account of my good friend Ewan's attempts to comprehend egg-based procreation and its many limitations. This will, again, have to be put off until next time, for I grow weary. Medication and the sweet insensibility of sleep await me.

Until tomorrow then;

Good night.

Thursday 17 November 2011

2011-11-17T13:41:00.000Z

And so it has come to pass. My partner is leaving me.

Only for a couple of nights though. I am staying with her parents, though I am still not entirely satisfied. She is off to BBC Radio 2 tomorrow to answer telephones and take donations for the very worthy Children in Need charity. If you live in the UK and telephone 0500 22 11 22 between 10am and 7pm tomorrow to request a song and donate some money to the charity, you will get to speak to my partner, one of her fabulous friends, or even a celebrity (not me, alas. I do not enjoy barking on the 'phone - I tend towards rudeness and that is unacceptable at the BBC). For non-UK friends, you can visit this site to find out more: BBC Radio 2 Children in Need 2011.

Please spare a couple of quid for Children in Need, if you can. I, in the meantime, shall be devising a series of subtle yet devastating punishments for my traitorous partner. Should there come another opportunity in the future, I shall ensure that she thinks twice before abandoning me for two days to hobnob with celebrities in London.

Good afternoon.

Friday 11 November 2011

2011-11-11T18:54:00.002Z

11.11.11

I remember with pride those who have fought in wars past AND present - the dead and the living - with the courage to fight and risk all that they have so that my country and the world can remain free and safe.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young.

Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,

They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

("For The Fallen" by Laurence Binyon, written in September 1914)

Good night.

Wednesday 2 November 2011

2011-11-03T00:52:00.000Z

Dearest reader, I thank you from the bottom of my heart (or the heart of my bottom, if you prefer...) for all your birthday good wishes. I appreciated them all most sincerely, as well as the gifts (all edible this year, I am delighted to report!). Alas some of the time betwixt those celebrations and this very moment have been somewhat less jolly.

I rise from my bed of pain and misery to write to you now. I have been suffering all manner of torments since the weekend. Only now is my misery beginning to abate. Perhaps you will be kind enough to indulge me whilst I explain...

Saturday morning (29 October) was turning out to be a truly exquisite day. One of those beautifully perfect autumnal ones, with the trees at their rich, russet and gold, best - the scent of bonfires in the air and that hint of a chill, which sharpens and heightens all the scents to be sensed. After a morning of grocery shopping, my partner took me to Chawton Woods (opposite Jane Austen's House) - one of my favourite local spots for a stroll. I felt better and more energised than I had for several weeks! Around and about I capered, through the fallen leaves and conkers, glorying in simply being alive on such a delightful day. And then, I saw her. A vision of loveliness through the trees - a young spaniel, female and precisely formed in the way that I like. As she spotted me, I uttered a silent prayer of thanks that I was looking my most handsome best. Autumn always sets me off to the finest advantage - if, indeed, such a thing can be barked to be true. In fact, when the inestimable Keats wrote his ode To Autumn, I cannot fathom out why - after the line "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" - he chose to strike out the intended following line "And impossibly handsome dogs in flawlessly perfect natural lighting". I digress. The comely maiden bounded over to me and gave me the time-honoured sniff-over.

"Hello!" she enthused, with fluttering eyelashes and wagging tail. "I'm Ellie! Who are you?!"
"Good morning, my dear!" I replied, offering up my most winning smile, "I am Jasper. And what a pleasure it is to meet one so charming as you on this loveliest of days!"

My new acquaintance giggled coquettishly, piquing my interest (fear not, dear reader, my pretty neighbour Rosie never takes her exercise this far East. I shall not be detected...).
"D'you want to play hide'n'sniff with me?!" she yipped, "It's my favouritest game EVER!"
"Why, what an uncanny coincidence!" I replied (smooth at all times, Jasper, smoooooth, hehehe...), "That is my favourite game as well! Who could have believed that two such intertwined souls should meet in one place?!"

The pretty young spaniel giggled, calling "Me first, then!" as she dashed off into the woods. Of course, I pretended to shield my eyes - but she was young and inexperienced at the game and didn't notice that I was watching her - I saw where she had concealed herself and didn't have to use my snout at all (something of a relief, for those who know my recent snout-based history). After a few exhilarating rounds (all of which I could have won without effort - but which I allowed the deliciously pert young beauty to win. Didn't want to scupper my chances, after all...), we decided to play "chase-tag". After being "tagged" (tapped on the flank) by the fair maid ('tis only fair to give the Lady first victory), I sped off in hot pursuit of her enticing rear, enjoying the chase but not forgetting to keep my eyes on "the prize", hehehehe...

Oh, reader, do not underestimate me. I still have strength in my body as well as in my mind - and, yes, still where it matters most to a man. Rejoicing in my ability to keep up with the pretty lass, I ran, ran, and RAN. Alas, my eyes were focussed on the quarry and not the path. Laughing and barking as I chased her -

- ** - SMACK!!!! - ** -

- I ran into a tree that wasn't there before! It hurt. A LOT.

I managed to make an hasty retreat whilst still retaining my dignity. I won't lie to you - this one REALLY HURT. I had the black eye to countenance all other black eyes throughout history and the swelling - oh, Dear Lord, the swelling. My head looked like a football. The right-paw snout passage and eye-surround, already tender because of previously-described tumourous activity, blew up like a balloon. I was able to conceal it from my erstwhile new lady. Not, alas, from my partner. All evening, she stared at me in a most unsettling "there's something not quite right about you, but I cannot put my dewclaw on it"-type manner.

Come Sunday, it was beyond my control. I was in agony and unable to eat or even drink beyond a few cooling sips, and my partner was in hysterics.

The very next day, my folly was revealed. "This is an impact injury, not a tumour growth!!" bleated the traitorous surgeon. I was despatched home, tail between legs, with medications that - even now - are proving the (female) veterinarian correct. I am being a good boy, and am taking them without fuss.

But even my partner, I suspect, is only partially convinced of my integrity.

Be a love, dear reader, and don't enlighten her. 'T would only baffle and distress her... I thank you.

Next time - Ewan (dog); kittens; and the mystery of fatherhood. Oh, for goodness' sake....

Good night.

Sunday 23 October 2011

2011-10-23T22:36:00.002+01:00

I have made it to the birthday that I never thought I'd see! Yes - today I am thirteen years old!

It was my partner's birthday yesterday, and we have passed a most agreeable birthday weekend, with cake, gifts and treats of every good kind. It's no small wonder to me that I have reached this age still in full possession of my sanity, my hearing and my vision. I can traverse the stairs, get in and out of the car and bed unaided and I retain my spirited enjoyment of life. How blessed I have been. Particularly as, if you have read my "Evolution of Jasper" series (to be concluded very shortly), you will know that my life very nearly ended twelve tears ago as a bloodied and broken wretch on a veterinary table in Buckinghamshire; after my first "owner" had smashed my fragile little bones into fragments. Yes; I am blessed indeed.

I was basking in the sunshine yesterday morning, before my partner and I met her parents for coffee and birthday cake, when my perfectly agreeable day was spoiled by the arrival of the scourge of the neighbourhood and Satan's accredited representative on Earth, Peaches the cat (I cannot bear to launch into another description of the wretch. Should you so desire, you can read an introduction to Peaches and his revolting nature here: Peaches: An Introduction).

I groaned inwardly, as Peaches sauntered nonchalantly over to my fence, his tail twitching from side to side. Entirely uninvited, he leapt the fence in a single bound and padded up to me.
"Good morning, Jasper." he simpered, all false purrs and smiles.
"Get out of my garden." I grunted, not bothering to acknowledge his greeting as I racked my brain to try and fathom what he was up to.
"Ha!" snorted the black creature from Hades. "I heard that you had died. I was coming over in the hope of being able to dance on your grave."
"The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated." I muttered, quoting Twain. "I'm happy to disappoint you."
"Still," purred Peaches, "You don't look well. Oh, not well at all... It's tragic to see you looking so old and haggard, with your grey fur and wasted muscles..."

I let him burble on, determined to deny him the satisfaction of needling me into an angry response.

What the bl**dy hell is the purpose of cats anyway?! What are they for? What do they want?

I'll admit that there are those cats whose company I will tolerate - Honey and Kittenjasper from the house opposite, for example, though I doubt that I am high in their favour after I liberated a young shrew they'd caught earlier in the day. I couldn't see the poor innocent tortured to death, however, so my conscience is not pricking me too badly.

I don't know if you are, as I am, a fan of the very excellent "QI" - QI Website. My partner has a QI book, called "The Book of Animal Ignorance" - a slender but fascinating tome containing all sorts of arresting facts about members of the animal kingdom. Here is a portion of what the QI Elves have to say about cats:

"Cats spend 85% of their day doing absolutely nothing. Eating, drinking, killing, cr*pping and mating take up just 4% of their life. The other 10% is used just to get around. Otherwise they are asleep, or just sitting."

The piece goes on to say:

"Today, only a quarter of American cat 'owners' say they deliberately went out to acquire a cat; in 75% of cases it was the cat that acquired them. And studies have shown that many more people claim to own a cat than than there are cats. When your cat disappears for a while it is not, in fact, off on a hunting expedition, it is next-door-but-one having another free meal or asleep on the window-sill with one or another of its many doting 'owners'. Cats need to eat the equivalent of five mice a day. A cat given unlimited access to food will only eat a mouse-sized portion at a single meal. Is your cat eating five meals a day ? Of course not: its dining out elsewhere, later."

I knew I was right to despise them. Wretched little free-loaders.

All throughout my ponderings on cats, Peaches mewed on with a variety of disparaging remarks about death and disintegrating health in general and me in particular. I opened my eyes and squinted at him in the sunshine as he continued.

"...and so when they bury you, I will be able to use your grave as my special toilet - I can't wait to empty myself out all over your manky old carcass. Finally you will be useful."

"Well, it's important to have a dream..." I muttered.

"And I can't imagine you'll smell any worse when you're mouldering in the Earth. You stink like an open sewer anyway - although I feel nothing but pity for all the little worms. And as for th- mrreeoorwrrrrrlllll!!!"

With a lightning speed, unanticipated by the insolent Peaches, I had leapt up and pounced on the wretched creature. My jaws snapped shut with a resounding crack - oh yes, sour Peaches, I am in full possession of ALL of my teeth, hehehe...! As the ghastly beast streaked back across the road to the safety of his own house, screaming, yowling and cursing all the way, some drops of blood spattered down onto the patio.

B*gg*r. I thought, looking down at the expanding droplets. Now he's brought on a nosebleed. (The one open manifestation of the tumour in my snout is an occasional nosebleed from the affected nostril).

I wiped at my snout with the side of a paw, preparing to seek assistance from my partner and an absorbent paper pawkerchief. However, I was surprised to see, on withdrawing the paw, that it remained clean. Checking that no ladies were in the vicinity, I discreetly spat on the flagstone. Out came more blood droplets, accompanied by a few short black hairs.

YES!! I had managed to take an successful bite from the bedevilled hide of Peaches! Now THAT is a birthday treat which we can ALL enjoy!

Happy days!

Good night.

Wednesday 19 October 2011

2011-10-19T23:50:00.003+01:00

Overwhelming - simply overwhelming.

This is the only way I can describe the messages of love and support that you left following my blog post of Monday evening. I cannot find the barks to tell you how much they mean to me. They provided SUCH comfort to my partner - indeed they, along with the other messages that came through via Facebook and telephone, were all that stood between her and a complete descent into despair. So much did she weep that a migraine ensued and she and I remained at home today.

The trip to the vet was interesting in and of itself. The waiting room was full (as is often the case on a Monday). The other waiting beasts and their humans were most kind and sympathetic towards my partner and I. To myself on account of the dreadful rasping, whistling and bubbling sounds that issued whenever I tried to breathe, and to my partner because of her tears and her impotent endeavours to comfort and becalm me. For a brief time, we repaired to the car park to wait: there were children in the waiting room and I feared lest my laboured throes should distress them.

When we returned, a very kind lady (accompanied by a cat, of all things) leaned towards us and said "I'm next on the list to be seen, but would you like to take my place and go in straight away?" My partner and I hesitated, not wishing to take advantage of generosity if it involved another's suffering, but the kind lady sensed our thoughts and explained that her cat was only in for a post-operative check-up. This being explained, we gratefully accepted this most thoughtful offer and were ushered into the surgical chamber.

Diagnosis was swift. The tumour in my snout is, apparently, on the move. Possibly towards my throat, though one cannot be certain.

My partner was reassured by the surgeon that, despite the horrific sounds emanating from my head and chest, I was in no pain and was receiving enough oxygen through my remaining healthy nostril and my mouth. Two options were presented, each involving an injection: the first would not solve my predicament in the long term but would relax and therefore open up my nasal passages; the second would resolve my predicament - but in a somewhat fatally permanent way.

As you are reading this, you can guess that my partner opted for the former jab. This was administered by the vet, albeit with a warning that my partner "must prepare herself".

This we are, together, endeavouring to do. It is settled between us that my toys are to be bequeathed to my dim-yet-wonderful canine friend Ewan, my larger chews to his wife Fizzy, my smaller chews to my pretty neighbour Rosie and any remaining food to be divided between neighbourhood Staffie pups William and Milo.

After passing an uneasy night, I find myself greatly recovered. My partner is comforted by the fact that she made the right choice (again). This all reminded me that the aforementioned was not my first brush with the fatal needle, and that the rest of my biographical series "The Evolution of Jasper" remains unfinished. I must apologise for this - I recall that I left it on something of a cliff-hanger . I have now written most of the concluding instalment and it shall be posted here very soon, I assure you. Forgive me for my reticence.

I smelled Death on Monday, I really did. Despite eventualities, I confide to you now that I did come close to Death. For a few moments, my heart could not compete with my desperate struggle for breath, and I set my first paw on the Ultimate Journey. I always thought that there was a bright light, towards which one should advance, and that one's previously-deceased friends and family moved forth to greet one. I even began to look out for Kipper... But nothing. It wasn't My Time. But I swear I smelled Death.

How to describe the scent of Death...? Most bizarre, for a start. It smelt like a curious blend of fresh rain on new tarmac, warm popcorn and, oddly, lavender. Not a frightening smell at all - quite comforting in fact.

But enough of death! I live - and gratefully so. As I left the veterinary chamber, my surgeon bid me "Happy Birthday for Sunday, Jasper!". For that day heralds my 13th birthday! Let us smile and hope for better things for my fourteenth year. I have so much to be thankful for - your friendship, dear reader, not least among those things.

Smile on, good friend, and be thankful for all that comes our way - good or bad - in this transient life.

Good night.

Monday 17 October 2011

2011-10-18T00:55:00.004+01:00

At 18:14 this evening I was suddenly taken ill and was rushed to the vets' by my partner.

So ill, in fact, that I believe I might actually be dying.

Please pray for me - indeed, I beg you to please pray for us both (my partner and I - if it isn't too much trouble).

I fear not the journey to death - but that voyage which comes after. I am frightened of the dark, and I cannot bear the thought of facing it alone.

Thank you.

Sunday 16 October 2011

2011-10-16T22:51:00.000+01:00

"Jasper! JASPER!! Jazz! Jaspey! Jazzie! Jasper! JAZZ!! JAAAAAAASPER!!!"

Ewan's frantic barks pierced Friday's crisp autumnal air, sending small birds chirruping into the skies and pheasants diving for cover. "Come QUICK! It's doing it! It's DOING it! QUICK!!"

To judge from the tone of my lovable-yet-brainless friend's cries, one might be forgiven for thinking that he was desperately seeking assistance in order to save the live of a frail, helpless, drowning kitten who was about to submerge for a final, fatal, time. No such horrors in the woodlands adjoining our work-yard, fortunately. No; Ewan was urging me to join him on the bridleway and witness for myself the true miracle of his "Magical Singing Stick".

Wearily, I got up and trotted off towards the sound of Ewan's voice. Not so much because I was intrigued by the concept of the Magical Singing Stick, but rather because I have found myself the object of increasing desire to Ewan's basket-mate - pretty black Labrador Fizzy. She barks that, now I am visibly ageing, I've "got that Jack Nicholson/Michael Douglas/Sean Connery thing going on". I take this to mean that as in certain fortunate men (apparently, according to Fizzy, I find that I am one of them), they become more desirable to ladies as they get older. I would be flattered - but I am not sure there isn't a back-pawed insult in there somewhere... Whatever the case, Fizzy simply will not leave me alone. And I've tried hiding, I really have. But it's no use - she always finds me. And then she sits - far too closely, in my opinion - next to me, fluttering her eyelashes, winking at me, and staring at my 'Little Jasper' in a most persistent and disconcerting manner.

Don't get me wrong - I am flattered. Fizzy is just my type - and I am NEVER too old for a lovely lady, hehehe... But Fizzy is Ewan's lovely lady, and Ewan is my friend. I just couldn't do that to him. So I affected the appearance of more enthusiasm than I felt and ambled onto the bridleway to join him and my partner to witness the modern marvel of the Magical Singing Stick. On sighting me, Ewan broke away from my partner, who had been kicking his football and throwing sticks for him and hurried to greet me.
"There it is." he whispered reverentially, indicating a stick which lay on the ground before us. I looked at it and jabbed at it with a claw. I wasn't impressed.

"That's not the same stick as the one you showed me last week." I barked.

"It is!" yipped Ewan, indignantly. "It is too the same one Jazz! It's just a different one, that's all."

I sighed and shook my head. I didn't have strength to argue with Ewan, so decided to let this one go.
"Let's see it sing, then." I muttered doubtfully.

"OK. Hang about." Ewan lowered his head down to the stick. "Sing!" he barked. Somewhat predictably, nothing happened. "Sing, my beauty!" he commanded. The silence from the inert stick was virtually deafening. My partner wandered over to us and picked up the stick.
"D'you want to play with this one, Ewan?!" she asked.
"Sing! Sing! Sing!!" barked Ewan, jumping about, almost beside himself.

In an effort to tempt Ewan into chasing the stick, my partner tapped the stick on the ground close to Ewan's paws and began to hum a jaunty tune, beating time to it by tapping the stick on the ground. "It sings..." breathed Ewan, awestruck.

"Ah-ha. Riiiight..."

As Ewan worked himself into an ecstatic frenzy, my partner threw the stick along the bridleway and Ewan sped off after it, almost tripping over himself in his haste to retrieve and return it. On delivering it back to my partner, the whole process began again.

"D'you see Jazz?!" panted Ewan. "Could you have believed that we'd see such a magical miracle in our lifetime?!"

"Actually, Ewan, I'm finding it hard to put into words exactly what I think about the stick just now..." I muttered, dryly.
"'Tis an eternal mystery..." intoned the incredulous dog.
"Yup." I sighed. "I think I might just need to go and have a lie-down now..." Suddenly, an afternoon attempting to endure Fizzy's attentions didn't seem quite so bad. Bl**dy hell.

Yesterday wasn't much better. My partner took me to Abbotstone and I wasn't in the mood. On the way, we passed a large shoot in progress. Shooters, beaters and gun-dogs (mostly Labradors) were spread across several fields. Gun-dogs are often held in much respect for their skills, control and intellect. I have never been able to comprehend this. Surely if the dog was truly intelligent, it would retrieve the pheasant or other quarry and - instead of being a complete mug and delivering the quarry back to its master - gobble up the still warm flesh. Why any dog would willingly surrender some tasty fresh game without snaffling at least one mouthful defies all rational explanation.

My partner and I had an argument at Abbotstone. As I mentioned, I wasn't really in the mood and so every time my partner's back was turned I ran back to the car. She was about as impressed with this tactic as I had been with Ewan's Magical Singing Stick.

Determined not to let me "get away with it", each time I escaped I was retrieved and the walk commenced again. I began to whimper about how old and frail I was feeling and how I couldn't cope with a walk, but this only earned me a lecture about not giving up and being idle. I was about to protest further, but my partner pointed out that, were I that weak and feeble, I would not have raced back at top speed to the car.

Dammit. I hadn't thought that through properly. Adopting a sullen, mutinous, expression, I was forced to submit to a proper walk. Actually, I enjoyed it in the end, and had a nice run, but I wasn't about to give my partner the satisfaction of knowing that. I was so annoyed that, as we passed the fields where the shoot was taking place, I leaned out of the window and shouted "Puppets! You're all a bunch of witless puppets!" at the gun-dogs.

It was only when we were almost home that I began to wish I'd called them "eunuchs" instead. With the benefit of hindsight, I realised that the gun-dogs had probably thought I was complimenting them on their youthful looks by calling them puppies. Thwarted again! Sometimes, I wonder why I bother...

Good night.

Sunday 9 October 2011

2011-10-09T20:03:00.005+01:00

I return!!

My apologies for a lengthy absence. It is not because of my tumour - far from it. In fact, dewclaw on wood, that has settled down considerably and is merely tiresome, as opposed to painful. No, I was absent due mostly to our straitened finances. For three weeks in September, due to a series of unfortunate situations, my partner and I found ourselves having to live on a mere £26. It was, to say the least, not easy. I always had enough to eat, but my partner had to manage with just one very basic meal per day. Consequently, we retired to bed at about 8pm on most days, with a book by candlelight, in order to conserve both energy and electricity.

But now we are back! Back, solvent once more, alive and sniffing bottom! (The latter is just me. My partner doesn't sniff bottoms, to the best of my knowledge). AND I have been mentioned on the radio!! Oh yes. The DJ is the ever-excellent Kevin Williams and he broadcasts at 7.00pm on Tuesdays here: http://www.hospitalradiobedside.co.uk/ ("Listen Live" can be accessed by clicking on the headphones in the right-paw column). There is a current popular track by Maroon 5 (featuring Christina Aguilera) called "Moves Like Jagger"). Sweet Kevin rechristened it, live on-air, for me: "Moves Like Jasper"! And, although I bark it myself - my moves ARE good. Oh yes, believe it baby. Seriously. Listen to Kev. - he deserves a wider audience.

My Holly tree continues to thrive. My partner and I did a spot of gardening this afternoon and put a little bit of compost around it. My partner says that this will help to feed the roots. I can quite understand this; compost is delicious. I always try and snaffle a few bites of it from the garden whenever we visit my partner's parents house.

I have got a brand-new next-door neighbour! He is a very, very young Staffordshire Bull Terrier and his name is Milo. He looks very much like me. So much so, in fact, that were it not for the operation of which we do not bark, I would have been racking my brains to try and recall any recent indiscretions. Particularly as the pup has already shown a decided fondness for my other neighbour, pretty Westie Terrier Rosie, - and (as we all know) the apple never falls far from the tree... Milo, apart from his infant cuteness, has one temporary advantage over me however - his diminutive size. Several times now the puppy has escaped from his rear garden by hopping between the fence posts and, each time, it was to scamper directly to Rosie's kitchen! By rights, I ought to be jealous, but I confess that I admire the lad's pluck. Plus which, Rosie continues to show a distinct preference for me (one cannot blame her - she is only canine, after all). I can therefore chuckle with fond indulgence over Milo's love-struck antics.

Following the mortifications visited upon me by having my teeth brushed, I have been subjected to further indignity in the bathroom. Yes, dear reader, yes. It's true.

On Wednesday, I was enjoying the unusually-warm October sun and was dozing peaceably in the work-yard. Alas for me, however, I had settled my rear into a small pool of spilled diesel fuel. My rump was irredeemably tarnished. I tried to shield it from my partner but, of course, she clocked me straight away. After a bit of light verbal chiding, and mockery from other friends and colleagues, I thought I'd got off lightly. But no. Oh no.

As soon as we arrived home, I was marched directly upstairs to our salle de bains and lifted into the bath/shower. This, in itself, was troubling enough. I was then ushered into a nightmare from the mind of of the inimitable Alfred Hitchcock himself.

Uh-oh...

My terror mounted as my partner left the room for a moment. When she returned, however, she was not dressed as her mother and brandishing a fish-slice. She had merely changed into some casual clothes and was armed with nothing more sinister than a bottle of shampoo and an extra freshly-laundered towel, lest I suffer from a chill on exiting the bathroom with damp fur.

This was the first shower I had received since our bathroom was re-fitted earlier this year. I have to admit that the warm jets of water that issued from my new shower unit were infinitely pleasant and not a little relaxing. My partner had also shown consideration in selecting an unscented shampoo, so that I would not be transformed by this episode from the mighty Jasper H. Stafford into a pampered fool. Submitting happily, therefore, to my bath it proved as painless as it was pleasurable. More than can be barked for the unfortunate Marion Crane, I feel - but she really shouldn't have stolen that cash in the first place. And taking a room in a place so obviously sinister as the Bates Motel is just asking for trouble.

For the sake of appearances (and in the hope of gaining an extra supper-biscuit by making my partner feel guilty), I pretended that I had been traumatised by my appalling defilement in the shower. Yet again I was thwarted. I left my partner to clean up the bathroom by herself, whilst I headed downstairs for a drink and a nap. Unfortunately, I was so soothed by my evening bath that I fell fast asleep.

For any reader troubled by the prospect of my Hitchcockian trauma in the shower, I offer you comfort here in this post-bathing image, in which I was captured unawares by my partner - curled up snugly in the foetal-position with a great big grin on my face. My partner says this is one of her favourite pictures of me, despite it being taken less than four days ago, with my tumour-infested-snout side uppermost:

Good night.

Saturday 17 September 2011

2011-09-17T18:38:00.003+01:00

I don't know if anyone is aware of the matter - but, next year, my homeland is hosting some kind of sporting competition. The Olympics. All well and good. Competitors of every nation and ability will come together in an endeavour to be the best in their chosen discipline. I note that there is no special event entitled "The Stupid Olympics". This can only be because my canine chum, perennial idiot Ewan, would win each and every medal.

His latest "discovery" is, apparently, a "singing stick". A stick that sings to him. He brought it into the work-yard from the bridleway to show me the other day (I don't always go along the bridleway with Ewan these days. Although I continue well, my snout is delicate and Ewan is not careful with his toys. I have taken several nasty knocks to my face and, though I cannot blame Ewan for these accidents (the lad has not a single malicious whisker on him), I would prefer not to take another sound whack on the snout). Ewan carried the stick aloft in his mouth as he trotted across the yard and then laid it reverentially at my paws. "The magic singing stick." he announced, with awe in his voice. I looked at it dubiously.

It looked like, well, a stick. I prodded it with a paw. It didn't sing.

Ewan began to extol the musical powers of the stick. How it sang to him at regular intervals, with surprising vocal range for a discarded bit of tree. I have to bark I wasn't convinced. I noticed Fizzy, Ewan's Black Labrador basket-mate, ambling towards us. She stopped abruptly and changed direction when she saw the subject of Ewan's enthusiasm on the ground in front of me, muttering "Not that ruddy stick again..." to herself.

On this occasion, I regret to inform you, the stick failed to respond to Ewan's earnest entreaties and did not regale us with a medley of hits from musical theatre or an homage to Presley - or, indeed, any sound whatsoever. Eventually, Ewan grew bored with his latest "discovery" and wandered off to investigate something else.

Another truly gold medal-winning performance from the always-reliable Ewan.

In researching a recent magazine article, I had cause to look over some of my blog entries from the last few months. I find that my snout-tumour was first diagnosed on Saturday 4 June - and I was given months only to live. "Three at most." I didn't reveal that at the time, as I could hardly process the news myself, let alone bark about it. But we are more than three months on now - and I am still here; still strong; still Jasper.

I am enjoying being me, and have no plans for ceasing just yet! My partner cries a great deal though. I wish she would not, for it unsettles me. Often, she cannot be comforted. I like to think that this may be due to our ongoing desperate financial situation (we are hoping that the darkest hour is, indeed, before the dawn - then what a bright dawn it ought to be; we cannot continue for many more months in our current state...), but I am forced to admit to myself that my health troubles must be, at least in part, to blame.

Of course, my partner makes every effort to appear buoyant before me, and I am grateful for that. I am sure it is largely due to her care and attentions, as well as my naturally strong and healthful internal make-up, that I continue so well. But I have noticed that she now never fails to take an opportunity to hug me, kiss my little furry head, or tell me what a good boy I am and how she loves me. Sometimes she cannot settle to sleep at night until she has done this several times over - even after we have had our bedtime chapter of our book (currently still on Sense and Sensibility, Volume Three now though) and lights-out. I never mind these extra shows of affection, although I'll admit that sometimes I am baffled as to the reason for them.

I mentioned these supernumerary attentions to my friends Ewan and Fizzy yesterday afternoon (obviously I didn't use the word 'supernumerary'). The "singing stick" having been temporarily forgotten by Ewan, the three of us were basking in the afternoon sun. Fizzy was on one side of Ewan, quietly enjoying the scene, Ewan was in the centre, washing his forepaws, and I was soaking up the sun as I explained my present situation. As I chattered on, I rolled over onto my back and rested my hindpaws up against Ewan's slim flank, enjoying the warm late summer sun on my belly. My two friends listened as I wuffed to them about my partner's increased hugs and marks of affection, countered somewhat by the despair and abject heartbreak clearly visible in her eyes at these times.

"Well, of course, that's the awful tragedy of the thing." remarked Ewan solemnly, when I had finished barking. He was still licking his paws as he barked. Still lying on my back, I looked up as Fizzy's head appeared over Ewan's shoulder, to exchange an amused glance with me. We wondered what he was going to come out with now. I asked Ewan what he meant. "Well," he replied, his attention still engrossed in washing his paws, "That's it, isn't it? No matter how many hundredillions of times she says it, it'll never be enough. She's trying to make up for the one thing that she can't never ever have." I listened, with one eyebrow raised. "I mean," he went on, "Cause when someone is gone forever in upstairs Heaven, all their best friend ever wants is just ONE more cuddle and just ONE more kiss and just ONE more smile." Still licking his forepaws, he concluded "And that's the one single thing that you can't have. Even if you give away everything for just ONE more. You can't have it. I bet my favourite piece of cheese - she is trying to get lots of kisses done before it's too late." Ceasing his licking, Ewan looked down and admired his freshly-cleaned paws. "But it won't make any difference." He settled his head on his clean paws and closed his eyes, ready to nap. "Because always you just want ONE more. And then it's too late."

I was barkless. Utterly barkless. I opened my mouth to bark a reply - but no sound came out.

I could tell from the tone of her silence that Fizzy was as profoundly struck as me. I felt humbled and deeply moved by this unexpected, uncharacteristic, yet undoubted wisdom from Ewan. I confined myself to nodding, before losing myself in thought. After some minutes, Fizzy raised her head and planted a firm, sincere, kiss on her beloved mate's cheek.

Today, as we were doing some gardening, my partner and I happened upon a most curious appearance - a tiny Holly tree sapling has sprung up in the middle of my estate over the past day or two. My partner was well into her weeding and almost pulled it up before realising what it was. There is no Holly near to my estate, so it must have sprung up from a berry, dropped into our garden long-ago by a feathered visitor to our bird table. My partner has decided not to pull it up, but to nurture it and let it grow. I helped her to clear the stones away from its little base and put soil and compost around it to support its minute, supple, stem.

Helping to make space for, and shore-up, my Holly tree

All done!

Surveying my work with satisfaction from the patio

My partner says that this will be MY Holly tree - it will be green and beautiful all year 'round and, when it's grown bigger and stronger, it will have pretty red berries on it to feed the birds in winter. And, when I am gone, I will be able to look down from Heaven at my pretty Holly tree and think "I helped that tree to live."

Good night.

Sunday 11 September 2011

2011-09-11T14:19:00.002+01:00

Can it really have been ten whole years? TEN years? But it seems like only yesterday...

My partner and I are watching live coverage from the site of the World Trade Centre. When it happened, I was just a young lad, barely two years old. I hadn't even met my partner. Now - ten years on - I, myself, am dying.

I don't know what the next few days, weeks, perhaps months, may bring me - but I do know that, when I reach the next world, I will be able to tell those whom we lost that they are not forgotten; that they are still loved. I would consider that an honour.

Remember the suffering living, and honour the innocent dead.

Sirius. PAPD Sniffer-Dog killed on duty when the North Tower of the WTC collapsed on Tuesday, 11/9/2001.

Sirius's body is recovered on January 22, 2002. His partner, PAPD Officer David Lim, helped to carry him home.

Good afternoon.

Monday 5 September 2011

2011-09-05T22:40:00.003+01:00

Lawks a-mercy; what fresh hell is this?! One in which I am being deliberately deceived, for a start.

My partner was paid last week (hurrah!), which meant she could once again purchase food (double-hurrah!!). Now, as everyone knows, when one's partner goes food shopping, the first item amongst purchases to be unpacked ought always to be the "big shop" treat for one's trusty canine sidekick. After all, who has spent all of the previous month diligently and dutifully eating the food so laboriously worked for and lovingly prepared? Who has saved many an unnecessary calorie or carbohydrate from passing less-resilient lips by stealing it from the plate? Who has carefully guarded their loved-one whilst they undertake the hazardous task of storing away the shopping in one's many cupboards? Why, one's loving and faithful dog, of course!

After the shopping bags were all transferred from our New Teal Megane to our hallway, I carefully positioned my posterior so that I could achieve maximum eye-contact with my partner. This accomplished, I adopted my most winning "thank you, dearest one, for toiling so hard at your work and for tramping around the supermarket so that I may be sustained in my frail dotage" expression and left my dewy brown eyes to do their foul work...

At length (far longer than I would have liked), my partner was unable to avoid my eye any longer and admitted "Oh yes, Jasper, I bought something especially for you!" as she took a long, thin, white packet from one of the bags.
"Bit different." I thought to myself but, never having been one to spurn a treat, I sniffed the proffered item hopefully. It seemed to contain two firm, stick-like, lengths. Hesitantly, I took a nip at my gift and immediately recoiled in disgust. It was tasteless and like plastic.
"Yes!" beamed my partner. "I've bought you a couple of toothbrushes! Time we did something about those dirty fangs and potty-breath!"

Dirty fangs?! POTTY-BREATH?! The impudent girl! I've been storing some of that stuff in my back teeth for years...!

"Ermm..." I muttered, floundering as I tried to effect gratitude sufficient to hide my scorn. "Thank you... errr... but I'm not sure we can afford them... Perhaps you ought not to think of me so much and treat yourself once in a while..."
"Oh, Jazzy, you're SO sweet!" she grinned, patting my head. "But you mustn't worry - they were the cheap 'Basics' ones and were only 20p for the two!"

Dammit! Curse Messrs Sainsbury and their Basics Value range! Curse them all the way to Hades and back - on the end of a VERY sharp spike!!

"Ah, hehehe... how fortunate for me that they have started doing toothbrushes... hehehe..." I replied weakly. As my partner handed me a PROPER (i.e. edible) 'big shop' treat, I tried to formulate a plan to get out of having my fangs brushed. I could think of nothing at once both practical and convincing.

Having barked this, whilst fate often cruelly mocks me it can sometimes also reward me. Thus it transpired on my evening walk. After eating my dinner while my partner finished putting away our shopping, we bent our steps to the park and the river. I fancied supplementing my meal with a tasty salad. As everyone knows, the most delicious, most succulent blades of salad can be found nearest to the riverbank. Alas, however, the riverbank can sometimes also be a veritable roulette-wheel of snacks. When my partner spotted what I was about she called out a warning: "Jasper! Don't go putting any of the reeds into your mouth! They've got sharp edges!!"

I muttered something cheeky and indistinct under my breath - before feeling a sudden vicious pain on the tip of my tongue and a tell-tale metallic taste in my mouth. I tried to squeal quietly - alas, this is never a gift I have been able to master. My partner came running up to me and saw the little trickle of blood peeping out from betwixt my lips.
"Oh Jasper!" she cried, with a mixture of concern and exasperation, "What have I told you?!"
"Ummm... not to eat the reedth...?" I lisped.
"Right! And have you been eating the reeds?"
"No."
"Have you been eating the reeds?!"
"Yeth."
"And what have I always said to you?!"
"You thaid 'Jathper, don't eat the reedth'."

My partner sighed and shook her head as she bent over me and dabbed at my tongue with a paper handkerchief. It wasn't a bad cut, though being on the base of the end of my tongue it is proving somewhat slow to mend. No mind - for my partner daren't approach my fangs with the wretched new toothbrush until the scab is healed; another victory for me, hehehe...!

At least I have lost the shaming lisp - which is just as well, as I have to face up to Fizzy and Ewan tomorrow, and Fizzy is STILL on heat...

From last week:

Fizzy puts the moves on JHS whilst Ewan's tail is turned...

...innocent, unsuspecting, Ewan being preoccupied with a very serious and complex choice...

JHS having successfully deflected her attentions (note hind-paw at top left of photograph; keeping well out of it), and Ewan having made his selection, Fizzy turns to pursue her reluctant husband. Who promptly legs it into the woods with his football.

Dear, oh dear. What a tangled web life weaves about me - thank goodness I can unburden myself to you, sweet reader.

Good night.

Monday 29 August 2011

2011-08-29T22:14:00.006+01:00

Dear, oh dear. Long time no bark. Mostly my fault, I confess - I was poorly for the first week and tired for the second. I am much recovered now though, and have not endured a serious nosebleed for some days.

I would like to thank ALL the friends - old and new - for their lovely messages on the occasion of my fifth blog anniversary - I felt very blessed to hear from you.

So now I must pay the toll for a lengthy absence - with a backlog of catching-up.

The sorry saga of Edward and Angus (Rottweilers) rumbles on, with no let-up in tensions. Eddie is still keeping to his garden, playing the pained holy martyr for all he is worth. Even a vast dog-fight in the next cul-de-sac (I was NOT involved with those troublesome curs) failed to tempt him out. The local wee-mail posts haven't been terribly helpful either. Most of the ones at my height contain traces of Angus' protestations of innocence, though covered-over by the tittle-tattle of smaller, gossiping, dogs on matters I'm not even going to pretend to be interested in. Higher-up are posts from larger dogs, less-often posted across, and these can be more forthcoming - they seem to contain additional entreaties from the spurned Angus and a variety of remarks, some mocking, some in support of, his case. 'Tis all to no avail, however: Eddie refuses to grant anyone except Milo, his cat friend, an audience. He does deign to bark to me or Archie the Jack-Russell through the fence, but I dislike conversations where I cannot see the other participant, and I grow tired of Eddie's constant bellyaching about Angus' supposed indiscretion. Archie gave up on him weeks ago. If Edward is going to play the fool, he will find it a very lonely game.

Last week I encountered Ewan (empty-headed mutt) and his basket-mate Fizzy (long-suffering black Labrador) at work for the first time since Ewan's wasp-attack. Apart from a few lumps and bumps, and a slight cough, he seemed much recovered. I asked my partner for a piece of cheese (Ewan's bizarre, delusional, obsession) as a gift for him. She had recently purchased some tasty, mature, Cheddar on special offer, so she kindly cut off a wedge and wrapped it in greaseproof paper for me to give to Ewan.

The simple Ewan was so grateful for his present that I thought he might actually start crying. Fortunately he didn't. He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, raising up his snout in concentration to savour the flavour.
"Nice?" I asked, as he finished the morsel.
"The best cheese in the WORLD!" beamed my friend, trotting over and planting a big cheesy kiss on my snout. I was delighted to have cheered my friend, though he did still seem a little more subdued than normal. Fizzy clung to Ewan like a Barnacle - no bad thing, as he persisted in gravitating towards the still-active wasps' nest, seeking alternately an apology for their battering of him or their participation in a game of football (the cause of the original assault). I began to wonder how Ewan had survived as long as he did before Fizzy entered our lives...

The events of the rest of the day are somewhat difficult to describe. I know not whether they were more complete farce or pure pantomime. In the end, unable to decide, I settled back and quietly enjoyed the scene.

Firstly, as I barked, Fizzy was sticking to Ewan like a Limpet with additional separation-issues, to preserve his innocent body from the wasps. Unhappily for our happy canine couple, Fizzy was ALSO on heat (having her period). Ordinarily, Ewan delights in the company of his belovèd mate. But when she is menstruating, my friend will do all in his power to hide from her. Fizzy has urges at these times which are as persistent as they are insatiable. Even I hide from Fizzy at such times - and I have never been one to shy away from a lovely lady. Fizzy, in her turn, during her seasons longs greatly for solitude, a heated pad for her aching belly, and a welcome respite from her erstwhile witless husband (until her persistent insatiable urges take hold of her, during which she seeks out Ewan and slaps him 'round the back of his empty head until he capitulates and complies with her desires. Poor Ewan - no wonder he hides). Apart from the times of the urges, Ewan's tender nature compels him to watch lovingly over his sweetheart, lest her periodic torments prove too great. Watching the pair of them trying to outdo themselves in constant attendance on each other - all the while also each trying to evade the notice of the other - gave me the richest afternoon of comedy I had enjoyed in a long while.

I took care to pretend to be asleep when each friend separately approached to entreat my assistance in their endeavours against the other. Wasps be d*mned - Ewan and Fizzy's relationship was a vipers' nest; into which braver souls than I have feared to venture... It was all most wonderfully diverting.

Whilst out in our New Teal Megane with my partner yesterday morning, we had to stop at a junction and I found the car at a halt before me to contain Angus. He was sitting in the boot and, as he turned, a broad grin beamed over his face as he recognised me. Angus was too well-mannered a Rottweiler to jump up in his car and start gesturing to me, but he did try frantically to mouth something through the rear glass. Unable to hear him through the vitreous panes which separated us, all I managed to decipher before the cars were once again in motion was "Drowse wetly." A most odd message. I was unable to attempt a clarification, as his car turned off at the next junction, whilst I continued on my way.

It was only whilst writing this that I realised what he was actually mouthing was "How's Eddie?" Oh.

Well - it's not MY fault that Rottweilers have unnecessarily large lips for their mealy mouths. Had they possessed perfectly proportioned ones - like mine - I would have experienced no difficulty in comprehending him. They have only themselves to blame.

Good night.

Saturday 13 August 2011

2011-08-13T23:17:00.001+01:00

Well, here it is: the day that I never thought I'd reach.
On this very day, five years ago,
I applied to my partner for permission to start my own blog!

For 'twas on 13 August 2006 that the world first heard from Jasper Stafford.

I hope I have not bored you over these years. I hope I shall not bore you for the time that remains to us, be it years, months, weeks - or mere days. And to each and every one who has taken the time to share a moment with me - I thank you most gratefully and whole-heartedly.

For some time now, I have been struggling to choose a subject for my Fifth Anniversary post. Nothing maudlin, yet nothing too trivial. I have much still to bark; of Ewan and his wasp antagonists, of the turbulent affection between Edward and Angus, of Rosie, Honey, Peaches, Archie, William, Kitten-Jasper, and all those close to me. Also, of course, the final instalment of "The Evolution of Jasper" - that would have been ideal but, in line with my customary idleness, I have yet to finish the piece.

I mused on all these things as I walked around the park with my partner last evening. As we neared the end of the lower field, we were met by a lady with two dogs. One was a young, dark, curly-haired young fellow, affable enough but somewhat shy. The other was an Alsation-type, but with shorter fur. This latter dog was clearly very elderly indeed. His forelegs were rather misshapen and protruded at odd angles. Despite this, he seemed happily content and hobbled along as best he could. On speaking to the lady, my partner ascertained that the aged dog was well into his fourteenth year - over twelve months older than myself. I wandered after him, and soon caught up with him, for his progress was slow.

"Hello, son." he barked, as I drew up alongside him. I greeted him politely, almost deferentially, but he seemed not to hear me. "Look at them." he continued, as I followed his gaze towards the skateboard ramp, on which several young teenagers were whizzing up and down on their skateboards. "Enjoying the prime of their lives. What I wouldn't give for a turn on one of those skateboards."

I nodded silently. I'd often fancied chancing my paw on a skateboard myself. Before I could bark anything, the elderly dog turned and began to clumsily attempt to break into a run. He stumbled, but resisted my efforts to support him, and his partner called out to him as he steadied himself,
"No, Charley! You can't run any more! Did you forget?"

"Silly me." grunted Charley, puffing a bit as he carefully righted himself. "I didn't forget - but sometimes it's important just to give it a go though, eh? Hehehe... Sometimes, if I'm heading down a slope, I can still get a bit of a trot on. Not much, but enough to get a bit of breeze in me fur. Ah, I remember those days when I ran so fast that the speed would send me ears flapping behind me... Happy times."
I nodded again and smiled politely, privately reflecting on how fortunate I was to still be able to achieve - and maintain - a fast run, even uphill, and enjoy the sweet sensation of the wind blowing my ears back.

"At least I can still shift meself about on me old pins, after a fashion." continued the elderly dog, beginning his awkward journey back to his partner, "And it does me good to watch the young 'un dashing around." Charley indicated the younger curly-haired dog, who was excitedly chasing a ball thrown for him by the lady. "Nope," he continued, "Bit of a wander of an evening, a good dinner and a comfy basket. Can't ask for anything more." As he barked, he wagged his tail from side to side, ceasing only when it made his walking more precarious.

"But don't you mind?" I asked, as tactfully as I could. "Doesn't it break your heart that you can't run and play any more?"

Charley stopped hobbling along and sighed, seeming for a moment almost sad and wistful. He looked down at the withered, twisted, stiff and almost-useless sticks which had once been his fine, supple and proud forelimbs.
"You know son," he said, looking up after a while and grinning, "Some old folks lose the use of their limbs. And some old folks lose the use of their minds. I reckon I'm one of the lucky ones. I might not run about like a pup, exploring everything, and chasing all the pretty bitches that God put in my way - but I can remember the times when I did - and nothing and no-one can ever take them memories away from me."

We had reached the lower park gate. "Yup." puffed Charley, as he followed his partner and the younger dog through the gate and back towards his home, "I've got LOTS to be thankful for. See you around, son."

As brief as it was, I felt profoundly moved by my encounter with Charley. And how timely our meeting was. For I believe that this was the message I had been looking for, to share with you on this Fifth Anniversary post:

In all that life has thrown at me and in the challenges I continue to face - I have MUCH to be thankful for.

And this blog - and your support in reading it - is just one of my many blessings.

Good night. And thank you.

Tuesday 9 August 2011

2011-08-09T23:46:00.002+01:00

Here's a phrase you won't hear from me very often: "I'm frightened."

And this has nothing to do with the cancer, which has latterly - and foolishly - decided to take on in battle the mighty Jasper Horatio Stafford. No, I am most unsettled by the vast and violent rampages presently taking place in London and moving also to Manchester and Birmingham. Streets and buildings are burning, chaotic, and hugely unsafe. Public transport and sporting fixtures in the affected areas have been cancelled and almost industrial-scale looting is taking place. Why?

I mean, I am all for free speech - even for humans - but surely the majority of the miscreants are not even attempting to stage a moral uprising, bring down a government or simply make the strength of their arguments heard. No. They are heading straight for PC World, the Carphone Warehouse, HMV, off-licences, sports-wear shops, restaurants, banks, et cetera ad infinitum and trying to steal as much high-priced booty as possible. What kind of public statement is that?!

Entire areas, along with vehicles, local amenities, etc., have been left burnt-out and gutted. Do not the thuggish masses, whilst high on the euphoria of destruction and anarchy, pause to consider that they - as well as their mothers, fathers, and grandparents - will have to go on living in these now battle-scarred ruins? How can the already-impoverished taxpayers rebuild the destruction wrought by the cities' own residents?

Should even these questions prove insufficient to trouble the mind, take a look at this news report:

"Blood was flowing in the [streets]. Five or six thousand…, stirred up by a diabolical cabal that aimed to destroy the [authorities]…, gathered at ten o'clock in the morning. Armed…, they furiously attacked the house of a man named ---, who is the manager of a factory… that makes fine wallpaper.

Howling, and screaming…, the rioters scaled the walls and broke down the doors. They looted everything they could find, burned the wallpapers and the designs and even bonds, ransacked the gardens and cut down trees. The house was splendidly furnished — mirrors, books, chests, tables, everything was smashed and thrown out the windows. --- and his wife and children escaped over the garden wall.

The [Police] fired several rounds, but this only stirred up the mob even more. They climbed up onto houses and threw stones at the troops. The [Police] advanced… The rioting lasted until four in the morning…

Another body of five or six hundred… were scattered throughout neighbouring streets. They stopped [vehicles]…, heaped vulgar insults at them before taking their money and their watches… The rabble set off in [another] direction. Luckily most of them were drunk and they soon changed their minds and continued to roam the streets. All this makes one tremble for the unhappy kingdom. It is a tissue of horrors and abominations."

A vivid picture of the ongoing, troubling, events in our major cities - which only seems to be spiralling further and further out of control. But this news article was not a recent piece. Oh no.

It is taken from a report written in Paris in 1789 by the Marquis de Ferrières and describes the earliest stages of the foul, bloody, and horrific French Revolution - La Terreur.

And THIS is a world in which I am battling against cancer to survive. Ye gods.

Let us hope for better things, and offer kindness and sympathy to those who are trapped, terrified, in their own homes by the savagery of their ignorant neighbours.

Good night.

Sunday 7 August 2011

2011-08-07T17:10:00.001+01:00

Three, it seems, is the magic number.

I am the third of my partner's three dogs; in general, my most happy packs have consisted of three members (me, Rex, and Kipper - me, Candy, and Harvey - me, Ewan, and Fizzy); I have had three wives and never less than three girlfriends.

Thus it was in the park on Thursday evening. In a fit of sneezing, three tumours (actually three and a bit) dislodged from my nasal cavity and were projected across the grass by my powerful snout. My partner retrieved them and wrapped them up to take to the vets. It gave me much amusement to note that she had to pick up these items in front of two handsome young men who were playing tennis nearby, hehe...

I wanted to put a photo of what came out here on my blog but my partner said that was nasty. I put my paw down, reminding her that she had defied me last time. We reached a compromise agreement. If you click on the link below, you can see a photo (reluctantly taken by my partner) of the three offenders. My partner says that I have to warn you that you must ONLY click on it if you want to, because it's "gross". I think it's brilliant!

Click here to see what was in my head only 15 minutes before the snap was taken: http://i750.photobucket.com/albums/xx146/RuthnJasper/Image0282.jpg Hehehe...!

I felt SO much better after the matter had been expelled that I ran around the whole park twice, faster than my partner could catch me. There was a pretty bitch, who I'd never seen before, in the lower field, so I capered around her more than a few times. By the time my partner had got near enough to apologise to the bitch and her partner for my rapid approach, I was but a mere white speck in the distance. Brilliant!

Alas for my Rottweiler friend and near-neighbour, Edward, the number three is slightly less-auspicious at present. I haven't seen him for ages, though I have certainly heard him. Little Jack Russell, Archie, from the end of my row of houses, paused at the fence of Eddie's garden the other morning on his way out for his walk, to ask if he was all right. I was still in bed (Archie is a very early riser, and my partner and I had a few days off from work last week). I heard Archie's polite enquiry and an aggressive, sweary, snarl in reply from Ed. I sat up suddenly, as I heard Archie beating a hasty retreat. This was most unlike Edward. He was almost never irritable in general, and I was completely unaccustomed to such a level of profanity from him. I grew quite concerned and, later that morning, whilst my partner did some weeding in our garden, I trotted over to see if I could help.

Eddie refused to show himself, but he did deign to bark with me through his fence. It transpired that Angus, Edward's fellow-Rottweiler and long-term "significant other" had been on holiday with his partners to Scotland and had returned with slightly more than the customary souvenir tin of shortbread. Apparently, Angus had a mild Highland fling with a dog called Benji. Quite why or how Angus had been indiscreet enough to let this slip to Edward - a jealous dog at the best of times - eluded me, but Eddie was understandably livid. He gave me a long list of torments to inflict on Angus if I should chance to see him, none of which can be decently described on this blog. I expressed my sympathies and left Eddie alone with his temper. He DID ask me to apologise to Archie for him, though.

My partner and I are about to enter a bleak period of austerity. Only a week has passed since payday, with another three to go until our next remittance and, after all bills have been paid, we have £48 left to last us until the end of the month. Troubling times, indeed.

But, for the time being, we are together, healthy, and - united as we are - we find the courage to face each new day.

A nice summer early-evening in my garden

Good night.

Sunday 30 July 2011

2011-08-01T00:17:00.007+01:00

Wasps. Specifically the English Vespula vulgaris (I believe my American friends may know then as "Yellowjackets". A colloquial term in this part of England is, in fact, a "jasper". But this is an association with either the Latin "Vespa" or the coloured Chalcydony and certainly naught to do with me.). Even their very name - "Wasps" - sounds harsh and painful. Why do wasps even exist? They serve only to annoy and cause pain.

In short - I believe that Noah made a SERIOUS mistake in offering a wasp-duo accommodation on his antediluvian Ark.

I have no particular argument with the wingèd malevolents, although my partner detests them. The first of my two predecessors - pretty Jack Russell, Jacqueline, - once inadvertently put her paw through a wasps' nest whilst out on a walk with my partner. Both Jaki and my partner were badly injured. My partner still bears a scar on her stomach some 22 years after the incident and poor Jaki was on steroids for three weeks - her little head swelled to the size of a football - and for the rest of her days was permanently scarred on her snout.

**********************************************************************************

Let us turn momentarily to a vastly different world. The harmless and profoundly simple world of my friend Ewan. As I have barked previously, he has the intellectual capacity of a garden pea and a bizarre, delusional, fixation with cheese. No-one who has ever met Ewan could deny that he has some pretty severe cerebral difficulties. That barked, however, Ewan is the most warm-hearted, loving, trusting friend that a dog could ever ask for. He is always happy and finds pleasure and delight in every aspect of life (with the possible exception of the times when his basket-mate and sweetheart, Fizzy, is on heat - but we'll not, dear reader, go there).

I have known Ewan for some 3½ years now and have only once, in all that time, heard him raise his voice in anger - and that was to defend a litter of orphaned kittens. Ewan's simple-mindedness may be exasperating at times, but I doubt there is a more affectionate dog in the whole of existence.

**********************************************************************************

Unhappily, I was privy to events that transpired a few days ago when these two, diametrically-opposed, worlds collided.

For the past two weeks or so, there has been a sizeable wasps' nest in the yard, behind the skip. We were first alerted to its existence when two of my partner's colleagues went to retrieve some concrete blocks which were occasionally used as anchors for temporary fencing. They moved one block and then fled, pursued by dozens of angry guard-wasps. That, needless to say, was the end of the temporary fencing plans. In addition, as our work is primarily conservation-based, it would be both cruel and unethical to "deal with" the wasps. I beg, in this case, to differ.

On Friday, Ewan, Fizzy and I were enjoying a mid-morning nap. It was a hot day and the office doors were all open. In actual fact, to be more honest, Fizzy and I were enjoying a mid-morning nap. Ewan was finding it difficult to settle. He would come and lie beside me, on the floor behind my partner's chair, for about five minutes and then get up and pad over to Fizzy, who was snoozing in her favourite corner in the other office, and lie beside her for a bit, before returning to me - and so on. And on... Ewan's restlessness was seriously starting to grate on my nerves, though Fizzy snored on, oblivious. She was a very heavy sleeper. Mind you, I think that if I shared a basket with Ewan every night, I'd be a heavy sleeper too...

Eventually, Ewan approached once more, having been mooching about in the yard.
"Jazz!" he yipped excitedly, "I've found some new friends to play with! They're sort of small and all stripey but I'm going to go and play football with them! D'you want to come and play as well?!"
"Maybe in a bit, thanks Ewan." I mumbled drowsily.
"Okay!" said Ewan, grinning widely and wagging his huge mad tail. "Better go because I don't want to keep my new friends waiting! Bye!"
"Bye-bye." I grunted, as Ewan pattered happily outside.
"Hello my new friends!" I heard him bark. "Here is my football! Please will you want to play with me?!"

I began to doze, smiling to myself at Ewan's simple enthusiasm for making friends with all he encountered. After a moment or two, I opened my eyes with an abrupt jolt as a thought suddenly struck me. "I bark," I wondered to myself, "I don't suppose old Ewan is messing about with those wasps...?). Deciding that I'd better investigate, I got to my paws and stretched, before heading out to the yard.

I had only just got as far as the rear door before there was a sudden shrill yelp of pain. This was quickly followed by another and another. Glancing briefly back at Fizzy, who was still fast asleep, I knew that I couldn't waste another moment. Racing as fast as I could to the other side of the yard, where the skip was, I saw poor Ewan - who, by now, was screaming and crying - surrounded by a cloud of angry wasps. Ewan was hysterical and panicking, unable to move. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and barrelled into the malevolent, noisily-buzzing, horde. I clamped my fangs down sharply on Ewan's tail and dragged him away from the nest. The wasps followed still harassing and stinging Ewan, who was wailing in extreme pain and fear.
"FIZZY!" I barked, at the top of my voice, "FIZZY!!" The pretty black Labrador came bolting out of the building at my second cry, shrieking when she saw the predicament her chosen mate was in. She, too, became instantly hysterical, rendering her usual good sense absolutely useless.

I pause now, to offer you a fact which you may not already know about wasps. When they sting, along with the barbed, poison-tipped, sting itself, they also leave a pheromone-based scent on the skin of their victim. This, in turn, attracts other wasps to similarly punish the hapless quarry.

Fizzy, as I mentioned, was beside herself. Poor Ewan now, in addition to his yelps and screams, began to sob.
"I hurts! I hurts!" he wailed, giving agonised squeals with each new sting. "Why is they doing it Jazz?! I only wanted to play! I is hurting! It burns! It burns! It burns!"
"Inside! NOW!!" I barked, snapping Fizzy to some form of usefulness, and together we dragged Ewan into the workshop, where the wasps couldn't attack any more. Quite how I managed to escape being stung will remain forever a mystery.

Ewan howled and howled, in terrible agony, and began to cry most piteously. His partner quickly joined us and she and another colleague gathered up the shrieking dog and carried him to her Land-Rover. "Fizzy! Go with him!" I ordered. Fizzy didn't move, rooted to the spot in shock. "FIZZY!" I barked, startling her into life again, "With Ewan! Now!! You can help to keep him calm!" Fizzy dashed to the Land-Rover and leapt in just before the door was closed. The sound of Ewan's screams slowly receded as the Land-Rover sped off to the local vets' practice.

I will now admit that I was profoundly distressed by the whole episode - and not a little angry. Poor Ewan. Whilst I can appreciate that the wasps may have viewed him as a threat, not even the most basic species of nematode could ever perceive him as a real threat. All he had wanted to do was to be friendly - and this was his reward.

After a VERY tense wait of some forty minutes or so, the Land-Rover pulled back into the yard. It was to my inexpressible relief that I saw two canine forms on the back seat, as usual. When the vehicle stopped and the rear door was opened, Fizzy jumped out and turned back to assist Ewan. He didn't look as bad as I had anticipated, but he was extremely subdued and most unsteady on his paws. My partner had filled a large bowl with water, in readiness for his return, and Ewan took a deep, long drink before he finally turned to me.

"Thank you Jasper." he croaked, weakly. "You is my bestest friend in the whole of the world." He went on to inform me that he had received two injections - a painkiller and an anti-inflammatory - and a course of tablets from the vet, which Fizzy was going to help him to take. Fizzy, for her part, was utterly devoted to her beleaguered basket-mate. Nothing was too much trouble for her and she proved over the rest of the day to be a most assiduous nurse. At length, Ewan began to stride, albeit unsteadily, towards the skip.

"Ewan!" I gasped, incredulously, "You nutter! What are you doing?!"
"I's going to march myself over there," replied Ewan in a determined bark, "And tell those naughty bad wasps what I thinks of them! I only wanted to be friends. Why did they hurt me Jazz? I don't understand why they makes me all sore!"

I wasted NO time in clamping my fangs down on Ewan's collar and Fizzy similarly grasped the other side of the collar. Together, we held firm on to Ewan, as his claws scrabbled uselessly on the tarmac.
"Ewan - you have been VERY badly hurt." I told him firmly. "Fizzy is going to help you back into your Land-Rover, where you can sleep in peace. You MUST rest and let your little body recover." I glanced briefly at Fizzy and she nodded. Ewan weakened his struggles.
"But - " he began. I cut him off.
"Ewan. I will go and bark to the wasps and tell them how wicked they have been. You leave that to me - and leave yourself to Fizzy for the rest of the day."
"Jaspie's right." barked Fizzy. "Come along darling. You need to be asleep now."
Ewan acquiesced.
"I's going to go and be asleep now." he whimpered.
"Good man." I smiled, as Fizzy supported Ewan, hobbling, back to the peace and quiet coolness of their vehicle. He turned back to me and gave me a watery smile before Fizzy helped him into the back seat.

"Thank you." grinned Ewan, with a pathetic yet heartfelt wag of his tail. "I love you very much Jazz."

That, to me, was worth risking a violent assault from any number of wasps for.

Of course, I had NO intention whatsoever of remonstrating with the little stripey b*st*rds. I'm not a complete idiot. But if they ever - EVER - hurt my friend Ewan again.... Well, let me just bark that I know where my partner stores the insecticide at our home - and I shall not hesitate to steal and employ it. They may, therefore, consider themselves duly warned.

And Jasper Horatio Stafford only EVER issues one warning.

Good night.

Sunday 24 July 2011

2011-07-24T16:33:00.003+01:00

I had TWO walks yesterday! Two!! AND I was naughty on both of them! Hehehe... I haven't felt so much like my old self for months!

Honestly - for an ageing Staffordshire Bull Terrier with mischief on his mind, I cannot recommend this tumour business highly enough. One can get away with all sorts of disobedience. Alas, however, there are inevitably drawbacks - and I don't mean the discomfort and premature-mortality.

I refer, of course, to my tiny-brained chum Ewan. You may recall that, on 7 July, I had informed him of my cancer. I suppose I ought to have anticipated trouble...

Ewan, Fizzy and their partner had been away from the office for a few days and returned on Friday. I was snoozing on the floor behind my partner's chair when I heard their vehicle pull into the yard. Yawning widely, I sat up, ready to greet my friends when they pattered into the office. All of a sudden - and without warning -

"DO YOU WANT TO SIT DOWN?!" bellowed Ewan into my ear, the dog having crept up behind me undetected.
"Aiyeeeeeee!!!" I screamed, as I shot about two feet into the air. "What the - Ewan!! - What was that for?!?"

Ewan looked aggrieved.
"FIZZY SAID - " he shouted.
"I'm not deaf, Ewan," I grunted. "You don't have to shout."
"Oh. Right. Brilliant. Yes. Fizzy said that I have to look after you and make sure you are all right because you are not very well."
"Well, that's very kind of you both." I replied, with a watery smile. "But I'm fine. Honestly. Don't you worry yourself."
"I's a good boy." grinned Ewan, nodding.
"You are." I agreed. "You are a very good kind boy. Off you trot and go and tell Fizzy."

Shaking my head, I watched Ewan padding away happily in quest of his basket-mate. Once he'd gone, I stretched, flopped over, and got back on with the business of my morning nap. Inevitably, my peace was not long-lasting. I was deep in the middle of a very pleasant dream involving my pretty next-door neighbour Rosie the Westie, when:
"DO YOU NEED TO GO TO THE TOILET?!?"

"Aiyeeeeeee!!! Ewan!! In the name of - Will you STOP doing that?!"
"Yes - but DO you?"
"Do I what?"
"Need to go to the toilet?!"
"I'm fine for the toilet just now, thanks Ewan."
"Okay. Bye!" And off he scampered. I could cheerfully have throttled him. I tried to go back to sleep and my dream, but all I saw in my mind's eye was the hideous image of Ewan, standing upright on his hind-legs, dressed in a nurse's uniform. Terrifying.

Abandoning all hope of sleep, therefore, and it being almost lunch-time, I ambled out into the yard for my daily potter down the bridleway. At which point Ewan, clearly on the watch, almost flew - like a racing greyhound in peak condition - across the yard from the other door towards me. He almost knocked me sideways as he skidded to a halt and collided with my flank. "Wait!" he panted, "You can't go out by yourself! Not in your condition!" He proceeded to half push, half support me along towards the bridleway entrance. "I will look after you Jazz!" declared Ewan earnestly. "I will support you as you walk and I can shake the drops for you when you pee - "

Right. That was the last straw. Never mind the Big C - this was a terminal dose of Ewan and I could endure it no longer.

As ever, Ewan himself was not to blame for his simple nature and willingness to assist. To chide him would be to deeply hurt and distress him. Plus, his love and concern for me were most touching. No; I knew exactly where to take my views. Whilst sidestepping to avoid being completely felled by Ewan as he was charging towards me it had not escaped my notice that Fizzy had retreated behind the skip in the yard, cackling to herself at Ewan's unlooked-for ministrations. I hated to employ such a dirty tactic - but needs must in such circumstances.
"Ewan..." I barked quietly.
"Yes Jazz?" responded my good-hearted friend.
"Thank you VERY much for being SO kind to me. You are a very good friend indeed."
"Really Jazz?!" gasped Ewan, his tail wagging madly.
"Yep. The best friend in the whole world."
"Wow!" he grinned - looking like the happiest dog in the whole of existence.
"But, you know, I really AM all right. You can play with me and talk to me like normal and it will be okay. I promise." As Ewan nodded and stopped trying to hold me up, I leaned towards his ear. "But, just between me and you, Fizzy has been barking to me just lately..."
"Oh?" whispered Ewan confidentially.
"Yes. She says she doesn't feel very well at all. And she said how much she wished she had a VERY good nurse to look after her ALL of the time..."
"Oh yes?"
"For definitely certain. Do you know a good dog who might be up to the job...?"

Ewan immediately took the hint. Standing up straight, he puffed out his chest.
"Yes, Jazz!" he announced. "I am the dog for the job!"
"Excellent fellow!" I grinned, winking at him. "But don't forget; It's our little secret! Shhh!!"
"Shhhhhh!" repeated Ewan, covering me in spittle. Then, he fled at full-pelt back to the yard where, through a gap in the bushes, I could see Fizzy emerging from behind the skip, still giggling. For many months I shall treasure the look upon her face as Ewan galloped towards her, frantically barking "FIZZY! FIZZ! FIZZY!! DO YOU NEED TO SIT DOWN?!"
"No, Ew, no! Not me!" she spluttered, but in vain.
"DO YOU NEED TO GO TO THE TOILET?!"

Chuckling to myself, I trotted off down the bridleway for a nice, peaceful walk - all to myself.

******************************************************************

My evening at home was scarcely less-troubling, alas. In exploring my borders, I was brutally attacked by a rose-bush. It bashed me with its spiny talons and I was forced to flee. As my partner pulled the thorns from my soft, trembling, flesh I ordered her to destroy the miscreant plant. Watching her activities later, I thought she was obeying me - but it turned out that she was just having a general pruning session. I will have to take steps to deal with the evil shrub myself. 'Tis often said that there is no peace for the wicked. They made no mention of the torments suffered by one as truly perfect as me.

To return, briefly, to the former topic of Ewan and Fizzy - my partner thought that it would be nice to have a sweet picture of the three of us together. We decided to comply without protest and Fizzy eventually succeeded (after 20 minutes) to persuade and cajole Ewan into sitting still for the pose. Alas, my partner made the fatal mistake of saying at the last moment "Now, everyone look at the camera!", which proved an instruction too far for Ewan:

Bless him.

Good night!

Saturday 23 July 2011

2011-07-23T11:03:00.000+01:00

Just a short entry to express my horror and sadness at today's events in Norway. This tragedy for our peaceful near-neighbours is as heartbreaking as it is shocking.

Fred være med dere, mine venner.

My thoughts are with the victims and their families and friends.

Saturday 16 July 2011

2011-07-17T00:34:00.001+01:00

At 3.44am today I delivered up another alien baby from my nostril.

Smaller than its brother from a couple of weeks ago, it put up something of a violent struggle. Blood gushed in its wake in a seemingly unstoppable river. As I tried to sneeze out the troublesome matter, blood sprayed up the bedroom wall. My partner began to wail and cry as her attempts to staunch the outpouring of blood proved ineffective. I couldn't prevent myself from sneezing and, with every new sternutation, blood spattered across the wall, the duvet, and my distraught partner.

At around 4.21am, after approximately half a roll of lavatory paper lay fragmented and blood-soaked around us, and some quarter of a pint of blood had daubed everything in the immediate vicinity, I was exhausted - yet still the blood continued to gush. In her desperation, my partner cried out, aloud, to God to help me.

Now, I'm not barking anything odd, but a few seconds after this heart-rending plea, the bleeding slowed to a trickle and then stopped. The rich red haemoglobin began to clot and my partner ceased dabbing at my snout, lest she accidentally re-start the bleeding. Feeling drained (quite literally) and weak, I collapsed into a state of semi-sleep. My partner gently kissed my cheek and stroked my neck and flank, telling me what a good, brave, boy I was, how much she loved me, and what an amazing, wonderful, dog I "had been". It had not escaped my notice that she had been clutching her mobile 'phone for the last twenty minutes.

I roused myself, wishing to reassure my trembling partner that, as far as I was concerned, this was NOT "my time". I kissed her hand and began to clean up some of the spilled blood. "It's all right, Jasper." said my partner softly, "Don't worry about the mess - I'll clean it all up. You just concentrate on resting and letting your body mend itself." She asked me if I needed the toilet, but I didn't. She then gently explained that she was going to get herself a cup of water and I wasn't to worry, as she would be back in just a moment.

True to her word, she soon returned with her water and lay beside me. As a pleasant little treat, she read me two chapters of our book to send me off to sleep (she reads aloud to me some evenings. It helps her to practise her dramatic voice and diction and I take great enjoyment from hearing a story and, more importantly, the sound of her voice. At the moment, we are re-reading Jane Austen's books in order and are halfway through the first volume of Sense and Sensibility). As intended, I drifted into sleep. As I floated into unconsciousness, I heard my partner whispering thanks to God for helping me.

As you will have gathered from reading this post, I am now very much recovered. Breathing is once again easy (if not easier) and blood-free. Aside from the mildest dull ache in my nostril, I have no other ill-effects - not even so much as a headache. I scoffed down my breakfast hungrily, enjoyed a nap with my partner as we caught up with the sleep we had missed, and helped with a spot of gardening. In the evening, we went to Abbotstone, where I raced about like a happy pup - delighting in the moist grass and fresh smells after the rain of yesterday. I met a couple of young spaniels and played with them for a bit - more than able to keep up with them, and delighting my partner. Good times.

In fact, I am - in a roundabout way - somewhat grateful for the distraction provided by this episode. For, prior to these events, my partner and I were on most uneasy terms.

The problem started late on Wednesday afternoon, when my gaseous emissions proved unacceptable in our office environment. As the weather was not too hot, I was escorted by my partner to our New Teal Megane and invited to conclude my day within its doors. I minded not, and relished the chance for a snooze in complete peace and quiet. A mere half an hour later, however, all tranquillity was rent asunder.

A certain need had been knocking at my fire-escape for some while but, enjoying my snooze, I paid it no need. When, finally, I was left with no option but to summon my partner it was, alas, all-too-late. I had an attack of the profound squits all over the inside of the car. When my partner came to check on me some thirty minutes later, she let out a piercing scream at what she found. Two of her colleagues - we'll call them Keith and Lee (because those are their names) - ran out to defend her, only to collapse in helpless hysterics at what they saw and the revolted look upon my partner's face. B*st*rds. Lee actually wanted to film my partner clearing up the mess in order to post it on Youtube. Fortunately for our dignity he fled, retching, as soon as my partner opened the car door.

Keith gave us an in-car air freshener and then left for the day, still laughing. My partner put all the soiled blankets, in-car clothing, leads and my collar (also befouled) into a black plastic bin sack and spent the next hour cleaning the mess on the seats, floor and fittings of our vehicle, whilst I looked on in mortification.

But this was not the end of the matter. Oh no.

On arriving home, my partner gave me naught but a small bowl of plain boiled rice for dinner. I protested, but to no avail. Whilst I consumed this meagre repast, my partner emptied the contents of the aforementioned black plastic sack into our washing-machine and set it to its most powerful setting.

Cometh the next morning; cometh the last act in this drama. The washing-machine had proved unable to cope with the contents of my bowels and had flooded our kitchen. My partner had to fetch a screwdriver and dismantle the filter and drainage pipe - and then had to scoop out, by hand, the blockage - previously known as the matter which had soiled the garments and car interior, previously known as the liquid excrement from my bot-bott. My partner, after telephoning her colleagues to announce that we would be late into the office, and after consulting the user manual for the washing-machine, was able to mend the machine, clearing up the water on the kitchen floor as the machine recommenced its heavy-duty cleaning cycle.

Despite her justifiable pride at having mended the washing-machine without having to summon an engineer (or her able-to-fix-anything-just-by-looking-at-it mother), the achievement was soured by its genesis. To have to clean my liquid botty-feculence by hand ONCE (from the car) was, my partner claims, "bad enough". To have to clean it by hand TWICE (the washing-machine) was "a turd too far". Oh dear.

But now, harmony and love have once again been restored between us. And we smile. We have much for which to be thankful. Through good times and bad - we remain, for now, together in this world.

Good night.

Sunday 10 July 2011

2011-07-10T18:40:00.001+01:00

There are still times, despite my history as evidenced on this blog, when I mistakenly believe that I've seen it all. No. Oh, dear me, no. But this is part of the rich joy of my life - the fact that one is constantly challenged by bizarre occurrences. In fact, I really don't want to depart this life for fear of missing out on what tomorrow may bring.

I refer, of course, to the odd events of a week ago. Last Sunday found my partner and I beside a local river, supporting friends and colleagues in a charity Dragonboat race - for which we had submitted a team (captained by Ewan's and Fizzy's partner), called "The Knights of the Rant Table"/aka 'Ranters'. I was the Team Mascot.

The Ranters in action

Alas, as ever, Jasper H. Stafford had a price to pay for his willing support. That price is humiliation at the tainted hands of his duplicitous partner. Witness the evidence:

Oh, for goodness' sake...

I suppose I ought to be relatively thankful. Everyone (including my partner) had a team t-shirt, made by Ewan's and Fizzy's and my partners. A vest-top had been mooted for me, but it was far too hot to clothe me on the day of the event and my partner limited herself to writing "Ranter" along my spine. She did not understand the bizarre looks my decorations were attracting - until she realised, with horror, that the team logo of a 13th Century cross had twisted as my fur curled after going swimming (well someone had to ensure that the water was safe) into an exact replication of a swastika. Hasty concealment measures were applied, thank heavens.

I will endure many humiliating debasements in the name of charity fundraising (and we did, I'm happy to bark, succeed in raising plenty of cash for the day's cause - the local branch of The Samaritans - a worthy organisation, if ever there was one) - but the merest suggestion of alignment with Nazi sympathies is very DEFINITELY unacceptable in anyone.

This, however, is not the bizarre occurrence to which I alluded at the beginning of this blog-entry.

Throughout my day at the riverside I was troubled by almost constant nose-bleeds and discomfort in my cancer-stricken nasal cavity. My partner endeavoured valiantly to remain buoyant whilst privately utterly distraught at my increasing malaise. We departed as soon as was decent after the final dragonboat race. My partner had a heat-induced migraine developing and so we retired to our bedchamber as soon as we arrived home.

Come 3.00am, my partner and I were wide-awake and unable to resettle. At length, frustrated by her pain and her efforts to get back to sleep, my partner switched on the bedroom light and we looked, together, at a book.

I was suddenly aware of a peculiar sensation in my diseased nostril. I sneezed once, then again - and on the second sneeze I felt a sharp pain followed by a feeling I can hardly describe. As I sneezed, something shot out of my nose, accompanied by a small spray of blood.

My partner and I gazed in stunned silence at what lay on the bed. It was about the size of a lamb's kidney, pliable, beige in colour with two thin blood vessels running along the length of one side. We were transfixed - it was like the scene in Alien where the beastie bursts out of John Hurt. In fact, we almost expected the unearthly object to utter a terrible shriek and scuttle off across the floor.

Recovering herself somewhat, my partner took up a paper tissue and wiped the small spattering of blood from around my nostril and whiskers. After ascertaining that I was not bleeding, she carefully picked up the former contents of my head with the tissue and we examined it more closely. Most odd. Deciding that my little 'alien baby' should be submitted to the vet for examination, my partner put the mystery blob in the fridge, to keep it from drying out.

Despite my initial shock, I have to bark that my snout felt somewhat more comfortable. When my partner returned, I found that I was able to settle and drift off to sleep quite easily. This happy development continued on waking in the morning and beginning my day. My partner and I were of the same opinion as to what might have happened, but dared not to discuss the matter at length. However, our suspicions were confirmed on consulting my surgeon. I have to admit that this was the first visit to the vets' that I have actually enjoyed.

It seems that I have somehow managed to sneeze the tumour clean out of my nose. I don't mean to bark that I am completely cured - it may grow back; it may only have been a section of the cancer. All I know for certain is that I have not had a full-on nosebleed or copious tricklings of nose-juice since that sneeze. And, more recently, my partner discovered that I am starting to inhale and exhale through both nostrils once again. I will not be optimistic about my future well-being - but I am greatly enjoying the benefit of this development, however long it may last.

Sometimes, you see, good things can come of snorting out little alien babies...

Good night.

Thursday 7 July 2011

2011-07-07T12:59:00.001+01:00

I can scarcely bark how excited I was on opening up my blog to post this entry - THREE new followers! Bringing my total to 31 now! To my new friends; thank you for clicking on to follow me - you (along with my existing friends) have made me very happy today. I have so much to be thankful for.

And so has passed another successful week of being Jasper H. Stafford - though a somewhat exhausting one. Towards the end of last week I had a most enjoyable surprise.

I stumbled out into the garden to download my first weemail of the day. Whilst engaged in that, there was some bustle from next door, excited yipping, and then my beautiful little neighbour - West Highland Terrier, Rosie - appeared; naked as the day she was born! She wasn't wearing a stitch!

I have only ever seen her collared-up or wearing her little scarlet jacket. I have to say that she was exquisitely pert and more than usually bewitching. She capered up and down behind the fence which separates our two gardens, giggling and yipping. Her partner appeared, clad in her pyjamas, and pursued sweet Rosie, trying to catch her and calling at her to behave herself. Skilfully evading capture, Rosie trilled "Bye!" at me and dashed into her house - her human partner still in hot pursuit. Shaking my head and chuckling to myself, I re-entered my own property, reflecting on the fact that this was the first time that Rosie had voluntarily barked to me.

Buoyed-up by this enjoyable start to my day, I decided that it was time to catch the cat by its claws and broach the subject of my Big-C diagnosis to my fluff-brained best chum Ewan. It was a task I dreaded - for more than one reason. Ewan is excessively friendly and his enjoyment of life and the company of his loved-ones is matchless. Alas, he has fewer brain cells than a bean-sprout. His initially-reluctant but now-devoted wife, small yet pretty Labrador, Fizzy, has known the truth of my situation for some time. She smelled it straight away, of course, but we privately agreed together that Ewan should be spared as long as possible.

On arriving at my partner's workplace I took the first opportunity of a private stroll and chat with Ewan. As Fizzy saw us off, with a supportive wink and smile at me, Ewan and I headed down our usual bridleway.
"Ewan...?" I began, as we trotted companionably side by side, "You know that, sometimes, dogs become ill...?"
"Oh yes." replied Ewan, wagging his tail.
"And sometimes," I continued, "They get so ill that they can't keep on living any more?"
"Yes." nodded Ewan, gazing intently at a pair of butterflies circling each other and flitting about in the air nearby.
"Well, I'm not very well at the moment. I'm told that it is cancer. I don't know how long, but I..."
I stopped, as I knew I'd lost him to the butterflies. Taking a deep breath, I tried again.

"Ewan. I'm dying."

"Hmmmn?!" said Ewan, suddenly turning his face - and his attention - back to me. "Yes, but you're going to be OK, aren't you?!"
"Well - possibly not. We must prepare ourselves. I have looked at various coffin designs and I - "
"No. Yes, but, Jasper - don't you remember? The time that I had cancer and you made it better? And all the time it was just my willie?! Hehehehehehehehehehe...." Ewan cackled on as he snapped idly at a horsefly buzzing about his ears.
(If you really MUST - it's here: http://jasper-thedogsblog.blogspot.com/2008/10/thursday-21-august-2008.html).

"I remember, Ewan." I sighed. "But my problem is inside my nose, not inside my 'Little Jasper', and I received my information from the vet."

"Oh." barked Ewan, looking a bit crestfallen. "But I don't think willies grow in noses. So you can't properly have it there. But you'll be alright. You're Jasper and you're always being alright."

"Possibly not this time. I'm doing my best though - I won't go down without a fight!"

"Heeheehee - Yes, yes!" said Ewan, wagging his big, mad, tail. "I'll fight too! Yes! Brilliant! I like some fighting."
"Thanks Ewan." I beamed. How - after all - could Ewan's simple, innocent, good nature fail to charm even the hardest of hearts?!

"Anyway." continued Ewan, leaning close to me and whispering confidentially in my ear, "I had a cancer lump once and I knew this chap and I got some professional properly advice from... - actually, Jazz, I can't remember who it was - ... But anyway. It turned out that, all the time, the lump was my winkie just pretending to be a bad lump. Heeheehee! Imagine that! You should speak to him, he's very clever."
"I'll be sure to look him up." I muttered.
"Don't be ill, Jazz." said Ewan, after a pause. "I don't want you to be ill, I don't like it. You're my best friend in the world and you're not allowed to be ill."

"Oh, alright then." I sighed, sensing that I had got about as far with Ewan as I'd anticipated. "In any case, the game's not totally up just yet - there are still a good few football challenges in me!"

"Yayyyy!" yipped Ewan joyfully, capering around me. As he danced past for a fourth time, I gave him a good-natured nip on his flank. He squealed and then chased me, laughing, all the way back to the work-yard. Happy days...!

Good afternoon.

Sunday 26 June 2011

2011-06-26T19:42:00.003+01:00

And so we have had the longest day of the year and the nights will gradually begin drawing in as we amble towards the autumn. No mind - there is still plenty of summer left for me to savour.

I have not been too well this past week - something connected with the insufferable heat, perhaps. But I have had one seizure and two nosebleeds in recent days - all rather tiresome and distressing for my partner. I have had brief recourse to my medication but am feeling much better today - recovered enough to assist my partner with some gardening. We have tidied our borders, pathways and patio and planted out marigolds gifted to us by my partner's mother. I adore marigolds - but my partner has forbidden me from eating them this year. I will obey for a couple of weeks and then feast when she has forgotten about her instructions, hehehe...

Aside from ill health (and my current quandary as to whether or not I should take cheese-brained doggy chum Ewan to one side and prepare him for the fact that I am, likely, dying) my life has been blighted with the arrival of new (will they never cease?) sources of aggravation.

On returning from work this Thursday last, my partner and I were greeted by one of our neighbours and her new acquisition - a Staffordshire Bull Terrier pup called William (he was born on the day of the most recent Royal wedding. His dam also birthed one other pup - a sister, named Katherine). William's fur is brindle and he is, both physically and in temperament, a very fine specimen. He has just had his initial jabs and so is getting out and about for the first time. He is so happy, so enthusiastic and just so, so... so YOUNG. He was fussing over me as though I were a long lost, treasured, brother and begging me to play with him. I hate him already.

As if this wasn't enough, the house opposite (where Honey the ginger cat lives) has got a new kitten (why? WHY?!). When they saw my partner and I talking with William and his partner in the street, the young children of the household came out to tell us this "news". My partner enquired as to the new kitten's name. In some kind of sick, misguided, tribute effort they have named the kitten 'Jasper'.

I hate everything. Although that may be down to the heat. Let us keep our claws crossed for cooler weather.

Good night.

Saturday 18 June 2011

2011-06-18T13:05:00.004+01:00

Growwwl... I mean, seriously. Growwwl...

An hour and forty minutes it took us to get home from work last evening. It generally takes around thirty-five minutes. The reason was some ghastly pop concert, which was taking place at a large open-air venue near to us. Having been pre-alerted by an unfortunate colleague who was trapped in the traffic, my partner elected (I was not consulted) to take the always-precarious 'through the city' route, as opposed to the more direct journey. An hour and forty minutes.

Once we were out of the city, I will admit that it was a much more scenic, though still less-expeditious, passage. It took us past the house to which I was taken after going missing (late October/early November 2009 - look it up on my past blog entries). I hopped up to see if I could see the dog who had consoled and reassured me at that distressing time, Charlie, but he wasn't at home. As we went past, the song playing on the radio was Fontella Bass's "Rescue Me". I observed the irony but did not appreciate it.

There was scant consolation when I arrived home. No walk for us, as the rain was pouring down in violent torrents, and only the doof-doof-doof-dodododododoooo-doof of the pop concert to look forward to (because of the way the land lies, the sound carries over the low hills direct to my perfectly-proportioned and perky, handsome, ears. Happily, I still have some of the Milky Bones from The Secretary's generous gift parcel to console me, and my partner let me have two handfuls for being a good boy at work.

I have only had to take my tablets as an emergency measure once this week - which makes a total of, er, once in the past fortnight. I think it was because I stumbled on a rogue corner of duvet in trying to get myself comfortable before sleep one night and banged my snout on the bedroom wall. Least barked, soonest mended, however. The need for medication has now passed over, thankfully, and my strength is undiminished.

My partner's unusual behaviour continues. Every morning these days, I am greeted by her cheer: "Yayyy!! Another day of Jasperrrr!"
I find that I am expected to make some sort of response to this, so I generally mumble a sleepy "Yayyy..." or a mere "Yes." I am not a morning canine. Indeed, I barely reach the peak of alertness before 10.30 or even 11.30am. My nocturnal slumber is simply exhausting and I need that morning snoozing in order to summon the full resources of energy for my afternoon nap. Some people have no consideration.

Good afternoon.

Saturday 11 June 2011

2011-06-11T20:28:00.000+01:00

With paw firmly on wood, I am happy to report that I have needed no recourse to my medicine since my lately-described vets' visit (a week ago now). In fact, I seem to be as buoyant as ever I was.

I even found the energy to be a naughty boy on Wednesday, disappearing into the woods whilst my partner's back was turned, in pursuit of a pungent wily beastie and was gone for ages! Joe (Ewan and Fizzy's partner) and my partner were searching for me for at least twenty minutes; ultimately admitting defeat and returning to the office to wait for me to make my own way back. Heheheheee....

When I ultimately returned, I only received a light-to-mild telling-off. In fact, it rather pleasant. My partner was incredibly pleased to see me again and dashed out to the yard to greet me. I'm not entirely certain what has happened, but she seems to be taking care to savour each and every moment with me. I do still get told-off for being naughty, however, so that is an on area which I need to work.

Another high point of the week was the return of my doggy chums Ewan and Fizzy from their camping and canoeing holiday. You may recall that the noodle-brained Ewan had been making plans to catch a big fish for his belovèd Fizzy to eat, though his planned methods did not bode well for success.

When I first encountered my friends they were both so exhausted that neither could summon the energy to do more than greet me affectionately. The following day they were a little more forthcoming. Ewan, it seemed, had become something of a celebrity among his fellow-campers. His madcap antics when in the canoe had attracted many amused spectators. I bark "when in the canoe" but, in fact, it seems that he was more out than in, as he constantly leapt from the boat into the water and had to be retrieved. Every time he was hauled back into the boat by either of his partners, a great cheer went up from the riverbanks. Alas, it was not just Ewan who got a regular dunking. Such was the force with which he launched himself from the boat, that more often than not, he upset the entire canoe, sending his partner Joe and some of her possessions into the river as well. Her tobacco tin is probably half-way to Nova Scotia by now.

I listened with amusement as Ewan chattered on about his holiday (Fizzy let him do the barking, as she was still fairly exhausted). At length, I asked him if he had met with any success in his fishing. Ewan cocked his head on one side and stared at me as if I'd asked him whether he'd seen any dinosaur-eggs.
"What?" he asked, eventually. I reminded him about his plans to catch a fish for Fizzy's supper. Ewan shook his head. "Sometimes I worry about you, Jazz. Are you losing the brains from behind where your eyes are?"
"No..." I sighed, getting to my paws and stretching before heading off to the bridleway. After a moment, Ewan trotted after me.
"Jazz!" he called. I stopped.
"Yes?"
"What is a fish?"

Oh, for goodness' sake.

PART THIRTY-SIX

The bond between my partner and I continued to grow and blossom after my late attempts to save her from harm, whether imaginary or real. Each day I became more and more thankful that I had found myself with her and especially, after I had done my utmost worst to scupper things for myself, grateful that she had been good enough to offer me a second chance.

With passing time, I made more and more friends. Maisie and her husband Bob, who lived in the house across the road, chief amongst them. They have a great affection for me (which continues to this day; Maisie buys my tins of dinner-meat, to help my partner out during our current financial troubles) and Maisie asked (nay, practically begged) my partner if she could look after me whilst my partner was at work. Of course, my partner said yes, and I have had some wonderful times with Maisie. I would amble over to her house after my morning nap, and Bob and I would enjoy a play-fight with a large garden broom. Then, Maisie would prepare me a light lunch - meat with chopped egg or a bit of mashed potato in the winter; a tasty, refreshing, salad in the summer. After another short nap, Maisie and I would go for a long walk - sometimes lasting around three hours! We would go to the river, where I learned to swim, sit in the War Memorial Garden, where children from the local secondary school would come sometimes to eat their sandwiches (they would let me help them with that arduous task!), visit the local station to watch the steam trains coming in and out and chat to the Station Master, browse the local shop windows, and ramble far and wide across the local countryside. And, as if that weren't enough, I had my partner's return from work to look forward to, and she would often take me for another walk in the evening! I sometimes wondered what I had done to deserve such blissful happiness. I go to work with my partner every day now, as Maisie's advancing age precludes her from exercising me, but I visit her every Sunday, which is always a pleasure.

Other friends made in the early days included my partner's friends, including the fair Dolores, and extended family. I had the pleasure of being present when my partner visited her brother and he introduced us to his lovely new girlfriend, Nicola (who went on to become Mrs. Partner's Brother and mother to the effervescent and adorable Ewan and Carys, our nephew and niece.) I also made my first-ever canine friends since leaving the rescue home. Jack the Retriever was the earliest, and he was soon followed by Candy the Chocolate Labrador, young Staffie pup Harvey, and a number of others.

One of the highest points in my first year with my partner was when she took me to Dartmoor for the first time, on a little holiday. She had reserved an holiday cottage for the two of us, run by a delightful couple with whom she had some prior acquaintance. The couple had a beautiful young bitch of uncertain ancestry, named Hazy. She and I enjoyed a brief holiday romance or two over the years (sadly, Hazy's life was cut tragically short when she fell prey to Lyme's Disease after being bitten by an infected tick. I mourned her death). I had never been on holiday before - and it was fantastic! I wasn't allowed off the lead on the moors, though. My partner explained that I had to learn that I must never, ever, chase the sheep, ponies, or cattle which graze freely on the moors. That was the year that my partner and I fell down the side of an ancient quarry (not my fault - she fell, and I followed because I was attached to her via my lead. This episode is described in an early blog entry). I took care to learn this lesson well, as I was keen to be unleashed and race all over the moors, exploring the granite tors and rocks, delighting in the heady, bewitching, rich perfume of heather and gorse. Even now I never allow myself to forget that lesson, as the merest hint of my desire to chase the sheep only results in a spanked-bottom, reapplication of the lead, and the nearest path off the moor and back to the car. A lesson well-worth the learning, then. On the final day of that holiday my partner, with much trepidation and many repeated warnings, unclipped my lead and allowed me to run free for a supervised period of twenty minutes. I did not let her down. I raced around like a mad pup, leaping over spiky gorse bushes and plunging into a crystal-clear moorland stream. The sheep in the area eyed me suspiciously, but I yielded not to temptation. At the end of my twenty minutes, my partner called me back and I took care to instantly obey. She declared herself utterly thrilled with my behaviour and spent much of the 3½-hour drive home telling me how impressed and very, very proud of me she was. We haven't had a Dartmoor holiday for a number of years - since my partner became insolvent, in fact (this will come to a closure in around 18 months' time). I would like to have just one more Dartmoor holiday before I die. But we shall have to see whether the fates allow me that privilege.

As the barking goes, however, "Into every life a little rain must fall". It was not all that long before the heavens opened in torrents upon my furry head.

Maisie and Bob had gone away on holiday to Jersey. I always missed them, but they never failed to return armed with booty for me from the Jersey pet shop. One day, not long after their departure, I watched as my partner retrieved her suitcase from the cupboard. "Brilliant!" I thought to myself, as I watched her pack her clothes and bathroom items, "Another holiday for me!". I was slightly unsettled to see that she didn't put any of my things in the case, but I didn't worry too much. Perhaps there was a separate bag for me.

There was - and it was placed in the boot of my partner's car alongside her suitcase one fateful Friday morning. We set off - but had not been going for more than fifteen minutes before we pulled off the road into a driveway by some low buildings and a large field. There was a large, shed-like, wooden building at the top end of the field. My partner got out of the car, clipping the lead to my collar, and I hopped out after her. A man with a cigarette in his mouth came out of the nearest building to meet us. It did not escape me that my partner had taken my bag and bed out of the car-boot. "This is Jasper." she said. The man muttered something in reply, without taking the cigarette from his mouth. I thought he was very rude. "This is his bed, and here is a bag of his favourite toys..." continued my partner, with a slight tremble in her voice. She leaned down to give me a cuddle but, without further ado, the cigarette-man grasped my lead and the items brought by my partner, and dragged me away from her, towards the wooden building. I struggled furiously to get away, but the man was too strong for me.

As I neared the wooden building, I gave a gasp of horror when I saw that it contained a number of locked metal pens. I could hardly believe my eyes. It was my worst nightmare made real. A rescue home. Panicking, I wondered why my partner was getting rid of me. I could only think that I must have misbehaved in some terrible, unwitting, way. I tried to wrench my body around, as my partner was still standing beside the car.
"I'M SORRY!" I cried desperately, "I didn't mean it! I PROMISE I won't do it again! I'M SORRY! PLEASE FORGIVE ME!" None of this had any effect. "I'M SORRY! PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!" I squealed, with increasing desperation. I tried every form of apology and entreaty I could think of , but to no avail. I was pushed into one of the metal pens, my bed and toys were flung in after me, and the door clanged shut and was locked tightly. I continued to wail and scream "I'M SORRY! PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!" over and over again, even after I had heard my partner's car driving away, until a rough voice bellowed "SHUT UP!"

Picking up a corner of my beanbag bed in my mouth, I dragged it to the back of the pen, flopped down onto it, and lost myself in silent, uncontrollable, sobbing...

Good night.

Sunday 5 June 2011 b

2011-06-06T00:04:00.001+01:00

Let us now journey back to Friday, a couple of days ago. At the office, my fluff-brained canine chum Ewan was virtually beside himself with excitement. He could not sit still for more than two moments together.

Getting even less sense from him than usual, I enquired of Fizzy as to the reason for Ewan's state of perpetual exuberance. It transpired that they were heading off to Herefordshire with their human partners for a long weekend of canoeing and camping.

Quite why anyone of sound mind would willingly put Ewan into a boat, in which they themselves intended to sit, was totally beyond my comprehension. In my mind's eye, I foresaw only chaos. Ewan would probably think he could make the boat go faster by biting a hole in the bottom. Fizzy, however, did not seem to share my sense of foreboding, so I left my thoughts unbarked.

On our lunchtime potter along the bridleway, Ewan was good enough to outline to me some of his plans for the trip.
"We's going fishing!" he beamed.
"Oh yes?" I responded.
"Yes." he barked. "I am going to catch a big fish for my Fizzy to eat."
"Coarse or fly?" I enquired. Ewan looked utterly bewildered. I might as well have started barking in Swahili. He trotted up to me until he was level with my face.
"FISHING!" he shouted into my ear, making me jump. "FISHING! FOR FISH!"
I side-stepped hastily away, shaking my ringing head.
"Thank you, Ewan." I muttered, "I'm not deaf."
"Sorry Jazz. I think I will be good at fishing."
I raised an eyebrow.
"It takes more than a fishing-rod to make a fisherman." I said sagely. Ewan nodded.
"No, but I'm going to use a basket." he explained. "I has it with me and then I is look into the water and say 'Come here, tasty fish, come here!'"
"And you're confident that this is going to work, are you?"
"Oh yes." Ewan fell silent for a moment, obviously contemplating something. At length, he said "Actually, I think I will also say 'Only big fishes come here. Big tasty fishes come and sit in my basket'. What d'you think, Jazz?"
"I think," I replied, "That Fizzy will not be getting a fish supper this weekend."
"Brilliant!" cackled Ewan, before racing off to find his football.

Good old Ewan.

My partner and I were delayed in leaving the office on Friday, as there was much to do. Consequently, we just missed the vets' opening hours for my check-up appointment. I snickered quietly to myself as we pulled out of the vets' empty car park - alas, it was but an ordeal deferred. My engagement was rescheduled for the following morning (Saturday).

On entering the waiting room, I was pleased to see that I had been assigned the principal surgeon of the practise - the good Mr. Matthews. I was slightly less-pleased when he called up my medical records on the computer screen and laughed at the late problems I had experienced with my 'Little Jasper'. Through his guffaws, which I did not appreciate, he explained that it could be that I had a prepuce that was too small. I didn't understand what that meant, but my partner did and she, rather archly, told Mr. Matthews that some men might be prepared to pay good money for such a thing. He laughed again, and my partner hastily redirected his attention from Little Jasper to my troublesome nostril. It was from hereon-in that things took a somewhat downward turn.

Careful and thorough examination led Mr. Matthews to conclude that there is, in all likelihood, a cancerous growth in my right nasal-cavity. Should this be the case then there is nothing that can be done, and the remainder of my life may be measured in terms of months rather than years. My partner and I exchanged a glance. She looked like she was going to be sick, though we both managed to keep our composure. Mr. Matthews, in the meantime, was explaining how I could be made comfortable with basic medication.

Once my partner had recovered her voice, she began to highlight the various strengths I still maintained - my interest in life, my continuing visual, aural and mobility abilities, my unwavering healthy appetite and normal lavatory-functions, et cetera. Mr. Matthews nodded and took down his stethoscope from where it hung on the wall. He carefully listened to my chest. After what seemed like an age he turned and looked, first, at the clock on the wall and, then, to his computer screen. He repositioned the stethoscope earpieces and listened again to my chest, frowning in concentration.
"He's twelve now, isn't he?" Mr. Matthews asked my partner.
"Yes - thirteen in October." she replied. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." he murmured, still listening intently to the rhythm of my lifeblood. Then, looking up, he said "It's just that his heartbeat is so strong and calm. Unusually regular."
"Well, he does eat well and gets plenty of exercise..." suggested my partner.
"Amazing." remarked Mr. Matthews, patting me on the head and replacing his stethoscope. "I think we'll leave things with you to judge." he concluded, fondling my ears and smiling at me. "I'll give you some tablets. If he needs them, give them to him. If you need some more, just pop back anytime. They aren't too expensive. But you know Jasper best. We'll play it by ear."

'Ear?' I thought to myself, as my partner gently lifted me off the table and back down onto the floor. 'It's my nose that's the problem, sonny-boy!' But my partner seemed relatively satisfied with our encounter.

So this, then, looks to be the ultimate fate for Jasper Horatio Stafford. It's not so much the fact that the Big C is probably, even now, working its injudicious way through my healthful cells. It's just that I had always hoped to go out in a blaze of glory. Dragging an helpless kitten from a burning building; pushing a pram out of the path of an oncoming speeding car; taking a bullet for a lady. Not slowly succumbing to a silent killer, who doesn't even have the courage or the decency to face me outwardly, dog to dog, on the field of battle.

But you may be sure of one thing: Jasper Horatio Stafford is NOT going quietly into the dark night without putting up a bl**dy hard fight.

Good night.

Sunday 5 June 2011 a

2011-06-05T10:49:00.001+01:00

Trudis!

The present was from Trudis! It came to me in a flash at about a quarter to three this morning. In the sudden instant of realisation, I barked her name a little more loudly than I had intended. My sleeping partner leapt about two feet into the air, startled into wakefulness. "Bl**dy hell, Jasper!" she grumbled, sleepily. So thrilled was I by my powers of cognisance that I had to ask to be taken to the toilet. And my partner was already awake, so no problem there, hehehe...

Trudis is a lovely lady from The Phillippines, where she and her pack are lucky enough to share their lives with a couple of the most decent people you could ever wish to know - The Animal Doctor and his good lady The Secretary. They spare no effort in their veterinary practice and their lives to assist the animals around them and their love and compassion are second-to-none. You might like to check out their blog, which is packed with humour, warmth, love, plus lots of genuinely informative helpful health and lifestyle tips for dogs. In actual fact, it was from The Animal Doctor that my partner learned how to express my anal sacs at home - but that is not a matter I care to discuss. You can find all these sweet friends at http://theanimaldoctor.blogspot.com/. You may have to wait a bit, though, as some evil-doer has hacked their blog and they're working about bringing it back online. Archive posts should be visible though!

TOP, L-R: Trudis, Bambi, Scarlet
BOTTOM, L-R: Woody, MoyMoy, Jappy

Trudis and family: I thank you from the bottom of my heart (and, indeed, from the heart of my bottom) for your sweet and most-appreciated generosity. Isn't Trudis beautiful?

Ah, is that the chime of canine wedding bells that I hear...?

I have to go and help my partner to hang out some washing now - but I will be back later!

Good morning.

Saturday 4 June 2011

2011-06-04T22:56:00.002+01:00

For once in my somewhat loquacious life I don't think I know quite what to bark. In fact, I am quite overwhelmed.

Half-way through this morning, there was a knock at my front door. Upon accompanying my partner to answer it, I was surprised to find a delivery driver from our regular supermarket. Slightly more so because I had already spent some time in the car outside the supermarket during the week whilst my partner did our grocery-shopping.

After signing for our delivery (during which process the friendly driver obligingly fussed me and scratched my ears - lovely), my surprise increased and transformed to delight when my partner placed the delivery-bag on the floor and said "Here you are, Jasper! This is a VERY special gift for you!" Intrigued, I opened the bag to find not one, not two - not even three - but FOUR boxes of my favourite Milky-Bone biscuits, plus some delicious chewy sticks! I squealed with delight.

I open and investigate my special delivery

I had trouble containing my happiness and my partner said that I was allowed to open some of my present straight away! Whilst I think of it, I must apologise on behalf of my partner for the slightly dubious quality of the pictures - I was so excited that I refused to stand still for long enough to be decently photographed.

I decide to commence with one of the chews - yum-yum!

The chews are supposed to be eaten at the rate of one per day. But I had two, because I am Jasper and because I can, hehehe...

I then went to express to my partner my gratitude and pleasure in the thoughtful gift, but she was quick to declaim responsibility. "Oh no, I didn't get this for you." she explained. Who, then, could have made such a generous and considerate gesture?

As a very special treat, I am allowed to help myself to some biscuits

"Well, I'll give you a clue," said my partner, as I crunched my way through my first mouthful of delicious biscuity-goodness. "They're from someone a long way away, far across a big ocean, who loves you very much. She - " [Ha! I thought to myself, I knew it would be from a lovely lady, hehehehe....!] " - she is actually in charge of a whole pack and family of friends, she is VERY pretty, and her name begins with a 'T'."

A 'T', eh? Who do I know with a name that starts with a 'T'? My partner's brother's name starts with a 'T'... but he is certainly not a pretty lady. And he doesn't live far across a big ocean anymore. I tried to think hard, but I couldn't concentrate on thinking AND eating my tasty biscuits at the same time. Like males of most species, I am no multi-tasker. Something had to give way for the moment...

I concentrate on savouring the taste of my presents

Hmmm... A pretty lady; in charge of a sizeable pack; clearly thoughtful and generous; a large ocean away; a name beginning with a 'T'... This requires further thought...

What my (for now) mystery benefactress doesn't know is just how particularly welcome the arrival of her gift was on this day of all days. For this morning, I received some potentially distressing and unsettling news from my surgeon. Such a considerate and handsome gesture of a gift so thoughtfully-chosen as to provide me with the maximum-possible pleasure raised my flagging spirits (and those of my partner) to great heights - something I had, earlier this morning, believed to be impossible. 'Twas almost as if a Divine paw had intervened to ensure delivery of this treasured gift at the precise moment in which I was languishing at a terribly low ebb.

More of the less-happy news tomorrow. For now, I continue so happy at my surprise present that I refuse to let ANYTHING spoil this most treasured of days.

A VERY good night.

Wednesday 1 June 2011

2011-06-01T19:26:00.001+01:00

So, anyway, my partner and I returned to work yesterday after the Bank Holiday weekend. I am making a slow, yet steady, recovery. My pills are almost at an end and I await my Friday appointment.

I haven't really seen either Edward or Angus (my Rottweiler friends) over the weekend. I caught one glimpse of Eddie, through his front window. He was sitting in front of a settee with his back to his partner as she gently dabbed ointment onto the little bites on his lip and ear. Eddie struggled and squealed like a puppy while the lotion was being applied. I was almost ashamed of him. Against the far wall, I could see his erstwhile antagonist, Pickle the Salamander, blinking out from the little cave in his vivarium; a slightly malevolent and satisfied smile playing around the edges of his scaly lips. I couldn't truly blame him.

On arrival at work, I noticed that a sheep had appeared in the field opposite my partner's window. To be more precise, it was a sheep and a half. On enquiry we learned that a ewe from the farm next-door to our office went into a difficult labour during the night and was put into the small opposite field, along with another ewe to keep it company. The lamb had been successfully delivered in the early hours.

Later that morning, I ambled across the lane to have a look at the newborn (mindfully keeping a respectful distance behind the fence). After a short time I was joined by my workplace friends, Ewan and Fizzy. Fizzy is a small but exceptionally pretty Black Labrador. Her erstwhile 'husband', Ewan (who has been my friend since long before the arrival of Fizzy), is a dog of uncertain origin who is always genial and enthusiastic, but whose head is almost entirely empty. Ewan has a fixed and somewhat unsettling obsession with cheese. No-one, least of all the dog himself, can explain the reasons behind this all-consuming passion. Nothing else holds sway over Ewan like cheese - not even his belovèd football, nor even his partner. One could offer Ewan all the riches in the world and they would mean nothing to him. Toys, blankets, meats - even the nuptial delights of the exquisite Fizzy - all Ewan really wants is a platter of English cheeses. It is not, however, an educated enthusiasm. Ewan has all manner of theories as to where cheese comes from. None of them involve the separation of milk.

My two friends stood beside me, watching the little lamb practising how to walk, as its mother and her flock-mate looked fondly on. Fizzy started muttering things about 'tender lamb chops and a couple of tasty racks'. Now I like a grilled chop as much as any dog, but to mention such things in front of a newly-birthed mother and her infant is as impolitic as it is unkind. I did not deign to reply and as Ewan was likewise silent, gazing in rapt admiration at the stumbling babe, Fizzy lost interest and wandered back to the office.

"Isn't it amazing?!" breathed Ewan, after a while. I eyed him apprehensively. Could it be true that the simple Ewan understood and appreciated the intricate perplexities of mammalian reproduction?
"A wonder as beautiful and mysterious as any known to dog-kind." I replied, non-committally. Actually, that's not quite true. The most baffling enigma of all is why cats exist. But let us not traverse those stormy waters.
"Magnificent." nodded Ewan. I eyed him, suspiciously, one eyebrow quizzically raised. I strongly suspected, not for the first time, that Ewan and I were barking at crossed-purposes. I waited for the inevitable dénouement.
"I mean," he continued, "A WHOLE cottage cheese! With legs! In OUR lifetime, Jazz!!! Who could have thought that this day would ever come?!"

A-ha. There it was.

"Ewan," I sighed, knowing even then that it was pointless. "That is not a cottage cheese. It is a lamb - a baby sheep, if you prefer. I concede that it may be similar in colouring to a quantity of cottage cheese - but that is because its fleece is new and clean."
"It is too a cottage cheese!" protested Ewan. "Fizzy said that cheeses can come from sheeps!"
"Sheep." I corrected him (again - why? I can't help myself...), "She's right. Cheese from sheep-milk is extremely tasty. But you will never find a cheese capable of getting up and walking. It is a baby sheep, Ewan."
"Me-ehh-ehhh-ehh-eh!" said the "cheese", as if to confirm my comments. Ewan gasped. I steadied myself, preparing to support him, as I honestly thought he might fall over.
"A talking cheese!" whispered Ewan, almost beside himself.

Oh, for goodness' sake.

Fortunately, Fizzy had reappeared and was hovering in the background. She realised that I had had a big-enough dose of Ewan for one morning and brought over his football, for which I was profoundly grateful. It saved me from having to submit to administering the bite to Ewan, which I was sorely tempted to give. As soon as his long furry back was turned I scuttled back to my refuge under my partner's desk and pretended to be asleep for the rest of the day.

Before I sign-off this evening, I must bark a word of profound and humble thanks to all those who have wished me well in my present infirmity. I am feeling a little better again today and my partner is going to take me swimming in a bit. To Lance, Lilli, Keetha and Kathy - and other friends - bless you. I would choose your kind words over fame and wealth any day. They mean so much to me (and my partner).

The penultimate (oh yes!) instalment of "The Evolution of Jasper" next time!

Good night.

Sunday 29 May 2011

2011-05-30T00:18:00.003+01:00

I believe that I may not have too much time remaining to me in this world.

This is something that I am keen to share with you, my friend. I have been preparing for it for some time, and I need to entreat you to prepare yourself also. I ask this because, as you will know if you have been reading this blog regularly over these past few months, the sudden death of my dear, belovèd, friend Angie earlier this year hit my partner and I so terribly hard. We still grieve for her loss. I hope that, with preparation, the news of my end might not affect you in the same way.

I alluded briefly in my previous post to a recurrence of my nose problems. They became worse overnight, to the point where I could (just about) inhale through one nostril, but was forced to exhale through my mouth. As well as being unnatural, inconvenient, and very noisy (alarmingly so for my partner, our friends, and our colleagues), it made eating and drinking most unpleasant. My partner was genuinely afraid for me. I confess that, for once, I shared her concerns and began to prepare my mind for the "ultimate journey".

One day of these symptoms was more than enough. I was taken, coughing, wheezing and gurgling to the vets' as early as possible.

I was dismayed to see, when my name was called, that the appointed surgeon was female. I had hoped for one of my regular gentleman-surgeons. Of course, I do not object to having my parts probed and prodded by a lady - but only if she is of the canine persuasion. Human females rarely float my boat. That barked, I was by this time too weak to protest as I was lifted onto the examination table.

I will admit that the lady-surgeon's hands were assertive yet soft as she tapped my snout-bones and skull to check for the tell-tale sound, which would indicate the presence of a fatal growth or obstruction. She donned a stethoscope and took great care in listening to my chest, belly and throat. At length, a tentative diagnosis was made.

It would seem that the nose infection from recent weeks did not entirely clear up and has returned, with vengeance in mind, to take up residence in both nostrils. No evidence has been found of a fatal growth, though a benign lump may be in place - in which scenario I will remain on medication to make the rest of my days "comfortable". If surgery should be required, I would need to be referred to a specialist hospital - as the necessary operation will be intricate, dangerous, and not suitable for unpractised hands. In the meantime, I was given two different sorts of tablets - antibiotics and steroids - and NO injection, hurrah! My partner ensures that I take my medicine daily and we are to return on Friday to the same surgeon.

I already feel immeasurably better. I breathe through my nose once more and, as a result, can again eat and drink without pain and embarrassment. I am restored to my buoyant self, though not without limitations. I get tired terribly easily, and require sleep more often than normal. However, my partner offers the suggestion that, despite feeling better due to the steroids, I am still unwell because of the infection, just less-aware of it. Something in this, perhaps. I had more energy this day than the day before and, just this morning, my partner noted that the lively sparkle had returned to my eyes after a discernable absence. I need to accept that I must pace myself and take my fortunate recovery as it comes.

But already I look forward to my return to the vets' (and it's not often you'll find me barking that!). Her name is Lucy. Just five days separate us. How bewitching she looks in her uniform! I still feel her hands upon my snout, the concentration on her pretty face as she listened to the beating of my heart! The blessèd relief that her prescription has wrought upon me (even though she did get the labels mixed-up on the tablets - fortunately my partner knew which pill was which). The thought that soon, I shall be once more upon her table, demonstrating to her how her talents (which I never doubted for an instant) have preserved such an humble one as I.

I have asked my partner if I can present dear Lucy with a rose from my garden on Friday, as a small token of my gratitude and affection. She frowned and replied that she'd "think about it".

But, above all this, I entreat you, my friend, to be yet undeceived as to any prognosis. I am not a puppy. Let us, then, hope for the best - but be not unprepared for the worst.

And I caught bl**dy fleas from a grubby mongrel in the waiting-room. The humiliation!

Until the next time - Good Night.

Wednesday 25 May 2011

2011-05-25T22:33:00.001+01:00

Yayyy! A new follower!! Hello Pam - thank you for 'following' me - you are very welcome here. Only the best find their way to me, hehehe...

Well - the inevitable happened. I mean, it was only a matter of time - trouble had been gently bubbling away under the surface for some time. I shall refrain from mentioning outright the name of the inadvertent instigator of this insanity, although he is not unconnected from my circle of friends. The first hint of actual trouble came a mere day or so ago, when I happened upon my friend and neighbour Edward the Rottweiler and his fellow-Rotti and long-time gentleman 'companion', Angus. They were sitting in the back of a car, which was parked outside Eddie's house, waiting to be taken out for their exercise (their female human partners - good friends, Eddie lives near me with his partner and her boyfriend; I don't know where Angus lives, but he has been "with" Eddie for many years now - could be heard chatting in their garden). The sight of the two mighty, always impeccably-groomed, Rottweilers was not as fine as it is in general. Edward had a red, livid, wheal on his upper-lip and a nasty, oddly-shaped, bite on the tip of his left ear, whilst Angus sported a bruised and puffy eye. Even from just glancing into the car it was possible to sense the tense and hostile air between the two dogs. I pretended I had not seen them and scurried past their car to the safe refuge of my own house.

To discover what lay behind this unhappy scene (and my rapid flight from it) we must journey back in time to a few weeks ago.

Ambling home following a most pleasant early-evening stroll with my partner, the first sight that met my eyes on turning into my little road was the vision of Edward and Angus, side by side on Eddie's front lawn, eagerly pawing through a picture-magazine. As I trotted towards them, snatches of their animated chatter reached my ears.
"What about that little green trouser suit?" suggested Ed.
"Hmmm... Not sure... Oooh! Look at this positively divine blue bonnet!" squealed Angus, slapping his great big paw down onto a different picture.
"Oh, isn't it darling?!" gasped Eddie, admiring the image. "It's to die for!! We must have one of those - and also one in the purple and yellow, perhaps?"
Angus nodded enthusiastically and nipped a small hole in the corner of the page, to mark the place.

As I drew nearer I was intrigued to see that the two Rottweilers were looking at a brochure from a toy shop. Specifically, pages of dolls' clothing. I wondered what on Earth they could possibly be up to, as the dollies' clothing was extremely petite. So small, in fact, that they could have been designed for dolls belonging to other dolls.
"Evening, gents." I greeted them. "What are we looking at?"
"Clothing for our new son!" announced Angus, proudly.
"Yes, it's true, Jazz old boy." nodded Eddie. "Angus and I have become fathers!"

"Erm... ri-iiight..." I mumbled, unsure of how I ought to respond.
"Yes!" continued Edward. "After the little chat I had with you the other day, I realised that I could never allow myself to violate a lady for procreative purposes - but yet I was still keen to savour the blessings of fatherhood -"
"And we looked at your blog and saw this comment about adoption," put in Angus, "And so -"
"Don't confuse Jasper with too many details, dear." barked Eddie. Angus nodded and, grinning, wagged his tail as he resumed pawing at the catalogue. Eddie went on: "So we decided to share parental care of a small foundling child."
"Well, that's very creditable of you both." I remarked, wagging my tail in approval. "And so is your new adopted son also a Rottweiler?"
Angus began to giggle as he shook his mighty head.
"We mustn't laugh at Jasper, dear." chided Eddie. "No, Jazz," he continued, "It's young Pickle he - ooh, Angus, look at that adorable little sailor-suit; mark that page, we must have a couple of those." As Angus hastened to comply, and remarked:
"They do one in white with a navy trim and one in navy with a white trim. Ought we to get one of each?"
I looked from dog to dog with increasing disbelief. As soon as Eddie had decided:
"Yes, one of each, if you would, please Angus. We don't know yet how many little nappy accidents our boy might have during the day." and both dogs had chuckled to each other indulgently, I expressed my incredulity.

"Have you two gone stark, staring, mad?!?"
Both dogs looked up at me from their catalogue. "You mean you are going to use Pickle - Pickle the Salamander - as your adoptive child?!?"
"What's wrong with that?" queried Edward, as both dogs nodded their assent.

Oh, for goodness' SAKE! Wherever did I begin with this one?!

"Well, first-off," I replied, endeavouring to sound calm and polite, "Pickle is not a baby. He isn't even a child! He is a fully-mature, adult, male. I'm not sure he'd take too kindly to being forced into a nappy and various assorted infant fashions. No matter how cute they are." I added hastily at the end, as Angus opened his mouth to attempt to sway me with the picture of the little sailor outfit.

Eddie looked annoyed.
"What kind of a beast would turn down such an opportunity to send the trend in designer baby-wear?" he demanded, sounding aggrieved.
"Yes," added Angus. "These outfits aren't ch-"
"Dear!" barked Edward, a little snappily, "Edward is speaking! We mustn't interrupt, must we?!"
Angus fell mute once again, as Eddie continued. "These outfits aren't cheap, you know, Jazz! Only the finest for our little Pickle!"

"He's not your little Pickle - " I began, before swiftly realising that I was already promoting a lost cause. "Well, on your whiskers be it." I muttered, darkly. "Good luck to you both - but don't say I didn't warn you..." And I left them to their fond coo-ing over the little outfits in the toy catalogue.

This brings us right back to the present, in which it seems that Pickle has now made his feelings concerning being clothed and "adopted" abundantly clear to his would-be "fathers". And this is ALSO why I hastened my steps on seeing the somewhat-battered Rottweiler couple.

For I have absolutely no doubt as to the identity of their NEXT preferred candidate for the role of adoptive "foundling child". On occasion I may concede to dress for public appearances (times past have seen me costumed, not only for the various productions of Oliver! in which I played 'Bullseye', but also, variously, as Sherwood Forest; one of Santa's elves; some watercress; a crowned monarch; and Robin Hood). HOWEVER, my partner has tried on two occasions to induce me to wear a nappy (when I was undergoing some minor bladder-troubles, thankfully no longer an issue). All I need add is that she has not - and will not - try the same indignity a third time.

Rottweilers they may be - even Rottweiler friends of mine - but I don a nappy and baby-bonnet for no-one. I shall maintain a low profile until this particular storm has blown over.

To higher matters now. President and First-Lady Obama are visiting my country at present. And WHAT delightful people they are. I cannot overstate how much I admire President Obama. He is one of my all-time favourite World-leaders. I hope he has a successful presidency (and hopeful re-election) and that no nut-jobs pull a J.F./R.F. Kennedy or Dr. King Jnr on him. Good luck to him, I bark. And to his nice-looking family.

UK Leader (hmm...) & US Leader (my favourite, to be honest)

My nose is playing-up again. To bark honestly, I'm having a little trouble breathing. I am having to exhale through my mouth for some of the time, which caused me, as my partner was driving us home from work, to have an attack of the hiccups. I will admit to feeling slightly maliciously amused as I watched my partner cautiously prowling around our New Teal Megane (car) with a suspicious look on her face, trying to work out where the 'rattling' sound was coming from... it was ME all along, hehehe...!!

I am feeling better now, though my partner says that I will have to go back to consult my surgeon again tomorrow if she is still worried...

Good night.

Saturday 14 May 2011

2011-05-14T18:36:00.001+01:00

The ugly spectre of extreme substance-abuse casts its dark shadow over our household.

The fault is mine, I confess. I have grown fond beyond rationality of Sainsbury's Milky Bones (a cheapo version of the Pedigree Milky Bones) dog biscuits. I must have them in the morning, in the afternoon, and even after I have finished my regular supper I am instantly upon my partner, imploring her for more of those intoxicating biscuits.

My partner has endeavoured to reiterate to me our present financial difficulties, but I heed her not. In fact, when she speaks thus, I often find myself plagued by the sporadic deafness, which has begun to mark the achievement of my agèd years... The fact that this affliction often coincides with an occasion in which it suits my purposes is naught but random happenstance... Needless to bark, my partner is far, far from being impressed by "my attitude". Especially, she tells me, as our circumstances cash-wise, have been very bleak indeed. I am encouraged to "curb my obsession" with the Milky Bones. Poor girl. Clearly delirious from worry, she has forgotten to whom she is speaking. A pity.

Now then. I am not a man of poetry. I tried to compose an ode to a young angel who appeared to me in recent days, but ended up hurting my brain. So I did what any respectable Staffordshire Bull Terrier would do - I nicked one off the internet. Here is our:

ODE TO FIONA

The world's a better place
Because of folk like you
Who take the time to do nice things
The way you always do.

Thank you so so muchly

******************************************************************************************************************************************

The troubling affairs emanating from the household of Eddie and Angus (Rottweilers) and the hapless, beleagured, Pickle (Salamander) have yet to reach a crisis-point. But, rest assured, that moment is coming soon - and when it arrives your crafty canine correspondent will be first with the news!

And now - for 'tis long overdue:

PART THIRTY-FIVE

Please see http://jasper-thedogsblog.blogspot.com/2011/01/sunday-2-january-2011.html if you wish to catch up on the previous instalment.

My partner and I continued to grow in our mutual admiration and respect for each other. Through the simple offices of merely being my original self and allowing the character with which I was born, I endeared myself to all. I also began to appreciate how pretty my young partner was - and how fortunate I was in being selected by her. No other human could ever have suited me better.

On one particular evening, my partner and I were walking again in the local park. We exchanged a wry smile in the twilight and my partner patted my head. I had learned not to take myself too seriously, now that I was secure of my place within this new "pack" and could laugh at my earlier mishap with the cricket practice-nets. As we neared the car-park, my lead was clipped to my collar and we approached the large iron gates at the park exit. At that very moment, a voice hailed my partner from the far corner of the car-park.
"Hello?!"
We turned, and saw a rather handsome-looking (in my partner's estimation, at any rate) blonde-haired man, getting out of a car. My partner called back to him and asked if he was alright.
"Yes thanks!" he replied. "I was just thinking what an unusually fine-looking dog you have there! What breed is he?" My partner took a few, hesitant, steps towards him.
"Um... a Staffordshire Bull Terrier." she told him.
"Sorry...?" he called, cupping his hand to his ear.
"A Staffordshire Bull Terrier!" She cried back, taking a few more steps towards him.
"He looks like that dog in Oliver!"
I groaned - already well-aware of my likeness to the fictional mutt and MORE than tired of being told of it by random strangers (an aggravation which occurs to this day). My partner didn't reply, merely nodded, and made to turn and go.
"I was wondering where you got his collar from?!" shouted the young man hastily. I frowned. My collar was perfectly normal; a nicely-patterned navy-blue woven synthetic-thread affair. Nothing out of the ordinary.
"Erm... the vets'!" called my partner.
"Sorry...?" called the stranger again, cupping his hand to his ear once again.
"The vets'!" shouted my partner.
"I still can't hear you!" called the man. "Could you come a bit closer? Your voice is so soft!"

This was the point at which I began to grow uneasy. I started to mutter about needing to go home, but my partner had not yet learned enough of my sounds to be able to accurately interpret me, as she does today. I sensed that my partner was feeling uneasy also - she did not move any closer to the young man, but it is not in her nature to suspect everyone; particularly handsome young men; of being up to no good.

"You don't happen to have the time on you, do you, love?!" shouted the young man. As I took another, disdainful, glance at him I spotted that he was wearing a wristwatch...

"We're going." I barked firmly. And, with that, I turned on my paws and dragged my partner out of the park. I was so strong in those days that not even a full-grown human could defy my strength when I was determined on a course.

After a few last shouts, we heard no more from the young man and were relieved that he did not dare to follow us along the much-used public road.

Once home again, my partner breathlessly hugged me and held me close. Yet again, it seemed, I had protected her from serious harm in the park - only, this time, from a genuinely potential threat.

Next episode - our unity cemented forever; I return to unpleasant kennel-accommodation; and a "Little" problem...

Good night.

Saturday 7 May 2011

2011-05-07T23:43:00.003+01:00

Twenty-five minutes. Twenty-five minutes! You'd think she'd have let it stand for just twenty-five minutes. But no. Not my partner. After twenty-five - it may have been thirty - minutes, she exhibited a most shocking display of panic, hysteria and distress. This resulted, unhappily, in an emergency dash to the vets'; tears; and outright, humiliating, distress. And all for twenty-five minutes of undue prominence.

I refer, of course, to my 'Little Jasper'.

On Wednesday evening, just after work, my partner took me to one of my favourite local sites for a good walk. En route, I was musing on nothing in particular when 'Little Jasper' became alert. Nothing out of the ordinary for a healthy gentleman. Arriving at our destination, my partner locked our car and we started out. I found walking to be somewhat awkward and uncomfortable, as 'Little Jasper' was persisting in his enlarged state, and I grew increasingly disinclined to continue my exercise. Alerting my partner, she - failing to spot the true source of my unease - assumed that I was tired and agreed to terminate our walk and return home.

After our journey home, it still hadn't gone down. As we pulled into our parking-space, we passed my beautiful neighbour Rosie and her partner departing for their evening walk and gave them a cheery wave. I alighted from my carriage with some difficulty. It was at this point that my partner first noticed the source of my discomfort. With eyes rolled heaven-wards and a deep sigh, she muttered "Jasper, you mucky-pup, put it away!" Without a bark, I followed her into our house.

I was given and consumed my dinner, whilst my partner made herself and ate a cheese sandwich. As I followed - post dinner - my partner into our withdrawing-room she was alarmed to see 'Little Jasper' still standing proud and winking at her. She then went into overdrive. Panicking beyond measure, she ushered me hastily back into the car and went straight to the vets' - despite it being only a few steps away and beyond normal opening hours. I was forced into the waiting-room - where other visitors (including, I might add, two cats) laughed at my obvious predicament - and was rushed straight into a consulting chamber. With relief, I was allocated one of my preferred male surgeons - although that sense of relief evaporated somewhat when I saw my practitioner pull on a pair of latex gloves...

I had to stand patiently on that wretched table whilst my poor pinkle was probed, pulled and manipulated. Despite the fact that 'Little Jasper's' initial discomfort had turned into actual pain (okay, okay, it was some 45 minutes and NOT my initial estimate of 25), I felt utterly humiliated and debased. (And this leads me to recall that I have not yet posted my last instalments of 'The Evolution of Jasper'. You'll find out why this dubious connection exists when I DO get around to posting them).

The upshot was that I was given an injection of "anti-testosterone". Yes - even in my 13th (91st, in human terms, apparently) year - I am too much of a man for human society to tolerate.

After the injection it was another 20 minutes before 'Little Jasper' (the duplicitous swine) returned fully to his regular dormant state.

A day or two after these embarrassing events, my partner and I returned home from work to find a slim envelope awaiting us on our doormat. After placing my meal in my bowl for me, my partner opened the envelope. It was a bill from the vets'. When I entered our withdrawing-room following my meal, it was to find my partner, head in hands, sobbing, clutching the bill.

"£112 pounds, Jasper!" she cried, despairingly. "£112! What am I going to do?!" (Admittedly, that includes my nasal infection expenses). I hesitated.
"How much money do we have left, after bills, this month?" I barked. My partner's chest heaved as she gave another great sob.
"84p." she replied.

Oh. Oh dear. I began to whimper as well. My partner rushed to hold me in a comforting embrace. "Don't you fret, Jazz." she said, kindly. "We will find SOME way. And I don't regret a single penny. I would give everything I have for you."

And THAT, my friends, is love. REAL, proper, love. I am humbled. But also truly honoured.

We will be OK. Because we are together.

Good night.

Sunday 1 May 2011

2011-05-01T19:18:00.001+01:00

So, anyway, I went to the vets' during the week - to find out if I had a terminal case of The Big C or merely a nasal infection, following the nose-bleeding incident. I have had a great many brushes with death in my long, mostly happy, life and I accept that, at some point, my luck is going to run out. On this particular occasion, I am going to.... LIVE!!!

Yes; 'twas a bacterial infection, received when I inadvertently hit my nose on the work-yard car park surface during a sneezing fit. My parter is inexpressibly relieved (there have been tears) and I am restored to my former, lively, full-of-beans lifestyle. Yayyyy!

Thanks to all those who sent their love and support during these latter difficult days. And especially to Michal Clarke and the lovely Ann - for their inaugural comments, which are much valued.

THE wedding, then. A day of much anticipation, joy, and unlooked-for distress. Yes, distress. I shall now tell all.

Leaving our house shortly after completing our latter post, my partner and I proceeded along The Mall (aka Old Farm Road). Glancing into Eddie's house through his window, I saw my friend and his fellow Rottweiler Angus watching the coverage on television. They were clinging to each other and sobbing. With a raised eyebrow, the sight prompted me to suspect that there would be more than one old queen in the Abbey that day... Pickle the Salamander was keeping a low profile, hidden within the rock-cave in his vivarium (there was a good reason for this - of which more to follow...).

We called in at the local Co-Op store en route to my partner's parents' house, as my partner wished to take along some ice-cream as a gift. As I waited outside in our New Teal Megane, I saw that the staff were watching the events on a small portable television at the checkout, with small plastic cups of bubbly. Whilst wondering about what would ensue when Hometown Legend Barry from the Co-Op (http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Barry-from-the-Coop/207739074819) was plied with alcohol, I noticed that the red, white and blue decorations worn by the boys on the till were, most unfortunately, the carbon copy of the revolutionary tricolores worn, on pain of death, by French citizens during La Terreur. I decided not to raise this point, however - I felt it would not be welcome on such an happy day of Royal nuptials.

And so to the ceremony itself.

The first thing that struck me was Miss Middleton's exquisite dress. Utterly perfect. Modest, yet sexy; classic, yet modern; a respectful hint of the Queen's own 1947 dress, brought bang-up-to-date. This dress is the one my partner would choose for her OWN wedding, were I to permit such an union. The fact that the dress also came from a fashion house, the head of which died last year in tragic circumstances, also spoke highly of the bride's judgement. The bride's sister, Philippa, also looked exquisite - and it did not escape me that both HRH the Duke of Edinburgh and HRH the Prince Henry were positively drooling at the sight of her. I have always liked Prince Philip. A man very much after my own heart - both raised to believe in natural male dominance - and both finding ourselves having to kow-tow to a more superior female....

I wish every conceivable happiness to the Royal newly-weds. They seem both wise, grounded, and perfectly-matched. And I was happy in the feeling that, despite the ever-humbling pomp and circumstance (and no nation does this as well as mine own, I feel justified in barking), it felt like it was, at heart, a happy family affair. Simply; perfectly; wonderful.

Beautiful music, readings, sentiments, public rejoicing - all combined to make a truly happy event.

The distress, then. As the bride and groom stepped out of the Abbey, my partner popped the cork in a bottle of champagne, saved by her father for the occasion. As the sparkling liquid was shared about, the telephone began to ring and my partner moved to answer it, as her father proposed a toast to Queen and country.

It was my partner's brother on the end of the line. And he, his wife, and their delightful children Ewan and Carys, had just been involved in a serious car crash.

That was the end of our jubilations. Their car had been written-off in a motorway collision (on the M6, en route to the wedding of a university friend). Fortunately, although profoundly distressed, no serious injuries were sustained by our loved ones. But it marked the end of our jubilations.

So there we are. Exquisite happiness and much sorrow, juxtaposed in one sunny day in April. But, despite all, a day in which to celebrate that all we know and love are well, safe - and happy. What more, than that, can one ask?

Good night.

Friday 29 April 2011

2011-04-29T10:41:00.001+01:00

I am about to enter my carriage, proceed up The Mall, and take my seat for the most glorious wedding. What a wonderful day to be Jasper in this world.

I shall return after the ceremony, to share my views with you, dear reader - if you'll indulge me. Until then, I lift my bowl as a toast to the bride and groom and wish them every possible happiness.

I may deign to appear on the balcony afterwards; it depends what the weather is doing outsite - and how many canapés remain unguarded on the reception table inside...

See you later!

Good morning.

Monday 25 April 2011

2011-04-25T12:14:00.000+01:00

Although I am by no means recovered, I begin to show signs of improvement.

I was able to undertake a full circuit of Abbotstone last evening - and even chased a wily beastie.

Ahhh... [sigh]... well do I recall the days when my blog was populated with tales of triumph such as vanquishing evil buzzards; fights with dominant stags; walks exceeding ten miles over Dartmoor; and other such victories. Nowadays, my glories lie in managing a short, untaxing, walk - or finishing my dinner without being sick afterwards. And yet - despite these diminishments - I am happy. Yes I am. And do you know why, my dear reader?

Because I am loved. All I have ever wanted in my life (a loving home, food to eat, water to drink, understanding and affection...) I have. And, in recent days, it has been proved to me that even though I can no longer caper about as in former years my partner loves me just the same as she ever did.

Age is, indeed, just a number. I am loved and so I continue to be happy - happier than ever.

And, despite my (thus far undetected) continuing onslaught on garden developments of which I disapprove, I have been a VERY good boy in continuing to take my medicine, earning myself high praise and cuddles from my doting partner at the same time. This puts me in mind of a viral email, sent to me by my good friend in Michigan, Lance. Permit me to share it with you now, as a little Easter treat. Happy Easter indeed.

How to give a cat a pill:

Pick up cat and cradle it in the crook of your left arm as if holding a baby. Position right forefinger and thumb on either side of cat's mouth and gently apply pressure to cheeks while holding pill in right hand. As cat opens mouth, pop pill into mouth. Allow cat to close mouth and swallow.
Retrieve pill from floor and cat from behind sofa. Cradle cat in left arm and repeat process.
Retrieve cat from bedroom, and throw soggy pill away.
Take new pill from foil wrap, cradle cat in left arm, holding rear paws tightly with left hand. Force jaws open and push pill to back of mouth with right forefinger. Hold mouth shut for a count of ten.
Retrieve pill from goldfish bowl and cat from top of wardrobe. Call spouse from garden.
Kneel on floor with cat wedged firmly between knees, hold front and rear paws. Ignore low growls emitted by cat. Get spouse to hold head firmly with one hand while forcing wooden ruler into mouth. Drop pill down ruler and rub cat's throat vigorously.
Retrieve cat from curtain rail, get another pill from foil wrap. Make note to buy new ruler and repair curtains. Carefully sweep shattered figurines and vases from hearth and set to one side for repairing later.
Wrap cat in large towel and get spouse to lie on cat with head just visible from below armpit. Put pill in end of drinking straw, force mouth open with pencil, and blow down drinking straw.
Check label to make sure pill not harmful to humans, drink 1 beer to take taste away. Apply Band-Aid to spouse's forearm and remove blood from carpet with cold water and soap.
Retrieve cat from neighbour's shed. Get another pill. Open another beer. Place cat in cupboard, and close door onto neck, to leave head showing. Force mouth open with dessert spoon. Flick pill down throat with elastic band.
Fetch screwdriver from garage and put cupboard door back on hinges. Drink beer. Fetch bottle of Scotch. Pour shot, drink. Apply cold compress to cheek and check records for date of last tetanus jab. Apply whiskey compress to cheek to disinfect. Toss back another shot. Throw T-shirt away and fetch new one from bedroom.
Call Fire Service to retrieve the d*mned cat from tree across the road. Apologise to neighbour who crashed into fence while swerving to avoid cat. Take last pill from foil-wrap.
Tie the little b*st*rd's front paws to rear paws with garden twine and bind tightly to leg of dining table, find heavy-duty pruning gloves from shed. Push pill into mouth followed by large piece of steak filet. Be rough about it. Hold head vertically and pour 2 pints of water down throat to wash pill down.
Consume remainder of Scotch. Get spouse to drive you to Casualty, sit quietly while doctor stitches fingers and forearm and remove pill fragments from right eye. Call furniture shop on way home to order new table.
Arrange for RSPCA to collect mutant cat from hell and call local pet shop to see if they have any hamsters.

How to give a dog a pill:

Wrap it in grilled bacon.

Hee-hee... many a true word...!

Tomorrow or Wednesday, I will return to consult my surgeon. Then, we shall know whether I am to leave this realm imminently - or otherwise. But I am not afraid. I am loved - and love, as the barking goes, conquers all.

Good afternoon.

Sunday 24 April 2011

2011-04-24T14:37:00.000+01:00

I have been busy trying to put my affairs in order before the end.

'Tis true that I am no longer bleeding from the snout, but I am getting terribly tired and can still breathe largely through one nostril. That barked, my appetite is still hearty and my strength has suffered no diminishment.

I am, however, enjoying the lovely warm spring weather. The floral scents and birdsong are utterly bewitching. Yesterday evening, I was dozing in the sunset when Honey, the ginger queen-cat from opposite (who mistakenly believes that the cul-de-sac belongs to her. Ha! As if...), decided to amble over and sit in front of my fence.

Oh, I think not, my dear.

I issued a volley of angry barks, each more insulting than the last. Honey blinked benignly back at me. With that, I launched myself from my sofa and flew into the garden, ranting and storming. Pretty Rosie from next door appeared from her garden, on the left, and began barking too (she, for reasons best known to herself, likes Honey and barked to defend her feline chum). The voice of the unseen Archie, the Jack Russell from the end of my terrace, issued forth from the direction of his rear garden, baying foul invective against cats everywhere and encouraging me in my barks: "Tell her, Jasper! You tell her! Go on - get her!). And Peaches, my nemesis, came wandering over, pretending he was en route to somewhere else but really listening with high glee to the cacophony.

I ran with much force towards my rear gate, Honey noticing at almost precisely the same moment that the latch of said gate was not fastened properly and would not prove much of a challenge for a Staffordshire Bull Terrier with a rumble on his mind. She fled, and I listened with satisfaction to the click as her cat-flap closed behind her.

Chuckling to myself, I re-entered my house as the other participants of the altercation melted away. My partner looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
"For someone who's supposed to be on his last legs, Jasper, you have an astonishing amount of energy." she said, patting my head as she pretended to scold me. I grinned sheepishly back at her.

All thoughts of errant cats and personal infirmity were cast firmly to the back of my mind, however, on my latest encounter with Eddie, my friendly, camp-as-a-row-of-tents, Rottweiler chum who lives across the way from me.

I was returning from a swimming trip with my partner and spotted Eddie sunning himself on his front lawn. He was sitting up, his chest almost swollen with importance, and was clearly bursting to tell me something.
"Jasper, dear boy!" he greeted me, before I had even reached him.
"Hullo, Ed!" I smiled at him. "How's Angus?" Angus is Eddie's long-time gentleman "companion" and fellow muscly-Rottweiler.
"Jasper - I have reached a decision." announced Edward, self-importantly, ignoring my question. "I have decided that it is time that I got married and fathered some pups."

It was only with the greatest effort that I kept myself from exploding with laughter.
"Oh?" I managed to squeak, thankful that I had already been to the toilet recently. "I didn't think you were the marrying kind, Eddie?" Ed looked at me through narrowed eyes. "I mean," I continued, "What has Angus got to say about this plan?"
"Not that keen." muttered Eddie, frowning.
"You surprise me." I replied. "Ed, you do know that you'll have to - erm - 'interfere' with a lady if you want some pups? You know that, don't you?"
Eddie wrinkled-up his snout in distaste.
"Urgh..." he muttered.
"Yes!" I nodded, winking at him. "I'm not sure that your big plan is a terribly good one, old boy. You want to be sticking with Angus. All the dogs and even most of the cats round here love you, mate. You should concentrate on being a good 'uncle' to them. I'm not sure that you'd make a very good husband for a lady-Rotti."

"Why?" queried Eddie, looking inclined to be quarrelsome. It was time to bark frankly and call a halt to this madness.

"Because, Edward, you are as gay as a cucumber!" I barked. "As is Angus! You can't turn your back on the way things are and pretend to be the dog you're not! If you can prove me wrong, I will willingly and gladly kiss Peaches!" The mere thought of that made my stomach heave.

And, with that, I turned and went to take the few steps further, which would lead to my front door. I looked back, as I heard Eddie's claws clicking on the pavement behind me. The mighty Rottweiler leaned in closer to me and quietly said:
"Don't tell anyone, will you?"
I grinned at him.
"Ed, it's our little secret." I said with a wink, giving my friend a good-natured head-butt.

Well, I still do not know if I am on the way out or not. But at least I can still see the glaringly obvious, along with every other sentient member of this community. And the day when Angus and Eddie decide to walk the straight path in life is definitely the day when I will genuinely feel that I've outstayed my welcome in this world.

Dear, oh dear, hehehe...

Good afternoon.

Tuesday 19 April 2011

2011-04-19T19:28:00.003+01:00

Can there be a worse feeling than having no hope? Yes, there can. It is having hope, only to have it subsequently quoshed. You may gather from this that our much-anticipated payments have not yet arrived.

Actually there IS a feeling worse than this. The feeling that comes when one's trusty canine sidekick has just deposited an immense bowel-full of dog-eggs upon the pavement and one reaches for one's "poo-bag", only to discover a vast, gaping hole in the said bag. I, personally, have never experienced this horror. My partner has though - just last evening. Suffice it to say that she was not happy, although she was able to creatively use what remained of the bag to clear the pavement - but she didn't speak to me for several moments afterwards. I think that particular subject is, perhaps, best left there, in the red bin with the dog-eggs and the bag fragments.

Happily, our initial trials have been brought into a slightly more happy state by the arrival this afternoon of my partner's mother with a basket of provisions, in lieu of an Easter gift. We now have milk, bread, cheese, potatoes, carrots and some bananas - which will keep us going until we have some pennies to spend once again. Hurrah! We have already enjoyed a cheese sandwich and two cups of good hot tea.

Less jolly, however, is the reason why we were at home this afternoon in order to welcome my partner's mother and her gifts. I had to make an unscheduled trip to my surgeon's emergency clinic at two of the clock today.

Our day began uneventfully enough. We rose at the usual hour and I was happy to eat my breakfast and jump into the car to go to work. Within a mile or so of work, however, my partner had to make an emergency stop. For, on casting an askance look at me as we proceeded safely along, she found blood running in small rivulets down my snout, issuing freely from my right nostril (the 'black patch' side of my head). Actually, it wasn't just blood. Mucus (sorry) was also blended with my free-flowing precious haemoglobin.

Finding a safe place to bring our New Teal Megane to a halt, my partner cleaned up my snout and we concluded our journey. Unfortunately, the journey was the only thing to successfully reach its conclusion. The sticky blood continued to trickle steadily for the rest of the morning and my partner's alarm and distress increased in direct proportion. Steps had to be taken.

Aside from being a minor irritation (the trickling of the goo making my nose-glands twitch and the goo then dribbling down my tender whiskers), I wasn't particularly bothered about the affair. 'Tis true, I did have a rather nagging, dull, ache on that side of my head today - and that nostril has been minorly bothersome and the cause of some sneezing of late - but nothing to cause particular concern.

When the bleeding had not ceased by 1.00pm this afternoon, my partner telephoned her manager and took the afternoon off work. I was taken straight to my surgeon.

A thorough investigation was performed. There are two probable explanations. I prefer the first. It may be that I have either knocked my snout (I cannot recall such an occasion, unless I did it in my sleep - always a possibility) or sniffed up something which has become lodged in the nostril. For this scenario, I have been issued some tablets with complex instructions (but I don't have to worry about those - I just have to be a good boy and take my tablets when my partner gives them to me). The second, equally plausible, situation is that God has finally called out my number and it is time to row this little hired boat back to the quayside. It cannot, at this stage, be ruled out that a tumour may have formed within my nasal cavity and, if this should be the case, then there is naught that even the most skilled surgeon available could hazard in order to save me. I am to return to my medical practitioner in a week's time and then (or shortly after) we shall know all. Be encouraged though, dear friend, since taking my initial dose of five tablets some three hours ago, my partner is tentatively assured that the bleeding and other seepage has, for the moment, ceased to flow.

She has still passed several hours in frenzied gardening, however, to try and distract her from this latest trial to befall us. I almost pitied the remaining weeds as I watched her scrambling around our little estate... This barked, my partner is confident enough in my continued enthusiasm and vigour, buoyed up by my customarily eager consumption of my dinner, to agree to take me out for an evening stroll and swim - although, this time, she will be a little more meticulous over her poo-bag selection...

We will keep you posted with any nasal developments, should there be anything worthy of your notice, dear reader. But fear not - for I am not afeared myself; whatever the outcome may be. Oh yes - I fear for my partner - but never for myself...

And - I must just bark this before I head off out to annoy the wily beasties of the evening - please take a moment to visit fellow-blogger, Ann in the UP's, page (http://annjav.blogspot.com/2011/04/going-for-goat.html) - and be sure to leave a comment. Ann is donating 50 cents per comment on her blog until 31 May to Heifer International (a worthy charity which provides less-fortunate folk in third world countries with such things as a goat or a cow - something which a poor family can nurture and raise and which can then go on to help that family to have cheese, milk, etc. for themselves and as a source of income for many years to come).

My various tribulations are but minor niggles compared to the poor s*ds of this world who - through no fault of their own - need a bit of a hand to get their lives on track. Go on - leave a comment on Ann's blog - you KNOW you want to.... And when you've done it once - well, just pop back and do it again!

Until next time, keep smiling, my friend.

Good night.

Sunday 17 April 2011

2011-04-17T18:41:00.003+01:00

WHAT a busy day I have had today! And I naïvely thought that Sunday was the day of rest...

Today, my partner and I have done some gardening, two loads of washing, cleaned the kitchen AND the bathroom from top to bottom, put some food out on our bird-table for our feathery friends, changed our bedding, washed all of our dishes, read a book together, and made a big pan of carrot and coriander soup from scratch. I am exhausted.

For the most part, I managed to behave myself - except, unavoidably, during the soup-making process. My partner allowed her attention to switch to the soup pan, leaving unguarded a plump little onion. I wasted no time in seizing both the opportunity and the onion, scampering away into the garden with my prize before my mischief was detected.

"Jasper! Come back with that!" called my partner, to no avail. "Don't eat it, it's a raw onion! You won't like like it...!" she entreated.

'Hehe - I shall be the judge of that...' I cackled to myself, settling down to peel off the onion's crispy outer skin. I bit deeply down into my purloined snack...

***********************************************************************************

Hmmm... I really ought to start paying more heed to my partner's advice. Perhaps some of it, after all, is actually intended for my own good. Whatever may be the case, raw onion is disgusting.

And I had to eat it all as well, because Honey the cat was watching from the opposite side of the pavement and I didn't want to look like a weed. I managed as much of it as I could before I actually started crying with every fresh bite, but was forced to twist about and bury the rest of the hated pungent bulb, shielded from the ginger tabby's impertinent gaze.

Wretched onion. I've had my proper supper AND two bowls of water and I can STILL taste the revolting thing. My partner didn't say a word. I think she could see that I had suffered enough.

Anyhow. All of this activity appears to have been undertaken to distract my partner from the distressing thought that we have NO more money to last for the rest of the month and very, very little food. The afore-mentioned soup is the first meal my partner has eaten for two days. We are expecting our compensation cheque from our "builders", but it has yet to arrive. I still have meat, though no biscuits, but I cannot complain - my partner always feeds me before herself. We WOULD have been alright this month. But the computer repairs and one other unexpected expense took out £110 of the £150 we have each month to live upon. My partner has busied herself excessively today in order to remove the possibility of dwelling on this plight to excess. I like to feel that my "onion episode" provided her with at least some light relief.

She does her best to remain buoyant, though it is not always easy. Earlier this afternoon, whilst I was snoozing on her lap as we were looking at our book, she sighed heavily and, idly scratching my ears, said;
"You've led a pretty full life, haven't you, Jaspie?"
I couldn't really deny it. I looked up her and agreed.
"When does life start to get easier?" she mused, sighing again.

I gave this some consideration before replying - it was, after all, a fairly weighty question.
"Well," I decided, "You know that bit that comes right at the end? When you close your eyes for the last time, and then you breathe for the last time, and then everything inside your body stops working?"
"What, you mean death?" she asked, frowning down at me.
"I suppose some people give it that name."
"Ye-es?" my partner enquired.

"Yes." I replied. "Well, that's the easy bit."

My partner smiled down at me and ruffled my fur good-naturedly, before returning to our book.

After all, I thought to myself as I began to doze again, Dying is incredibly easy - anyone can do it. It's living that casts up the REAL challenge.

And I would not have it any other way. I'm off to make a mess in the bathroom now. Cleanliness is not a natural state for me.

Good evening.

Saturday 16 April 2011

2011-04-16T22:38:00.000+01:00

Another wonderful week of being Jasper. Full of sunshine and general capers.

I attempt to play football with Ewan on the Bridleway next to our work-yard.
The small black dot in the upper centre is Fizzy, having given up on the idea of a
sensible game with her husband ever taking place. I have slightly more patience than she does.

Ewan and Fizzy had a day off yesterday, so I took my main exercise in the evening. Returning home, I was pleased to encounter my friend Eddie the Rottweiler, who was sitting in front of his house enjoying the sunset. He hailed me cheerfully.
"Jasper! Sweetheart!"
"Edouardo! I grinned back. "How's it hanging?!"
"Oh, darling - don't even mention hanging." groaned Eddie. "Angus has got himself a new collar and lead-type affair. It looks just like a noose and does his great fat neck no favours at all."
Angus is another Rottweiler and Eddie's long-term "gentleman-friend". Separately, they were merciless in their abuse of each other, but in truth they were devoted to each other. I grinned again and was about to reply when my gaze was instantly arrested by the bizarre sight to be seen through the window into Eddie's sitting room. A vast glass tank was taking up almost all of the rear wall. A bright red light blazed away in the top corner of the tank, casting a reddish-orange hue over the tank's contents. Within the tank was an assortment of rocks, sand, a small water-pool and a smooth, interestingly-shaped branch. I had never seen anything quite like it before.
"What," I gasped, "in the name of high holy heaven and all the blessèd canine angels is that?!?"
Eddie glanced behind him to follow my gaze.
"Oh, that." he replied, "It's a vivarium."
As he said that, something scuttled out of a rock-cave in the corner of the tank, grasped a green item from the floor, settled down and began to eat his prize. The 'something' was a small salamander. "The lad himself!" beamed Eddie. "That's Pickle."
"Pickle?" I queried, with a raised eyebrow.
"Hmm... it's because he looks like one of those dill pickles you get in a jar."
"Pickle?"
"Hmm..."
"Pickle the Salamander?!?"
"I know. Poor s*d. We've had him for ages - ever since we were relieved of Kevin's company, in fact."

(Pause for explanation: Kevin was mentioned in this blog some two years ago. He was a foul-mouthed, arrogant, misogynistic bully in the guise of a white cat and shared a house with Eddie. Kevin had left his lover, Chloe, the cat from opposite my house, with three kittens to raise alone and then abusively denied in public that the kittens were his. He was a most repugnant individual. No-one grieved when he was killed by a car on the main road beyond our street. At the time, there was talk in both the canine and feline communities of procuring a card and fruit-basket to send to the car-driver as an expression of our deep gratitude. In fact, if the driver had gone for the double-whammy and taken out Peaches as well I would have put together a floral arrangement of blooms from my own garden for the fellow).

"He's a pleasant-enough fellow." continued Edward. "Every so often, he's allowed out of his vivarium for a potter around the living-room. I can't make head nor tail of his conversation, though. He jabbers away in some odd foreign language and chuckles a lot. Quite a jolly little lad, in fact."
"What does he eat?" I asked, watching Pickle finishing whatever he was eating before heading towards his little water-pool.
"Insects, mostly." replied Eddie, with a curl of his lip. "He likes crickets."
"Urrgh."
"Quite. Angus is terrified of him, bless him. Actually, I think he's jealous. He calls Pickle my 'little Morroccan boy'."
"Really? Is Pickle from Morrocco, then?"
"No, from a licenced reptile dealer just outside Southampton."

With that, and a last glance at Pickle, I bade Eddie a good evening. I'll admit to feeling a little envious of the young salamander. I rather fancied spending most of my day snoozing on a smooth slab of rock, with a sun lamp beaming warmly down on me. I wonder if I can bark my partner into getting a Jasper-sized vivarium...?

Good night.

Tuesday 12 April 2011

2011-04-12T22:22:00.001+01:00

YES!!! I am back! Fully restored to my complete and refurbished home, my repaired computer and my blogging chair! Alert, sharp and sniffing-ass!

I apologise for the fact that you have been long-neglected. WHAT a time we have had! But 'tis largely over now. We have been offered some scant financial compensation for our lengthy troubles. Insufficient, to be sure, and accompanied by a derisory letter (I am sorely tempted to name-and-shame; but I am a discreet fellow). That barked, my partner and I are keen to draw a line under the whole wretched business. Let this, therefore, be the last I bark on the topic.

Firstly - let me thank most sincerely all those who have kept faith with me during my involuntary silence. Lance. Lifewithdogs. Et al. You know who you are. I thank you.

Here, in my current part in the World, we are enjoying the most glorious Spring weather. The sights, sounds, scents - all are sources of delight to me. Witness this image of me, captured just a few days ago (when my partner had cause to look for something in the work-yard, thus affording me the opportunity to enjoy the unseasonable warmth):

Another gruelling day at the coal-face

I wish not to become maudlin, but I confess to you that I had not expected to live this long; I am now in my thirteenth year. Indeed - if you cast your mind back, dear reader, to the earliest days of my "Evolution of Jasper" series (to be concluded soon, I promise) - then you will easily comprehend that I did not even expect to survive my puppyhood and adolescence (http://jasper-thedogsblog.blogspot.com/2009/08/sunday-16-august-2009.html). Even if I could have foreseen my fortunate longevity I would never have expected to continue in my full possession of every essential faculty. But - for whatever reason - I am blessed. And I am thankful for that.

I continue to hear, to see and - above everything I could ever conceivably have wished for - to be loved.

Alas - though I might wish to wax lyrical further on my personal blessings - I must return to you with a tale of my friend Ewan - workplace doggy chum of limited intelligence, but possessed of a bizarre, delusional, obsession with cheese. Yes. CHEESE. Don't ask me why: I have no (formal) psychiatric qualification.

The very day after my latter post we were blessed in these parts with an incredibly beautiful lunar spectacular. Our own moon, at an incredibly close proximity to our own dear planet, exhibited thus:

The very day after this exquisite and humbling display, I encountered Ewan in the work-yard. He kept running back and forth between the yard and the adjacent wood - returning each time to the former with a stick in his mouth. By the time I decided that I could ignore him no longer, he had accumulated a pile of sticks of varying length. Fizzy (Ewan's basket-mate) merely looked on in resigned bemusement.

"Alright Ewan." I announced. "Tell me then. WHAT are you doing?"
"Bladder." came the muffled reply.
"What?!"
"Oh, honestly, Jazz, are you going deaf?!" yipped my simple chum, "I am building a LADDER! To the MOON!"

"Riiiight." I replied cautiously, "Any particular reason?"
"Oh JAZZ!" grinned Ewan, wagging his daft tail at me, "You ARE silly sometimes! I am building a ladder to the Moon! Because we ALL know what the Moon is made of, don't we?!"
"Errr.. igneous rock...? Basalt...? Magnesium...?"
"No, you muppet, CHEESE!!"

Of course. I had forgotten about Ewan's bizarre delusions regarding cheese (his chief pursuit in life, apart from his lady Fizzy's every physical need).

"So you're building a Stairway to Heaven...?" I asked with a wry smile.

"No, of COURSE not!" grinned Ewan, his tail wagging wildly as he set off in pursuit of another suitably-sized stick for his purpose, "That would be ridiculous! No, I am just building a ladder to the Moon. I might have to get Fizzy to help me with the difficult bits though...."

And, with that, I left him to his task - secure in the knowledge that only a few moments later he would forget about he was doing and wonder what all of those sticks were doing in the work-yard.

Sweet reader - do not be concerned for Ewan. He is happy in his little world, and would only injure himself were he actually to fashion a rudimentary ladder and attempt to climb to the Moon.

Despite all of this lunar lunacy - it IS good to be back!

Good night.

Thursday 31 March 2011

2011-03-31T14:56:00.000+01:00

Grrrrowl. Computer has been BROKEN since last post. This is an update from my partner's work computer whilst she is away from her desk.

Uh-oh - she's coming back. Hopefully repaired home computer will be up and running again soon and I will be back in business!

Until then - keep wagging your tail!

Good afternoon.

Friday 18 March 2011

2011-03-19T21:06:00.000Z

Comic Relief (Red Nose Day) today. To mark this day, here is one of my blog entries from long ago for you to enjoy all over again:

Thursday 28 June 2007

A troubling affair this evening with the psychotic swan that blights my life on a regular basis.

He is a complete head-case. The two young ladies employed by the Environment Agency to maintain the rivers and their banks once told Maisie that he is the most dangerously-crazed nutter that they've ever encountered. And they once had to catch and remove a pike from the water, so they know of what they speak.

The swan's equally nut-job wife has managed to hatch nine cygnets, so daddy is extra-tetchy at present. Actually, the much milder-mannered swan on the private lake behind the fence has a wife who is sitting on babes as I type this. He wasn't swimming too close to her the other day, so perhaps they have had words. Personally, I suspect the psycho-swan has been playing away from home and may have forced himself upon the lady. I wouldn't put it past him. He could well be the real father of those eggs. If they hatch and grow up to be large and white, with long slender necks and orange beaks, we shall know the sordid truth...

This evening, I was being delightfully entertained by a group of young ducks. One poor lass managed a total of eleven - ELEVEN!! - eggs earlier this year. All of them hatched, foxes and rats kept away, and each duckling has survived to maturity, I am happy to say. I like ducks. They are harmless and they amuse me. I was finding particular glee in watching the eleven adolescent ducks mercilessly goading the evil swan. Three or four would swim up to him quacking until he turned on them, shouting and using words inappropriate for the ears of children, while chasing them and flapping his over-sized wings. The ducks would be just too fast for him and he would give up, only to have three or four more of them pop out from under the river bank right behind him. The eleven of them were a perfect example of a team working in unison to annoy a git and he rose to it every time. A lady watching from the bank was very worried and said that we should stop the swan; he was trying to kill the ducks. He would have killed them, if he'd caught them, but it only took a few minutes' observation to see that those little lads knew exactly what they were doing. The calm nearby presence of the ducks' mother proved that psycho-swan-baiting was an oft-practised game.

Of course, while the white-feathered-wacko was wasting his energy on cheeky ducklings, the stupid oaf was leaving his own wife and children entirely unattended. I could have gobbled up the lot of them and he wouldn't even have noticed. But I know enough about ladies with pups to leave WELL alone. Kipling was right: the female of the species is more deadly than the male. Besides, watching the hated swan repeatedly falling prey to the ducks' pranks was far too funny to miss.

Unfortunately, when he was growing tired, the swan spotted me laughing and started paddling angrily in my direction.

Oh sh*t.

He accosted me before I could slink away. He demanded to know what I was laughing at. "Nothing, Sir." I replied.
"You were laughing at those little b*st*rds." I assured him that he was mistaken. He repeated his original question.

Perhaps - on pondering this with the benefit of hindsight - I should simply have told him the truth. Instead I explained that I was laughing at the thought I'd just had, which was that if I had a face like those of his wife and children I would shave my bottom and learn to walk backwards. For some reason, the evil beast took exception to this and flew at me, howling in rage. I (bravely) shrieked in terror and my partner quickly put herself between me and the irate swan. She sheltered me with her body while the swan attempted to assault me in the most foul manner. A tactical withdrawal was clearly in order.

"I hope all your children have really tiny willies!" I screamed at the flapping swan as my partner dragged me away from the scene, "And that INCLUDES the girls!!"

At this point, my partner scooped up all 20kg of me and legged it.

For her bravery I will award her, for one night only, an extra half-inch of duvet. I hate that swan.

Good night.

Looking back over my earlier blog entries, I am somewhat shocked to discover that I have become less buoyant, less witty, less tolerant. In short, I am become a whingeing old git. I shall try and mend my ways from now on... Why am I more moved by Comic Relief this year? Perhaps I have grown a little more 'human' than formerly... Perhaps it was because I witnessed celebrities whom I admire (and some whom I have interviewed for magazine articles) debase themselves in the worthy cause of fundraising. Or perhaps it was because I viewed a clip where a 15-month-old baby girl with the same name as my partner almost died from malaria - but was saved with equipment provided by Comic Relief.

No matter what we do - whether it is the fabulous Miranda Hart cooking and dancing, Radio 1 DJ Chris Moyles broadcasting the longest-ever radio show in history - or a little child donating his 50p pocket money - we can make a REAL difference. There should NEVER be starving babies in this world while others have a few extra pence to themselves. MY partner and I donated what little we could. I urge you to visit http://www.bbc.co.uk/rednoseday/ and do the same. Thank you.

Good night.

Friday 11 March 2011

2011-03-11T21:32:00.000Z

Well - I did have prepared for you, this evening, an account of my rehabilitated (good) behaviour, an angry encounter with a representative of the builders' firm ("How would you rate the quality of the works undertaken by us?" "Get out of my house.") and (finally!) the thirty-fifth instalment of "The Evolution of Jasper".

Not so this evening, however.

Instead - all of my thoughts are now turned towards my Japanese friends.

I cannot bark how devastated I am by the immense earthquake, the resulting tsunamis and aftershocks experienced by all within that Pacific region.

8.9 on the Richter scale. Dear G*d. I wish there was something I could do or bark to make everything better. But not even the most mighty amongst us can take issue against Nature.

To my friends in Japan and other affected areas - HEIWA - or:

Peace.

With my compassion,

Good night.

Sunday 6 March 2011

2011-03-06T23:50:00.003Z

At last the wretched saga of my home improvements is at an end. My partner and I have spent much of this weekend in restoring our house to some semblance of order. Photographs will be posted, when all is once more as it should be.

For the time being, I sense (from those of you kind enough to comment on my previous post) a certain keenness to learn the truth behind my recent spanked bottom. Sometimes, dear reader, it concerns me to learn that, however much care I take in producing intelligent prose for the delectation and edification of the great minds of our time (including, obviously, your good self), my most popular postings invariably involve me in getting in some manner hurt, punished, detected in mischief, or hoodwinked by an evil predator. Perhaps my life would be easier if I simply posted a variety of clips of me falling over, banging my head on stuff, being pecked by a pheasant, etc... But my partner says that it is good for me to post accounts of my various mishaps. She says I should find it to be a cathartic process. Well, I don't know about that. AND my partner's emergency Vodka supply had been placed well and truly out of paws' reach. Grrrowl...

That barked, however, I cannot deny you the sorry relation of my late misdemeanour.

For several days prior to the incident I had been quietly slipping away from my partner in order to investigate a most delightful and intriguing scent. My nasal talent told me that a recently-deceased deer was not too far away - and a big 'un at that. On my third foray, whilst my partner was occupied in playing football with clot-headed doggy-chum Ewan, I actually found it. Big, fresh and deliciously meaty. On the previous two occasions I had returned to my partner's side after her calls. Not so on THIS day. I had a whole flank of fresh venison all to myself - and suddenly I found myself to be terribly hard-of-hearing. I wasted no time in getting to work on my prize, ignoring the increasingly angry calls and whistles of my partner (which, of course, I could not hear).

Hearing an approaching soft tread through the woods, I glanced up to see Ewan carefully putting his football down at the edge of a moss-covered tree trunk. He padded over.

"Jasper, your mummy is calling for you." he said, all wide-eye earnest innocence. "You need to go back to her."
"My mummy is NOT calling for me." I replied, irritably. "And the reason for that is that I am a pure-blooded Staffordshire Bull Terrier."
"Yes, but..."
"That means that my father was a Staffordshire Bull Terrier - "
"Oh, yes, but..."
"And my mother was a Staffordshire Bull Terrier. I must therefore conclude that it is my human companion to which you refer - and she is NOT my mummy. We are equal. She is my partner. And SHE can take a running jump."

Ewan could not have looked more shocked if I had suddenly struck a match and set fire to his whiskers. I don't think he had ever brushed up against the concept of disrespect before. I don't even think the word "disrespect" was in his vocabulary (actually, there are a vast number of words and concepts not in Ewan's vocabulary - but let us not pursue that further).

"Yes... anyway..." mumbled Ewan, recovering himself, "Your mummy is calling for you and you have to go back."
I was just about to invite Ewan, in the time-honoured fashion, to occupy himself elsewhere when I was suddenly hauled off the deer by the scruff of my neck and flinched as my bottom received a short, sharp smack. Ewan politely averted his eyes, although I could see he was still peeping at the proceedings from the corner of one eye.
"Back to the path - now!" hissed my irate partner, "And don't you ever disobey me like that again. You are supposed to set a GOOD example for Ewan. I am VERY angry with you." On and on she continued, whilst I endeavoured to look suitably contrite. It didn't escape me that Ewan, under the guise of downloading a wee-mail, took the opportunity to help himself to a few good mouthfuls of the tasty red venison.
"Look what Ewan's doing!" I interjected.
"Never you mind what he's doing - I'm talking to YOU!" replied my partner, crossly. "Ewan!" she called, turning around, "Stop it; we're going back to the path. Go and get your football!" Ewan eagerly complied, dashing off to fetch his ball and then rejoining us as we picked our way back to the path.
"Little creep." I muttered under my breath, ignoring him as we returned through the woods. Ewan suddenly sidled up to me.
"Jasper!" he murmured, his voice muffled by the ball he held in his mouth, "That was MEAT back there! We should go back to eat it."
"Oh, bl**dy h*ll, well done, Lassie," I hissed at him. "If only I was as quick thinking..."
"Shhh!" whispered Ewan, "I'll distract your mummy and then we can have the meat!"

This I had to see.

Ewan began dancing about like a loon, dropping the ball, and jumping madly in front of my partner.
"What on Earth...?!" she said to herself. I began to wonder if Ewan's tactics might actually work and I slunk behind a large Yew tree, trying to evaluate the best possible method of doubling-back on my partner and returning to my feast. Unhappily, my partner was on the watch for just such a manoeuvre and clocked me straight away.
"Pack it in - the pair of you!" she ordered. "Both of you back to the path - now!!!" Ewan meekly retrieved his football and trudged, shame-faced, back to the path.
"Sorry Jazz." he mumbled.
"'S'alright Ewan." I sighed. It wasn't his fault, after all.

It was not the spanked bottom that irked me so, nor even the fact that I was denied the succulent flesh of the deer. Oh no. It was the fact that Ewan had witnessed the whole. And that was the worst of the entire piece.

Suffice it to say that I have been impeccably-behaved ever since. That should lull my partner into a false sense of security until the next tasty deer falls to the ground, hehehehe...

Good night.

Tuesday 1 March 2011

2011-03-01T22:34:00.000Z

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the bathroom...

... you find sharks circling there still.   Yes: my partner and I are STILL beset by "builders". I was awakened this morning by the sound of my pretty young neighbour, Rosie, shouting at some of the very same fellows about some damage which they had inflicted in her house. I was rather intrigued to listen, actually. I have only ever managed to get a few words out of her myself, before she starts shyly giggling and then runs away. She does stare at me a lot though, and always comes to the fence to see if I am in my garden - but always with the same resulting giggles and evasion. Mad. As I ear-wigged on the proceedings I was pleasantly surprised to find that she was quite articulate. Her voice was so sweet and melodious, however, that it was odd to hear her using it to be angry. I totally agreed with the West Highland lassie, however. Here is a summation of what has happened since I last barked with you, dear reader :-

Work continued to progress slowly, on occasion because contractors forgot to put units on their lorry when leaving the depot (a series of little notes left in the kitchen for my partner revealed the truth - although the kitchen bloke was nice (and quite handsome, according to my partner, although that is no excuse as far as I am concerned). I am prepared to be generous with regard to the kitchen fellow, however, as he also left little notes for ME. He is therefore forgiven for his part in these crimes.

Following a request from the contractors', my partner and I agreed that their decorators could work in the property over Saturday 19 February as they were so far behind. That morning, however, prior to the decorators’ arrival, we found another leak in the bathroom. Happily, however, the decorators were able to fix the leak. These gentlemen (said decorators) were Polish, with a smattering of English, but both delightful young men with a high quality of professionalism, work ethic, and resulting finished tasks. The decorating was the only part of the whole business which has, thus far, proceeded without a hitch. I could comment further - I choose not to.
The whole process thus far had been extremely irritating and distressing. But I was sadly mistaken in my belief that my partner and I had seen the worst of the business.
On the evening of Thursday 24 February my partner and I arrived home after a night out to discover more water on the bathroom floor. It seemed to have originated from the bathroom radiator, which was now positioned at a distinctly slanted angle to how it was formerly fixed to the wall, although I could not detect any more water coming from the radiator pipe at that time. At the same time, my partner noticed that two large boxes which had been placed in front of our bedroom door had been moved (the one formerly at the bottom was now on the top and vice versa). I followed my partner into our bedroom and was, quite frankly, stunned by what I found. Our duvet was absolutely saturated. And, for once, I was NOT to blame (indeed, not even a Blue Whale has that much wee in him). When my partner touched the duvet, water readily seeped out. It was abundantly clear what had happened – the bathroom pipes had obviously been leaking once more, presumably more seriously this time and whoever was in the room at the time had gone into our bedroom and taken the duvet from the bed to stem and mop-up the water. As if this were not bad enough, the soaked duvet was then placed back on our bed!

Water had soaked from the duvet through my sheets and into my mattress. The duvet and bed-sheets were filthy, smelly and water-stained. As it was late at night, my partner and I had no option but to sleep on the floor with a cushion and a blanket (actually, my partner slept on the floor - I slept in my comfy armchair, but don't tell my partner that).  My partner has had to throw our duvet away as goodness only knows what the water was contaminated with, but it was extremely unpleasant.

Alas, that is STILL not the end of the matter.  Our blundering builders had forgotten to re-install our washing machine yet again, so another weekend without that - we had to go back to my partner's parents' house in order to do a load of washing so that my partner could have clean knickers. I wondered aloud as to why she didn't follow my sartorial example - but, apparently, there are different laws for humans in this country...

We had to telephone the contractors again yesterday morning for yet another leak in the bathroom, from the same radiator pipes. And now? NOW? We have water from the taps; we have a new, clean duvet (provided by my partner's mother); we have heat from our boiler and cupboards in our kitchen. What we don't have is half a bath and no water whatsoever from the shower.

AND - if all this weren't enough - today, at work, I got a telling-off and a spanked bottom - all in front of Ewan.   Grrrowl. I'm going to go and sniff-out my partner's emergency Vodka supply.

Dear friends, I am very cross indeed.

Good (ha!) night.

Wednesday 23 February 2011

2011-02-23T21:31:00.000Z

Well, a week has passed since my partner and I returned to our own home. And yet STILL the building-works are ongoing. In general, I consider myself to be a patient man, but these works are enough to try the patience of the most placid of dogs. Ewan, my marshmallow-brained canine friend, even. I have only ever seen him mildly irritated on a single occasion - and I've known him for well over three years now - but even he would have been reduced to enraged, frenzied swearing at the wretched business. Last Friday brought the discovery of yet ANOTHER leak in our bathroom pipes, decorators in the house with us on Saturday, and the frustrating discovery that the plumber had forgotten to re-install my partner's clothes washing-machine (it's a bit like a television, but with endless repeats).

In the meantime, the bathroom in Eddie's house has been completed, Archie the Jack-Russell's bathroom likewise, and work has commenced on Rosie's house next-door. WE have a decorated kitchen, a partially-decorated bathroom, dust-covers and boxes everywhere, and no curtains or flooring in either room. Grrrowl. My partner is part-way through a strongly-worded letter of complaint to the Housing Association. I am only letting her write it a portion at a time, as it makes us both very angry and I fear for her blood-pressure.

Let me return now to the happier topic of my friend Ewan. You may recall the last time his name came up between us. It was with the horrific realisation that, despite medical and scientific precautions, pea-brained Ewan may have succeeded in impregnating his long-term, belovèd basket-mate, Fizzy the pretty black Labrador. After a holiday of some duration, Ewan and Fizzy returned to the workplace. I concealed myself in the rear office, wanting to scope out the situation before I blundered and put my paw in it with Fizzy.

I watched as Ewan, his tail wagging wildly, settled himself beside his partner's desk and began to wash his paws. Fizzy trotted to her favourite spot on the opposite side of the room and gently laid herself down with a sigh. I peered closely at her. There was no discernible swelling of her belly or growth to her milk-dispensers. No sign, in fact, of pregnancy whatsoever. I wondered if I dared to feel relief. I thought that -

"Jasper." said a voice, suddenly, from behind me.

"Aiiieeeee!" I screamed, startled, almost jumping clean out of my own mouth.

"Bl**dy h*ll, Ewan!" I gasped crossly, turning around and trying to regain my breath. "Don't do that!!!" For a tall dog, Ewan had an incredibly soft tread.

"Sorry!" grinned Ewan, wagging his big daft tail. "What are we watching?"
"Fizzy and Ewan." I muttered absent-mindedly. I was still struggling to get back my composure.
"Oh. Right. Brilliant. Yes." nodded Ewan, squeezing up next to me and staring at Fizzy. After a few minutes of further study, it was clear that the lady was not "with-pup". I sighed, heavily - mentally closing the door on that particular traumatic episode. Ewan, however, continued his vigil, scanning the other office while occasionally shaking his head, sniffing the air and muttering to himself. I watched him until I could bear it no longer.
"Ewan, what ARE you doing?!" I asked.
"Well," explained Ewan, with a careful lick of his nose, "I can see Fizzy there - but I've looked and looked and I can't see Ewan anywhere."
"Are you being serious?"
Ewan turned and looked again.
"No." he announced, finally, "He's definitely not there. Shall we look outside?"

"Um... no, Ewan, it's alright. Let's not worry, eh?"
"Oh. Alright. Never mind, Jazz. I expect he'll turn up soon."

The boy never ceases to astound me. Just when I think I've heard the stupidest thing a canine could conceivably utter, Ewan plumbs yet further depths... It doesn't mean I love him any the less for it though. I wouldn't swap him for any other chum in the World.

I am hoping that, the next time I write a journal entry, my house might be once again complete. But I shall not be holding my breath...

Good night.

Thursday 17 February 2011

2011-02-17T23:54:00.000Z

I find that it is possible for a human to say 'sorry' without sounding in the least bit apologetic. I refer, of course, to the ongoing saga of my home "improvements" and a telephone conversation between an un-named representative of the building firm. I will not belittle you, my dear reader, with further details of that unsatisfactory discussion.

Suffice it to say that I am still here. Well, of course, I am still here. I mean that I am here in the here of my partner's parents' house, as opposed to the here in my own home - when I AM both here - and here. I think I've explained myself clearly - though I'm certain of fewer and fewer things these days... Anyway.

The fruit of today's toil seems to have been several half-installed kitchen units and an hand-scrawled note from someone calling himself "Lee", apologising for the fact that he forgot to put half of the kitchen fittings on his lorry when leaving his depot this morning.
As if these tiresome struggles were not enough, they have also indirectly caused me much in the way of humiliation. It commenced on the first night of my stay here. At home, my partner and I each have one side of a large double bed. Our refuge in my partner's parents' guest room is only a single bed - and a small one at that.

Imagine my distress, dear reader, at 4.45am one morning when I stretched out my supple limbs, yawned, and rolled over - only to find myself plummeting floor-wards, hitting the carpet sideways-on with a dull thump. My partner was instantly awake and offering comfort tinged with sympathy. To recoup a little of my vanished pride, I pretended that I had been going to get out of the bed anyway, to go to the toilet. Dozily, my partner clambered out of the bed and we headed for the stairs.

At home - our proper home - we have a curved staircase. When descending it is eight stairs down, turn to the right, then four steps down. In our temporary refuge, the staircase was a straight thirteen stairs down - top to bottom.

Still mostly asleep, I led the way downstairs with my door-unlocking/opening-capable partner in-tow. I am sure you can guess what happened.

Yes. Eight stairs down, turn to th-DONK! "Urrrrhhhh...." Jasper walks clean into the wall in his sleep-addled state. My partner had the tact and good grace not to laugh, giving my bruised skull-cap a tender and soothing kiss.

A small SINGLE bed. How the mighty are fallen. How came the mighty Jasper Horatio Stafford to this? To such indignity? Witness the following photographic image. It may distress the more sensitive among my readers - but the truth must be told, disgusting though it is. How? I ask you. How is a man such as I supposed to EXIST in such conditions? :-

I know. So sick, it's almost obscene. I am sorry that you had to see this.

More to follow....

Good night.

Sunday 13 February 2011

2011-02-13T11:47:00.000Z

I am writing this entry not from my own home (aka " Jasper-Horatio Stafford's House of Pain and Pleasure") but from the residence of my partner's parents; to whither my partner and I have decamped for the immediate future. I am almost unbarkably livid. I am NOT the kind of man who goes running back to mummy - and you may be sure that my partner is equally annoyed.

You may be aware that my partner and I are currently in the midst of having our kitchen and bathroom completely gutted and all-new ones built in their stead. "Hurrah!" was the initial cry. "How delightful." Not so now though. Oh no.

I will explain.

Originally, the work was scheduled to commence on Tuesday (8 February). Shortly before Christmas, we received a letter to say that the work was put back by a day to the Wednesday. No problem there. Then, a few weeks before the builders were due to start, the firm sacked one of their main contractors for incompetence and we had to take a day off work to meet the new contractor and re-select our kitchen colour scheme and style of units. Well.... alright then.

Two builders arrived at the house on Wednesday, around mid-morning. They were pleasant enough, liked me greatly, and acted efficiently. My partner and I popped out for a few hours, leaving them to it. When we returned, the builders had gone - and so had our kitchen and bathroom! The water had been reconnected, but there was plaster-dust EVERYWHERE. Grrrowl. After a couple of hours had passed with no reappearance of builders, my partner telephoned the firm's office. Oh no, came the reply, those fellows were just there to take everything out. Different builders will be coming tomorrow to begin the new installations. "But," protested my partner, "I have to go back to work tomorrow! How are they going to get in?!" Eventually, she elicited a promise that someone would be here to collect a key before she and I departed for work the following morning.

We waited. And, after we had finished that, we waited some more. Finally, we sighted a builder going into Eddie the Rottweiler's house (Eddie's partner and her boyfriend are having a new bathroom). My partner dashed over and gave him a key. We managed to be only slightly late for work.

As we pulled into our parking space that evening, the first thing we noticed was that the builders had left lights on in the house, using electricity that we have to pay for (at this point it is perhaps relevant to state that my partner presently has £5 left for us to live on this month), as well as the fact that an incredibly annoying high-pitched beeping noise was sounding constantly. My partner turned to me and wondered aloud how much work had been accomplished in our home that day. Upon entry, it was hard to ascertain whether or not ANY work had been done. Closer inspection revealed that an electrician had been in (there were new plug-points and switches, as well as new smoke-detectors and extractor-fans). It wasn't long before the irritating shrill noise from outside began sending us over the limits of endurance (my partner assumed to begin with that it was the electricity key-meter from next-door. These money-hungry meters emanate such a tone when funds are running low, to warn householders that, unless fed, all power to the home will be cut-off. A bit like a cat demanding its dinner). My partner went outside to take up the matter with our neighbours, only to discover that the peals seemed to be issuing from a large plastic sack beside our wheelie-bin, containing the workmens' waste from that day. She made a closer investigation - and uttered extreme, though justified, profanity at what she found.

Yes. The clowns had thrown our old smoke-detectors - with their batteries still in them - into the rubbish sack, and tossed plaster-dust, scrapings, bits of wood and any old sh*te in after them. The thing about fine plaster-dust is that, in many ways - it is just like smoke. G*d knows for how long those bl**dy alarms had been going off and tormenting our neighbours. My partner had to go through the whole sack by hand, getting scratched and filthy, to retrieve the smoke-detectors and remove the batteries. She was not pleased.

And thus dawned the weekly miracle that is Friday. Off we went to work, thinking that better things would be awaiting us on our return. Sometimes, dear reader, I wonder why I bother with optimism, I really do.

No further progress seemed initially evident in the kitchen after a fleeting glance so my partner proceeded upstairs to look at the bathroom. She found that a new bath, lavatory and washbasin had been installed. MY attention, however, was arrested by the kitchen. I wandered in and sniffed around - something didn't smell right and there was an odd clicking sound. As my partner returned downstairs, something hit me on the head. "Erm... you might want to come and have a look at this." I wuffed hesitantly.
"What's up in there, Jazz?" replied my partner, entering the kitchen and switching on the light.

Oh poo.

Water was steadily dripping through the kitchen ceiling (which is beneath the bathroom), and had clearly been doing so for SOME TIME. A small bulge was also forming around the source of the drips. Double-Grrrowl, which is mild compared to some of the remarks on the subject made by my partner.

My partner endeavoured to contact the "emergency out-of-hours helpline" of the building firm (though it was only 5.40pm) - no-one was there and mobile 'phones had been switched off. Hmmmnnn... Eventually, my partner gave up and telephoned our landlords' helpline. She spoke with a very helpful young man named Asif who, to be honest, was our first encounter with someone efficient throughout the whole business. He summoned a repair-man, who arrived after a couple of hours, and we took some pictures of the damage whilst we were waiting. Our repair-man did his best, but struggled to comprehend quite how the incompetence of his havoc-wreaking colleagues had been achieved. Ultimately, all he was able to do to cease the flow into the kitchen was to disconnect our water and heating until Monday. Had we no other options, my partner would not have been able to go to the lavatory for the whole weekend. I offered her some space in my favourite pee-patch in the garden, but she wasn't tempted.

My partner's parents kindly offered us sanctuary, and here we now are. We can do our laundry, cook our food, and have our baths. But that doesn't mean that we are not very cross indeed.

This, I suspect, is not the end of the sorry saga. Updates will be posted.

Grrrowl.

Good day.