On Thursday, I was ten years old. Now, I am not. For, on Friday, I turned eleven. Eleven years of Jasper in this world. The preceding day was my sweet partner's birthday. We celebrated by treating ourselves to fish and chips from the chippy. Happy days.
And what a year it has been. Full of traumas and changes for us both. In the first place, we would BOTH like to express heartfelt thanks to all those friends who sent good wishes for my partner's hospital appointment in the week. Lance, Mad, Bailey (long time, no bark, mate - hope things are wagging well for you) and the ever-wonderful Animal Doctor, Secretary and their brood of furry angels. THANK YOU. Your kind thoughts were of great help.
'Twas not an appointment that brought much good, however. My partner has got three months to stop smoking completely (she only has a couple a day - but that is two too many) and to lose as much weight as she can and then they will operate. 'Tis a very high-risk operation, I understand. My partner and I have discussed things and, although she will comply with the consultant's instructions, we believe that she shall request NOT to have the operation. It will complicate matters, though painkillers can abate the soreness, and it may bring her life-expectancy down to one more in line with my own, but neither of us wish to take the dangerous risk. My partner says that she would rather pass in my company, in a warm bed, than under anaesthetic on a cold table with her chest cavity open. Plus which, she is aware that her breasts are key assets for attracting the menfolk of her species, so best if they don't fall prey to the scalpel... She's not completely stupid.
And, secondly, it is now time to conclude the traumatic tale of my separation from my beloved partner. We left off last time with me being ushered into the spare bedroom of my luxurious prison, with new friend Charlie assuring me that all would be well...
You will not be surprised to learn that I did not sleep well. I was haunted by dreams and thoughts of the bleak, partner-less, future that I may have to face and it was not long before my pillow was wet with tears. I must have fallen asleep at some point, however, because when I opened my eyes light streamed through a gap in the pale curtains. For a moment, I thought the whole episode had been a horrible dream - until I took in my surroundings. I was laid in a neat, single bed with chintz sheets and matching curtains. The room smelled of fresh laundry and roses. As I began to stretch my limbs, and long for the double bed which I shared with my partner, a strange, wailing sound disturbed me. Someone was singing.
"I left my hearrrrt in Saaan Fraaaancisco!"
It was fairly tuneless, but jolly all the same. I jumped off the bed, nosed open the door, and followed the sound. It was Charlie, in the Utility Room, being dried by his male partner. As I poked my head around the door, Charlie looked out at me from under his towel and grinned.
"Morning, mate!" he said. "Sleep well? I've been out for a quick run and a dip in the river. Same every morning - and I like a good sing when I'm being dried. Sets me up for the day!"
I wagged my tail at him. Whatever trials Charlie had experienced in his past life, he was completely happy now. I don't think I'd ever seen anyone quite so content with his life before. Apart from the dog Ewan, of course, but his relentless happiness was principally due to his psychological difficulties. Charlie was sane AND happy. "There are biscuits here, on this plate, for you." continued Charlie, as he was released from the folds of his towel, shook himself, and trotted up to give me a friendly lick. He indicated the plate from the night before, on which had been placed a number of dog biscuits. Charlie had already emptied his bowl of his biscuits.
As I debated with myself as to whether to lower myself to the indignity of dog - dog!! - biscuits, Charlie's female partner entered the kitchen, holding a telephone handset.
"Good news." she said. Charlie and I looked up expectantly, and her husband, Charlie's male partner, came in from the Utility Room after hanging up Charlie's towel. "I 'phoned the Dog Warden." [from the local council] "This fellow was reported missing by his owner last night!"
My tail began to slowly wag. My hostess continued.
"He's going to ring her, and she'll be here to pick you up very soon."
Could this be?!?! My partner had searched for me?!?!?! I yipped, as Charlie beamed and winked at me.
"Hmmn!" said the male partner, "I wouldn't have minded keeping him. He gets on well with our Charlie, and he's a super little fellow."
I bristled slightly at the term "little" - but was almost overwhelmed. At that very moment, my partner was speeding towards me - and our reunion was imminent. My appetite suddenly returned, and I gobbled up the biscuits that had been laid out for me.
"Charlie." I said, as I swallowed the last biscuit, "I cannot thank you enough for your kindness and your hospitality. No-one deserves their good fortune more than you. Bless you again and again."
"My pleasure." said Charlie, confirming his good nature. His partners went to stroke and fuss me, and I expressed my grateful thanks to them, though it is doubtful that they understood. After a short time, a car was heard drawing to a halt in front of the cottage. Charlie's female partner went into the front room, followed by Charlie and I, and looked out of the window.
"Yes," she called back to the kitchen, "This is them."
I held my breath - and a sudden thought struck me and froze me to the spot. What would my partner think? What would she say? All I could imagine was that I would receive a severe spanked bottom for my wickedness. Could my partner EVER forgive me? Would she even want me again?
Charlie called me over to the window. I looked out - YES! It was her!!! It was her parents' car. Her mother got out of the driver's side and she - my Most Only - exited the passenger's side.
But I was appalled at what I saw.
My young, beautiful, cheery, vibrant partner was hunched over - stooped, like an elderly pensioner - and was clinging to the frame of the vehicle door for support. With one hand she gripped the car door and the other hand and arm was clutched around her stomach, as if comforting herself. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, and the area around them was dark and swollen - as if she had just gone five rounds with Lennox Lewis.
What had I done to her? Could she ever forgive me? Charlie's partners opened the front door, and I stepped apprehensively forward.
All my doubts were instantly erased.
At first sight of me, my partner collapsed to her knees.
"JASPER!!!" she screamed, throwing her arms open wide. I instantly broke into a run, and literally flung myself into her embrace; my tail wagging with such fury that I was sure it would wag clean off.
My beloved partner held me tightly, wailing over and over again that she'd thought I was dead, she'd thought she'd never see me again... The hot tears poured from her eyes, down her sweet apple cheeks, and onto the fur on my face.
Her tears trickled down my furry face - and mingled with my own. We were reunited. Nothing else mattered - or ever will.
Good night.
Sunday, 25 October 2009
Monday, 19 October 2009
Monday 19 October 2009
A brief interlude in my recital of recent adventures. My partner goes to the hospital first thing tomorrow, to find out if she needs to have most of her left breast removed.
A short while ago, I asked her how she felt about it.
"To be honest, Jazz, " she replied, gently stroking my head, "I'm f***ing terrified."
Now, my partner is NOT a potty-mouth. So, from this, one of two things can be inferred:
A short while ago, I asked her how she felt about it.
"To be honest, Jazz, " she replied, gently stroking my head, "I'm f***ing terrified."
Now, my partner is NOT a potty-mouth. So, from this, one of two things can be inferred:
- She has developed some Tourette's-type, toilet-tongued condition, which manifests itself in occasional random bouts of foul language; or
- She is genuinely frightened.
I suspect the latter. Either way, I will be there for her - come what may.
Next up will be the concluding instalment of the thrilling tale of my late escapade.
Good night.
Thursday, 15 October 2009
Thursday 15 October 2009
My partner has had loads of her hair cut off. It looks good. Last week, she went to see Ricky Gervais' new live show (partner's brother and sister-in-law generously paid for the tickets). These things have made her smile. However - I suspect that these things have largely been a diversion from the trauma of recent events. You know what I mean.
When last I barked to you, I left you with the image of my sobbing and terrified self, speeding away from all I held dear, in the company of strangers. I shall return to that moment.
After what seemed a lifetime of travelling, the car pulled into a gravelled driveway and I heard a gate close behind us. The engine stopped. The man and lady in the front got out and opened a rear door. I tried flatten myself against the back of the seat.
"Please!" I wailed, "Take me back! I want to go home! Please!"
"Out you get, boy." said the man, "You're safe now."
"I was safe before!" I wept, "Take me back! Take me back!"
But they couldn't understand me. After a few minutes of coaxing, the lady said "Why don't we get Charlie? He might be able to help." And they went to the door of their house. A few moments later, a young dog jumped into the car beside me. This must have been Charlie. His fur was caramel-coloured, tousled and curly. He was ruggedly handsome, with gentle hazel eyes, and he sniffed me over, looking down at me with good-humoured pity.
"Come on mate," he barked gently, "Why all the tears? You're safe now. Out you come."
"I want to go home." I cried.
"Of course you do." he replied, "But it's late now. Come inside with me, and we'll sort you out in the morning. Come on, mate."
Still crying, and somewhat reluctantly, I followed Charlie out of the car. Gratefully, I did a wee in the garden, and then followed him into his house. And it was a beautiful house. Large, with a thatched roof and several thatched outbuildings, like the sort of cottage one sees on a gift-tin of shortbread. But all this meant nothing to me. I felt acutely the distance between me and my partner and wondered what she was doing at that moment, longing to be with her. To see her just once more. The front door closed behind me. At that, I gave a long mournful howl and started to cry again.
"Come on, mate." said Charlie kindly, "No more of that. You come with me and I'll show you around. I dutifully trotted slowly after Charlie and followed him through the kitchen, where his partners were preparing a bit of supper. "Utility room," said Charlie, indicating a small room off the kitchen. As I padded around after him, he was chatting all the while, trying hard to occupy my mind. When we went into the drawing room, where there was a beautiful big inglenook fireplace, my host sat down and looked at me. "What happened, then?" he asked. I didn't know where to begin. "It's alright." he smiled, "I was abandoned too. Ended up in a rescue kennel. Then, about six months ago, mum and dad came to choose a dog and they picked me. Brilliant, eh?" When I didn't say anything, he continued. "I was so lucky. There was a really snotty little poodle in there who said that no-one would want me 'cause I was a mongrel. I took great pleasure in marching past that gobby old sow's kennel the day mum and dad chose me."
I managed a watery smile. "That's better." grinned Charlie. "So don't worry. Just 'cause you were abandoned, it doesn't mean it's all over for you."
"I wasn't abandoned." I said quietly.
"What?"
"I wasn't abandoned. I ran away."
"Were you being beaten?"
"No."
"Starved?"
"No."
"Abused?"
"No."
"And you just ran away?"
"Yes."
"Why on Earth would you do a thing like that?"
"I don't know." I replied miserably. "I was chasing a vixen and then I got lost and it all went really badly wrong. Eventually I found the road home and was almost there when your people put me in their car. Please make them take me back."
"Not tonight, it's too late - it's nearly midnight, you know. I'm sorry, mate. But it will be alright. So, was she worth it? The vixen?"
"All things considered, no." I muttered.
"Bad luck." commiserated Charlie. "But look. You'll spend the night here, and in the morning mum and dad will know what to do. We'll have a bit of supper in a minute and everything will be OK after a good sleep."
I know it sounds ungrateful, but Charlie's ceaseless optimism was beginning to grate on my nerves. I was sick with worry about my partner, and desperately unhappy - as well as being utterly ashamed of my actions. Also, I hated the fact that Charlie referred to his partners as 'mum and dad'. My partner is my partner, not my parent. We have an equal partnership - no-one higher than or superior to the other. Both united as one, joined together, a perfect team. Plus, she always... she would... she... she...
"I WANT MY MUMMY!" I wailed, howling out a fresh burst of huge tears.
"Aww," said Charlie, pattering over and giving my ear a comforting lick. "Of course you do - for you are a good boy. And, in the morning, we will find her for you. Easy enough. Of course, you are microchipped?"
"No." I wept.
"But you have an ID tag?"
"No-oo!" I howled, feeling incredibly stupid now about the pride I'd felt when I managed to lose my ID tag during a fight with an Alsatian many years ago. My partner had never got around to replacing it, which suited me fine. Until now.
"Ok-aaay."said Charlie, with a frown and a sigh. "Well. We'll sort things out, one way or another. Try not to fret. Now then. I believe my nose is telling me that supper is ready."
I followed Charlie down the passageway and into the warm kitchen. His partners were seated at the kitchen table, enjoying a poached egg on toast and a glass of something nice. Charlie went to his bowl, beside which was some meat on a china plate. "That plate is for you." he explained, "Dig in." And he got on with the business of gobbling up his own supper.
I took a tentative bite at the meat on the plate, and almost choked. I nearly spat out the meat but, fortunately, remembered my manners at the last moment.
"Charlie," I spluttered, "This is - this is dog food!"
"Oh-ho, yes!" he grinned, his whiskers covered in meaty gravy, "Nothing but the best in this house!" I looked at the rest of the meat on the plate. It stared coldly back at me.
"I'm not really that hungry." I said, "Would you like to finish mine?"
"Sure?" asked Charlie. I nodded, and he needed no second invitation, noisily scoffing the extra meat.
Charlie's owners were incredibly kind. They patted me and fussed over me. After Charlie and I were given a last toilet opportunity, the doors were locked for the night. As we walked back down the passageway, Charlie said "You are going to sleep in the downstairs spare room. I will be in my bed in the drawing room - it's between dad's chair and the fireplace. Scratch on the door if you need me for anything."
"You have been very kind, Charlie." I said, and he grinned.
"Try and get some sleep, mate." he said, "It'll all be OK in the morning."
But I couldn't see how. I had no microchip; no ID tag and Charlie's partners couldn't understand my barks. How would I ever find my way back to my partner again - and how was she coping without me?
To be continued...
When last I barked to you, I left you with the image of my sobbing and terrified self, speeding away from all I held dear, in the company of strangers. I shall return to that moment.
After what seemed a lifetime of travelling, the car pulled into a gravelled driveway and I heard a gate close behind us. The engine stopped. The man and lady in the front got out and opened a rear door. I tried flatten myself against the back of the seat.
"Please!" I wailed, "Take me back! I want to go home! Please!"
"Out you get, boy." said the man, "You're safe now."
"I was safe before!" I wept, "Take me back! Take me back!"
But they couldn't understand me. After a few minutes of coaxing, the lady said "Why don't we get Charlie? He might be able to help." And they went to the door of their house. A few moments later, a young dog jumped into the car beside me. This must have been Charlie. His fur was caramel-coloured, tousled and curly. He was ruggedly handsome, with gentle hazel eyes, and he sniffed me over, looking down at me with good-humoured pity.
"Come on mate," he barked gently, "Why all the tears? You're safe now. Out you come."
"I want to go home." I cried.
"Of course you do." he replied, "But it's late now. Come inside with me, and we'll sort you out in the morning. Come on, mate."
Still crying, and somewhat reluctantly, I followed Charlie out of the car. Gratefully, I did a wee in the garden, and then followed him into his house. And it was a beautiful house. Large, with a thatched roof and several thatched outbuildings, like the sort of cottage one sees on a gift-tin of shortbread. But all this meant nothing to me. I felt acutely the distance between me and my partner and wondered what she was doing at that moment, longing to be with her. To see her just once more. The front door closed behind me. At that, I gave a long mournful howl and started to cry again.
"Come on, mate." said Charlie kindly, "No more of that. You come with me and I'll show you around. I dutifully trotted slowly after Charlie and followed him through the kitchen, where his partners were preparing a bit of supper. "Utility room," said Charlie, indicating a small room off the kitchen. As I padded around after him, he was chatting all the while, trying hard to occupy my mind. When we went into the drawing room, where there was a beautiful big inglenook fireplace, my host sat down and looked at me. "What happened, then?" he asked. I didn't know where to begin. "It's alright." he smiled, "I was abandoned too. Ended up in a rescue kennel. Then, about six months ago, mum and dad came to choose a dog and they picked me. Brilliant, eh?" When I didn't say anything, he continued. "I was so lucky. There was a really snotty little poodle in there who said that no-one would want me 'cause I was a mongrel. I took great pleasure in marching past that gobby old sow's kennel the day mum and dad chose me."
I managed a watery smile. "That's better." grinned Charlie. "So don't worry. Just 'cause you were abandoned, it doesn't mean it's all over for you."
"I wasn't abandoned." I said quietly.
"What?"
"I wasn't abandoned. I ran away."
"Were you being beaten?"
"No."
"Starved?"
"No."
"Abused?"
"No."
"And you just ran away?"
"Yes."
"Why on Earth would you do a thing like that?"
"I don't know." I replied miserably. "I was chasing a vixen and then I got lost and it all went really badly wrong. Eventually I found the road home and was almost there when your people put me in their car. Please make them take me back."
"Not tonight, it's too late - it's nearly midnight, you know. I'm sorry, mate. But it will be alright. So, was she worth it? The vixen?"
"All things considered, no." I muttered.
"Bad luck." commiserated Charlie. "But look. You'll spend the night here, and in the morning mum and dad will know what to do. We'll have a bit of supper in a minute and everything will be OK after a good sleep."
I know it sounds ungrateful, but Charlie's ceaseless optimism was beginning to grate on my nerves. I was sick with worry about my partner, and desperately unhappy - as well as being utterly ashamed of my actions. Also, I hated the fact that Charlie referred to his partners as 'mum and dad'. My partner is my partner, not my parent. We have an equal partnership - no-one higher than or superior to the other. Both united as one, joined together, a perfect team. Plus, she always... she would... she... she...
"I WANT MY MUMMY!" I wailed, howling out a fresh burst of huge tears.
"Aww," said Charlie, pattering over and giving my ear a comforting lick. "Of course you do - for you are a good boy. And, in the morning, we will find her for you. Easy enough. Of course, you are microchipped?"
"No." I wept.
"But you have an ID tag?"
"No-oo!" I howled, feeling incredibly stupid now about the pride I'd felt when I managed to lose my ID tag during a fight with an Alsatian many years ago. My partner had never got around to replacing it, which suited me fine. Until now.
"Ok-aaay."said Charlie, with a frown and a sigh. "Well. We'll sort things out, one way or another. Try not to fret. Now then. I believe my nose is telling me that supper is ready."
I followed Charlie down the passageway and into the warm kitchen. His partners were seated at the kitchen table, enjoying a poached egg on toast and a glass of something nice. Charlie went to his bowl, beside which was some meat on a china plate. "That plate is for you." he explained, "Dig in." And he got on with the business of gobbling up his own supper.
I took a tentative bite at the meat on the plate, and almost choked. I nearly spat out the meat but, fortunately, remembered my manners at the last moment.
"Charlie," I spluttered, "This is - this is dog food!"
"Oh-ho, yes!" he grinned, his whiskers covered in meaty gravy, "Nothing but the best in this house!" I looked at the rest of the meat on the plate. It stared coldly back at me.
"I'm not really that hungry." I said, "Would you like to finish mine?"
"Sure?" asked Charlie. I nodded, and he needed no second invitation, noisily scoffing the extra meat.
Charlie's owners were incredibly kind. They patted me and fussed over me. After Charlie and I were given a last toilet opportunity, the doors were locked for the night. As we walked back down the passageway, Charlie said "You are going to sleep in the downstairs spare room. I will be in my bed in the drawing room - it's between dad's chair and the fireplace. Scratch on the door if you need me for anything."
"You have been very kind, Charlie." I said, and he grinned.
"Try and get some sleep, mate." he said, "It'll all be OK in the morning."
But I couldn't see how. I had no microchip; no ID tag and Charlie's partners couldn't understand my barks. How would I ever find my way back to my partner again - and how was she coping without me?
To be continued...
Sunday, 4 October 2009
Sunday 4 October 2009
I am NOT a happy dog.
Yes. I had the operation.
When I stated previously that "I would resist it with every fibre of my being", I would like to say that I tried. I really tried. However, I neglected to factor-in the vets' ready availability of extremely potent sleeping draughts. Following the sensation of the tiny pin-prick, I was mid-way through telling my surgeon EXACTLY what I thought of him, when my eyelids became unaccountably heavy and I collapsed into the welcoming arms of Morpheus. When I awoke, my right eyelid had been stitched closed (the stitches held in place by a button - a button, of all things! The indignity!!) and the anti-tamper abomination shown above had been affixed. I was - and continue to be - extremely angry. That barked, my eye DOES feel a great deal better now. The stitches come out in a day or two; and the button/stitches combo has been useful for procuring treats from sympathetic folks. Hehehe...
My only other comfort in this is that I understand that my wife, Isolde, is also having to sport such an item, having recently undergone a minor surgical procedure to stitch a cut, sustained whilst pursuing a wily beastie. And she had more stitches than I did, so she has to wear her collar for longer. Swings and roundabouts. Hehehehe...
This, however, is NOT the most tumultuous event to have taken place in the past seven days. Oh no. My partner has said that I must post the dreadful event of the latest Thursday on my blog for you to read - and then the event will never be raised between us again. I tried pretending to be asleep in order to evade this necessity, but, alas she was not fooled. Oh dear...
Thursday evening saw my partner and I tripping out for our regular evening walk. 'Twas a delightful occasion. I was sans lampshade collar (aka The Abomination), and glorying in the fresh evening scents and my freedom to run. We were a little later than usual, but not enough to concern my partner. After my nightly swim in the ford, I was overjoyed to pick up the scent of the local fox, my current favoured quarry. Off I sped.
And then, it all went horribly, terribly, awfully wrong.
The scent of the vulpine maiden (for 'twas a vixen) was strong and enticing. I ran and ran and ran - and suddenly found myself in unfamiliar territory, with neither vixen nor partner. Poo and double-poo.
At one point, I thought I heard my partner calling and ran in that direction. But the trail was cold.
I ran through hedges, through streams, across gardens and roads, and finally regained a familiar path. I stopped for a rest. The sky was now thoroughly dark. I carried on trotting along the path that I knew would take me home. At the point where I had to cross a busy road, I paused to wait for a car to pass, as my partner had taught me. However, this car, after passing me stopped, and reversed towards me. The car door opened.
"Hello." said a female voice. She sounded nice. The car was the same shape as the one belonging to my partner's parents. There was a man driving and a lady in the passenger seat, I raised my snout to sniff the lady's perfume.
Hurrah!!! It was my partner's parents! Despite the fact that I was so close to home, my paws were sore and I had some thorns stuck into the flesh on my back. I decided to accept the lift and be driven the short remainder of the journey home.
As the car moved off, and then gained speed as it passed straight by the turning into the road where stood the dear little house that I shared with my partner, I became a little uneasy. Perhaps my partner was waiting for me at her parents' house...? But no! We went straight past that turning too! As we passed under a street light, I took a closer look. This was NOT the car belonging to my partner's parents. And the couple in the front were complete strangers.
Shrinking as far as I could into the back seat of the car, trembling uncontrollably, I began to cry.
To be continued.....
Thursday, 24 September 2009
Thursday 24 September 2009
Humans. What's that all about, then? Discuss.
If I was to be ushered into a room containing the finest minds in history, this is the question I would put to them.
Never has there been a species to cause such joy, and yet such bafflement, to the rest of us. And I include hedgehogs and squirrels in that statement. I shall take two recent examples to illustrate my point.
The first is that most noble of the species: my partner's mother. As you may have gleaned from my recent postings, my partner and I have not been entirely well at present - neither physically nor financially. A week or two ago, things became a little too much for my beleaguered partner. Whilst at her place of work, my partner had a rather difficult conversation with her bank (who were convinced that having only £22 per month to live on did "not constitute hardship"). After this happy dialogue, my partner telephoned her mother and burst into tears. Mother consoled daughter, and the day continued without further incident. That evening, when my partner and I returned home, we were astonished to discover that the said parent had visited - and COMPLETELY sorted out our garden! Weeds - of which there were a great many - were all gone. The invasive elder shrub in the corner had been sawn down and removed. The climbing rose had been trained across its fence properly, and new pots of plants had been thoughtfully sited on our patio. My partner and I were both astounded and cheered by this most generous act, and wept fresh tears - these being ones of humble gratitude and delight.
A few days later, my partner's mother arrived on our doorstep with a box containing packets of bulbs, and we had an enjoyable afternoon planting them in our borders. Come the Spring, all being well, our eyes should be enchanted with rows of colourful crocuses, daffodils, tulips and bluebells. New rose bushes have also been ordered and should be with us shortly.
Alas, during this afternoon of horticulture, my partner's mother uncovered the horde of dead, decaying and decayed little beasts from behind the acer tree, all of which had been left (and were STILL being left on a regular basis) as love-tokens from Chloe, mother to the kittens opposite, and source of several different kinds of terror to me. From the look on my partner's mother's face, I could tell that she thought we had been indoctrinated into some kind of sinister cult, one which revolved around the ritual sacrifice of small hedgerow birds and mammals. I endeavoured to explain the tiny corpses, as my partner's mother wordlessly reburied them, shaking her head. Unfortunately, Chloe meandered past (as she is wont to casually do on a regular basis, whenever I am in my garden), just as I was drawing my explanations to a close. When my partner and her mother took a break in their work for a cup of tea, Chloe jumped the fence (uninvited, I might add) into my garden and glared at me with a pained expression.
"Jasper, my love," she asked, "Don't you like those sweet little delicacies?"
I had been rumbled. I knew I would have to think fast.
"Dear lady," I replied, my thoughts racing, "Dear lady. Don't mistake me. I DO love such treats. I have delighted in finding those little morsels, each more appetising than the last. It is just... It is just... A-ha! It is just that I have an incredibly delicate stomach. 'Tis so fragile that I must keep a constant vigilance over what I consume, lest I die."
"Oh, my love!" cried Chloe.
"I allow myself," I continued, "Only the most frugal of diets. Some boiled rice. Maybe some poached white fish. A little boiled chicken. Perhaps some soft-boiled egg or steamed broccoli as a special indulgent treat..." I assumed my best 'pained holy martyr' expression and gazed wistfully into the distance.
"Oh, my poor, poor love." mewed Chloe, full of compassion, "There shall be no more torments left for you!" (Wahey!) "But," she continued, "I have such soft paws - would you like me to rub your poor belly for you?"
"NO!!!" I barked, a little more suddenly and harshly than I intended. Chloe may have soft paws - but sheathed within them were a set of the sharpest, cruellest claws known to dogkind (I had experienced their effects first-paw in the unfortunate rat-induced event of a few months ago), and the idea of these claws being anywhere near my belly - and therefore the immediate vicinity of my most prized treasure; my own, dear, 'Little Jasper' - was as alarming as it was sickening. The cat jumped at my sudden riposte. "Er, no, thank you, dear lady." I added, in a softer tone. "I should fear, lest any unpleasant germs pass from me, via your delicate paws, to your trio of charming kittens." I bowed politely, as Chloe purred and nodded, tripping out of my garden after a smile and a wink at me, as my partner and her mother returned to the business of bulb-planting.
But I see I have digressed far from my point. What I wished to convey above was the especial pleasure and delight conveyed from one human to another with a seemingly simple gesture, inspired by nothing but love and a desire to comfort.
Which leads me to examine an individual at the opposite end of this spectrum. And this time, a feline is more directly involved.
I refer to a cat from around the corner. This is a beast so evil that even Torquemada would quail before him. My partner and I are forced to walk past this creature every evening as we take our daily exercise. He sits at the end of our road, waiting for his partner to return from work. "Ahhhh, how sweet." I hear you think. But no. Be not deceived. For this monster is a sick demon from the very bowels of Hell. Every dog (and most of the cats) unfortunate enough to have to walk past this beast is subjected to slurs and insults of the foulest kind, delivered in language that would shame a navvy suffering from Tourette's. These barbs are always delivered in the lowest tones, inaudible to humans but all too clear to we dogs and cats that must suffer. No human will defend us helpless creatures from this scion of wickedness, as they hear and see nothing. I have witnessed grown, muscular cats from the locality running away in tears following a verbal battering from the potty-mouthed puss. The cat has thick fur of the blackest shade, and I doubt not that his soul is just as dark.
Now then. Not long ago, there came the time when my partner and I were (as usual) departing for our walk. I was girding my loins to stride dogfully past The Evil One, when a nice-looking, unassuming, older-middle-aged lady bid us good evening. My partner, never having met this neighbour before, stopped for a brief, sociable chat. It immediately transpired that this lady was the unlikely owner of the feline bastion of filth that poisoned our ears. And what do you think the nice lady had named her cat? Can you guess? Sooty? Nosferatu? Adolf? Oh no. 'Twas far worse.
Keep in your mind the image of this cat - fur black as night; mouth fouler than a hippo's cesspit; surely the living representative of Satan on this Earth.
The name of this cat is "Peaches".
For goodness' sake.
As long as I live, I will never understand what transpires within the human psyche. On the one paw, such loving and thoughtful kindness. On the other, a person who looks at the hellish black-coated demon-cat described above - and names it 'Peaches'.
For goodness' sake.
Good night.
If I was to be ushered into a room containing the finest minds in history, this is the question I would put to them.
Never has there been a species to cause such joy, and yet such bafflement, to the rest of us. And I include hedgehogs and squirrels in that statement. I shall take two recent examples to illustrate my point.
The first is that most noble of the species: my partner's mother. As you may have gleaned from my recent postings, my partner and I have not been entirely well at present - neither physically nor financially. A week or two ago, things became a little too much for my beleaguered partner. Whilst at her place of work, my partner had a rather difficult conversation with her bank (who were convinced that having only £22 per month to live on did "not constitute hardship"). After this happy dialogue, my partner telephoned her mother and burst into tears. Mother consoled daughter, and the day continued without further incident. That evening, when my partner and I returned home, we were astonished to discover that the said parent had visited - and COMPLETELY sorted out our garden! Weeds - of which there were a great many - were all gone. The invasive elder shrub in the corner had been sawn down and removed. The climbing rose had been trained across its fence properly, and new pots of plants had been thoughtfully sited on our patio. My partner and I were both astounded and cheered by this most generous act, and wept fresh tears - these being ones of humble gratitude and delight.
A few days later, my partner's mother arrived on our doorstep with a box containing packets of bulbs, and we had an enjoyable afternoon planting them in our borders. Come the Spring, all being well, our eyes should be enchanted with rows of colourful crocuses, daffodils, tulips and bluebells. New rose bushes have also been ordered and should be with us shortly.
Alas, during this afternoon of horticulture, my partner's mother uncovered the horde of dead, decaying and decayed little beasts from behind the acer tree, all of which had been left (and were STILL being left on a regular basis) as love-tokens from Chloe, mother to the kittens opposite, and source of several different kinds of terror to me. From the look on my partner's mother's face, I could tell that she thought we had been indoctrinated into some kind of sinister cult, one which revolved around the ritual sacrifice of small hedgerow birds and mammals. I endeavoured to explain the tiny corpses, as my partner's mother wordlessly reburied them, shaking her head. Unfortunately, Chloe meandered past (as she is wont to casually do on a regular basis, whenever I am in my garden), just as I was drawing my explanations to a close. When my partner and her mother took a break in their work for a cup of tea, Chloe jumped the fence (uninvited, I might add) into my garden and glared at me with a pained expression.
"Jasper, my love," she asked, "Don't you like those sweet little delicacies?"
I had been rumbled. I knew I would have to think fast.
"Dear lady," I replied, my thoughts racing, "Dear lady. Don't mistake me. I DO love such treats. I have delighted in finding those little morsels, each more appetising than the last. It is just... It is just... A-ha! It is just that I have an incredibly delicate stomach. 'Tis so fragile that I must keep a constant vigilance over what I consume, lest I die."
"Oh, my love!" cried Chloe.
"I allow myself," I continued, "Only the most frugal of diets. Some boiled rice. Maybe some poached white fish. A little boiled chicken. Perhaps some soft-boiled egg or steamed broccoli as a special indulgent treat..." I assumed my best 'pained holy martyr' expression and gazed wistfully into the distance.
"Oh, my poor, poor love." mewed Chloe, full of compassion, "There shall be no more torments left for you!" (Wahey!) "But," she continued, "I have such soft paws - would you like me to rub your poor belly for you?"
"NO!!!" I barked, a little more suddenly and harshly than I intended. Chloe may have soft paws - but sheathed within them were a set of the sharpest, cruellest claws known to dogkind (I had experienced their effects first-paw in the unfortunate rat-induced event of a few months ago), and the idea of these claws being anywhere near my belly - and therefore the immediate vicinity of my most prized treasure; my own, dear, 'Little Jasper' - was as alarming as it was sickening. The cat jumped at my sudden riposte. "Er, no, thank you, dear lady." I added, in a softer tone. "I should fear, lest any unpleasant germs pass from me, via your delicate paws, to your trio of charming kittens." I bowed politely, as Chloe purred and nodded, tripping out of my garden after a smile and a wink at me, as my partner and her mother returned to the business of bulb-planting.
But I see I have digressed far from my point. What I wished to convey above was the especial pleasure and delight conveyed from one human to another with a seemingly simple gesture, inspired by nothing but love and a desire to comfort.
Which leads me to examine an individual at the opposite end of this spectrum. And this time, a feline is more directly involved.
I refer to a cat from around the corner. This is a beast so evil that even Torquemada would quail before him. My partner and I are forced to walk past this creature every evening as we take our daily exercise. He sits at the end of our road, waiting for his partner to return from work. "Ahhhh, how sweet." I hear you think. But no. Be not deceived. For this monster is a sick demon from the very bowels of Hell. Every dog (and most of the cats) unfortunate enough to have to walk past this beast is subjected to slurs and insults of the foulest kind, delivered in language that would shame a navvy suffering from Tourette's. These barbs are always delivered in the lowest tones, inaudible to humans but all too clear to we dogs and cats that must suffer. No human will defend us helpless creatures from this scion of wickedness, as they hear and see nothing. I have witnessed grown, muscular cats from the locality running away in tears following a verbal battering from the potty-mouthed puss. The cat has thick fur of the blackest shade, and I doubt not that his soul is just as dark.
Now then. Not long ago, there came the time when my partner and I were (as usual) departing for our walk. I was girding my loins to stride dogfully past The Evil One, when a nice-looking, unassuming, older-middle-aged lady bid us good evening. My partner, never having met this neighbour before, stopped for a brief, sociable chat. It immediately transpired that this lady was the unlikely owner of the feline bastion of filth that poisoned our ears. And what do you think the nice lady had named her cat? Can you guess? Sooty? Nosferatu? Adolf? Oh no. 'Twas far worse.
Keep in your mind the image of this cat - fur black as night; mouth fouler than a hippo's cesspit; surely the living representative of Satan on this Earth.
The name of this cat is "Peaches".
For goodness' sake.
As long as I live, I will never understand what transpires within the human psyche. On the one paw, such loving and thoughtful kindness. On the other, a person who looks at the hellish black-coated demon-cat described above - and names it 'Peaches'.
For goodness' sake.
Good night.
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Tuesday 22 September 2009
I love my life. I really do. But sometimes it can be something of a trial.
For example: the other day, I was minding my own business, sitting in my garden, when I espied the approach of my young kitten protegée, Zac. He was walking across the road - or, at least, trying to - whilst his head was bent down low, studying something that was troubling him about his little belly. He was so preoccupied with his self-examination that he tripped on the kerb on my side of the road. Charitably, I did not laugh. He looked up at me as he squeezed between the fence posts and joined me in my garden.
"Uncle Jasper," - (Don't laugh. It was his mother's suggestion, made after Zac started asking me if I "would be his daddy?", which necessitated a difficult conversation with him as to why dogs could not be kittens' daddies). - "Uncle Jasper? What is this?" He gestured with a paw to the base of his belly.
"Er..." I barked, apprehensively, "Well, Zac, that is your willy."
"What's it for?"
Oh G-d.
"Um, well, you wee through it."
"Yes, I know. But what's it for?"
Why? I asked myself. Why did I get lumbered with this? I only wanted a quiet lie down in my garden. Zac continued, totally oblivious to my increasing discomfort. "Mummy hasn't got one."
"I should hope not."
"Sophie [his sister] hasn't got one either. Just me and Milo [his brother]. Why? Don't ladies need willies?"
Where to begin? I bit my lip. There were a myriad of witty ripostes I could make to this statement - none of which were suitable for the ears of a child. What a squandered opportunity. I sighed. With small children and such queries, honesty was always the best policy.
"Well, ladies have something different." I said, carefully. "Boys have a willie that sticks out. Girls have a willie that sticks IN, inside their bodies. It's like a pocket in their front-bottoms." I kept my claws crossed and, this time, luck smiled upon me.
"Brilliant!" mewed Zac. "I knew you'd know. You know EVERYTHING." I breathed a sigh of relief. Before I could change the subject, Zac pre-empted me. "Uncle Jasper, is it true that you beat up that big mean dog that lives 'round the corner? Mummy said you are her hero."
"Hmmm. Not exactly..." I muttered, recalling my encounter with Eddie the Rottweiler. "He's certainly big - but he is never mean."
"He's scary."
"Yes - but you mustn't judge someone just by how they look."
"Oh, ok."
I was divided between feeling incredibly wise and shamefully sanctimonious. Fortunately, Zac chose that precise moment to stretch out and go to sleep in the sun, beside me. I had a quick check, to see that no-one else was looking, and then gently patted his little stripey head.
I wish all such troublesome situations were so easily resolved. My beloved partner has been to the hospital to see someone about the lump in her breast. It is quite likely, it seems, that she will have to have major surgery to remove a significant portion of her left breast. She isn't happy. I visit my own physician this Friday, with regard to my abscess, to ascertain whether or not I am to have my eye stitched closed temporarily. A move I shall resist with every fibre of my being.
Good night.
For example: the other day, I was minding my own business, sitting in my garden, when I espied the approach of my young kitten protegée, Zac. He was walking across the road - or, at least, trying to - whilst his head was bent down low, studying something that was troubling him about his little belly. He was so preoccupied with his self-examination that he tripped on the kerb on my side of the road. Charitably, I did not laugh. He looked up at me as he squeezed between the fence posts and joined me in my garden.
"Uncle Jasper," - (Don't laugh. It was his mother's suggestion, made after Zac started asking me if I "would be his daddy?", which necessitated a difficult conversation with him as to why dogs could not be kittens' daddies). - "Uncle Jasper? What is this?" He gestured with a paw to the base of his belly.
"Er..." I barked, apprehensively, "Well, Zac, that is your willy."
"What's it for?"
Oh G-d.
"Um, well, you wee through it."
"Yes, I know. But what's it for?"
Why? I asked myself. Why did I get lumbered with this? I only wanted a quiet lie down in my garden. Zac continued, totally oblivious to my increasing discomfort. "Mummy hasn't got one."
"I should hope not."
"Sophie [his sister] hasn't got one either. Just me and Milo [his brother]. Why? Don't ladies need willies?"
Where to begin? I bit my lip. There were a myriad of witty ripostes I could make to this statement - none of which were suitable for the ears of a child. What a squandered opportunity. I sighed. With small children and such queries, honesty was always the best policy.
"Well, ladies have something different." I said, carefully. "Boys have a willie that sticks out. Girls have a willie that sticks IN, inside their bodies. It's like a pocket in their front-bottoms." I kept my claws crossed and, this time, luck smiled upon me.
"Brilliant!" mewed Zac. "I knew you'd know. You know EVERYTHING." I breathed a sigh of relief. Before I could change the subject, Zac pre-empted me. "Uncle Jasper, is it true that you beat up that big mean dog that lives 'round the corner? Mummy said you are her hero."
"Hmmm. Not exactly..." I muttered, recalling my encounter with Eddie the Rottweiler. "He's certainly big - but he is never mean."
"He's scary."
"Yes - but you mustn't judge someone just by how they look."
"Oh, ok."
I was divided between feeling incredibly wise and shamefully sanctimonious. Fortunately, Zac chose that precise moment to stretch out and go to sleep in the sun, beside me. I had a quick check, to see that no-one else was looking, and then gently patted his little stripey head.
I wish all such troublesome situations were so easily resolved. My beloved partner has been to the hospital to see someone about the lump in her breast. It is quite likely, it seems, that she will have to have major surgery to remove a significant portion of her left breast. She isn't happy. I visit my own physician this Friday, with regard to my abscess, to ascertain whether or not I am to have my eye stitched closed temporarily. A move I shall resist with every fibre of my being.
Good night.
Sunday, 30 August 2009
Sunday 30 August 2009
The more astute reader will notice that I am still alive.
This despite the ongoing pains in my eye. It is beginning to drive me slightly insane. My partner does not like it when I scratch and pick at my eye - and yet, she insists on applying the drops obtained from the vets, which only intensify the itching. I must admit that the situation has improved slightly - I can now open my eye by just a crack - and I am once again taking pleasure in my walks.
Just last night, my partner generously said that I could have a night off from my drops. Unfortunately, I celebrated this development with a good old fiddle while my partner was in the bathroom. Needless to say, she caught me.
"Oh, Jasper!" she said, sighing at me. I blinked back at her, trying my best to look innocent. "You mustn't pick at it. I think we'd better have drops after all."
"No, thank you." I replied.
"You've made it all red and sore again, sweetheart." She planted a soothing kiss on my forehead.
"No, I would like to have my night off from the drops."
"I'll go and get the drops."
And she did.
"I want my night off from the drops!" I repeated, as the small vial was uncapped. But before I could protest any further, the drops were in, the bottle was recapped and the bedside light was extinguished. I did get an extra goodnight kiss out of it though.
I did not sleep well, despite the extra kiss. I dreamt that my little cul-de-sac outside had been transformed into a Roman coliseum. A HUGE Rottweiler stood in the arena, waiting for me. The seats and stands were filled with cats, who were all chanting "Send out the dog! Send out the dog!" I marched bravely out, and the Rottweiler fell on me, snarling. He pinned me down and produced from his fur a case of needles - which he proceeded to push through my right eye. I squealed like a newborn pup and woke up with a start. Coming gradually to my senses, I found with much relief that I was in my darkened bedroom, on my side of the bed, with my partner sound asleep on her side. Despite my irritation at her for administering the eye-drops, I snuggled as close as I could to her side. Sleepily, she put an arm around me, and thus I prepared to spend the remainder of my last night on Earth.
This morning, I opened my eyes to a bright, fresh sunrise. Typical, I thought. That I should die on such a lovely day. My partner opened the French Windows, leading into the garden, and went to do some work in the kitchen. I thought about scampering back upstairs and hiding under the duvet. However, a moment's consideration brought the appraisal that it was probably better to get it over and done with, rather than procrastinate and then have to face it anyway. I fiddled with the catch on my garden gate, succeeded in opening it, and marched confidently out into the road.
I'll admit that the idea of the coliseum was not entirely wrong. There was an eerie stillness in the air - akin to the warm silence preceding a visit from the thundering Sky-dog. Glancing about me I saw a number of cats dotted about on walls, fences, etc., some with bells, some without, all watching keenly with an air of expectancy. I looked towards the house in which dwelt the white tomcat. The front door was open.
I was about to sit down, when the white cat strutted out from his house and sat down on his path, with a stupid smug smile on his stupid fat face. I just looked at him.
Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement from within the white tomcat's house and there - framed in the doorway, appeared Eddie.
There was a collective gasp of awe and horror from the various assembled spectators at the sheer size and might of the vast Rottweiler. I, however, knotted my brow in a frown. Something seemed oddly familiar... As Eddie exited the house and began to stride towards me, a soft breeze blew. I sniffed the air and - yes - it confirmed my original suspicion...
"Edward!" I yipped, "You smelly old b*st*rd! How the bl**dy h*ll are you, you old s*d?!"
The Rottweiler stopped in his tracks.
"That's never young Jazz?!" he barked.
"It most certainly is!" I barked back.
"My dear boy!"
"Fantastic to see you, Eddie!"
For - yes - it was my old chum, Eddie the Rottweiler. I have not mentioned him for many, many months but, if you look back at an early blog post, you will most certainly find mention of my friend, whom I used to encounter at Abbotstone of an evening.
"How are you, sweetheart? What have you done to your eye?" asked Eddie.
"I try not to grumble." I replied. "I've got an abscess. Due to a grass seed."
"Hah! Seeds. B*st*rds all." sympathised Eddie. "I had no idea you lived around here!"
"Since the beginning of March." I explained.
"A-ha." said Eddie. "I've been here for years - but I'm rarely seen. I head off with my partner's boyfriend when he goes to work early in the morning, and don't usually return until after dark. Lots of kids round here. And I know what people think about Rottweilers. I keep myself to myself."
"You're a good one, Eddie."
I glanced over his shoulder at the white tomcat. He looked distinctly unsettled at the way our conversation was proceeding. Behind me, a couple of observing cats yawned, muttered to each other, and then got up and left.
"And how is Angus?" I asked. Anyone familiar with Eddie knew to enquire after fellow-Rottweiler and long-term gentleman-companion, Angus. Eddie frowned.
"We aren't really speaking at present."
"I'm sorry to hear that." I replied, sympathetically. "Whatever happened?"
"Hmmm. Caught him eyeing up those two Japanese Akitas that live down by the Fire Station."
"I know them."
"Vicious queens!" hissed Eddie, taking me aback somewhat. "Couple of evil sows, the pair of them. They just sit outside the pub, staring at every passing dog and then mouthing off about their fur colours and collaring arrangements. They're like a couple of whelping bitches."
This was so near a picture of what Eddie and Angus liked to do on an average afternoon that I inadvertently laughed. Fortunately, Eddie thought I was laughing at his description of the two Akitas and chuckled.
"But seriously." I said, "You and Angus were such a lovely couple. Don't throw it all away."
"Bless you, darling." smiled Eddie. "Still into the ladies, are you?"
"I can't help myself."
"Well, if you ever change your mind..."
"You stick with Angus, old lad. He's the one for you." Eddie smiled.
"What am I doing out here, anyway?"
"I believe you are supposed to be 'mashing my brain into a milkshake' and then drinking it?"
"Eh?"
I explained about the preceding events, from the birth of the kittens, my friendship with baby Zac, and my gallant defence of Chloe, leading up to our present encounter. As I continued my tale, Eddie looked more and more irritated.
"He said I'd beat you up, did he?"
I nodded - and the sight of the white tomcat, looking utterly stricken, discreetly withdrawing from the scene and then bolting around the corner did not escape me. Eddie sighed heavily.
"I WISH he wouldn't keep throwing my name about like that." he said, shaking his head. "I am NOT his personal bodyguard. And, honestly, we Rotties get a bad enough press as it is, without him going around shooting his mouth off, saying I'll go and beat up all and sundry."
"Eddie." I said, seriously. "Everyone who knows you knows that you are naught but a gentleman." Eddie winked at me. Then, there came a female call from inside his house:
"Ed! Breakfast!"
"Oop - that's herself [his partner]. Delightful to catch up with you again, dear boy. See you around, Jasper, old love."
"Bye Eddie." I grinned. "And you make it up with Angus. Life is too short for feuds."
With a wag of his tail, Eddie trotted back into his house. As the door closed behind him, I heard a loud call:
"Keviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin!! A word. NOW!"
With an air of profound relief and satisfaction (mixed with a slight twinge of pleasure at meeting Eddie again), I pattered back into my house - before Chloe latched eyes on me....
I believe the word most appropriate to the situation is "PHEW..."
Good night.
This despite the ongoing pains in my eye. It is beginning to drive me slightly insane. My partner does not like it when I scratch and pick at my eye - and yet, she insists on applying the drops obtained from the vets, which only intensify the itching. I must admit that the situation has improved slightly - I can now open my eye by just a crack - and I am once again taking pleasure in my walks.
Just last night, my partner generously said that I could have a night off from my drops. Unfortunately, I celebrated this development with a good old fiddle while my partner was in the bathroom. Needless to say, she caught me.
"Oh, Jasper!" she said, sighing at me. I blinked back at her, trying my best to look innocent. "You mustn't pick at it. I think we'd better have drops after all."
"No, thank you." I replied.
"You've made it all red and sore again, sweetheart." She planted a soothing kiss on my forehead.
"No, I would like to have my night off from the drops."
"I'll go and get the drops."
And she did.
"I want my night off from the drops!" I repeated, as the small vial was uncapped. But before I could protest any further, the drops were in, the bottle was recapped and the bedside light was extinguished. I did get an extra goodnight kiss out of it though.
I did not sleep well, despite the extra kiss. I dreamt that my little cul-de-sac outside had been transformed into a Roman coliseum. A HUGE Rottweiler stood in the arena, waiting for me. The seats and stands were filled with cats, who were all chanting "Send out the dog! Send out the dog!" I marched bravely out, and the Rottweiler fell on me, snarling. He pinned me down and produced from his fur a case of needles - which he proceeded to push through my right eye. I squealed like a newborn pup and woke up with a start. Coming gradually to my senses, I found with much relief that I was in my darkened bedroom, on my side of the bed, with my partner sound asleep on her side. Despite my irritation at her for administering the eye-drops, I snuggled as close as I could to her side. Sleepily, she put an arm around me, and thus I prepared to spend the remainder of my last night on Earth.
This morning, I opened my eyes to a bright, fresh sunrise. Typical, I thought. That I should die on such a lovely day. My partner opened the French Windows, leading into the garden, and went to do some work in the kitchen. I thought about scampering back upstairs and hiding under the duvet. However, a moment's consideration brought the appraisal that it was probably better to get it over and done with, rather than procrastinate and then have to face it anyway. I fiddled with the catch on my garden gate, succeeded in opening it, and marched confidently out into the road.
I'll admit that the idea of the coliseum was not entirely wrong. There was an eerie stillness in the air - akin to the warm silence preceding a visit from the thundering Sky-dog. Glancing about me I saw a number of cats dotted about on walls, fences, etc., some with bells, some without, all watching keenly with an air of expectancy. I looked towards the house in which dwelt the white tomcat. The front door was open.
I was about to sit down, when the white cat strutted out from his house and sat down on his path, with a stupid smug smile on his stupid fat face. I just looked at him.
Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement from within the white tomcat's house and there - framed in the doorway, appeared Eddie.
There was a collective gasp of awe and horror from the various assembled spectators at the sheer size and might of the vast Rottweiler. I, however, knotted my brow in a frown. Something seemed oddly familiar... As Eddie exited the house and began to stride towards me, a soft breeze blew. I sniffed the air and - yes - it confirmed my original suspicion...
"Edward!" I yipped, "You smelly old b*st*rd! How the bl**dy h*ll are you, you old s*d?!"
The Rottweiler stopped in his tracks.
"That's never young Jazz?!" he barked.
"It most certainly is!" I barked back.
"My dear boy!"
"Fantastic to see you, Eddie!"
For - yes - it was my old chum, Eddie the Rottweiler. I have not mentioned him for many, many months but, if you look back at an early blog post, you will most certainly find mention of my friend, whom I used to encounter at Abbotstone of an evening.
"How are you, sweetheart? What have you done to your eye?" asked Eddie.
"I try not to grumble." I replied. "I've got an abscess. Due to a grass seed."
"Hah! Seeds. B*st*rds all." sympathised Eddie. "I had no idea you lived around here!"
"Since the beginning of March." I explained.
"A-ha." said Eddie. "I've been here for years - but I'm rarely seen. I head off with my partner's boyfriend when he goes to work early in the morning, and don't usually return until after dark. Lots of kids round here. And I know what people think about Rottweilers. I keep myself to myself."
"You're a good one, Eddie."
I glanced over his shoulder at the white tomcat. He looked distinctly unsettled at the way our conversation was proceeding. Behind me, a couple of observing cats yawned, muttered to each other, and then got up and left.
"And how is Angus?" I asked. Anyone familiar with Eddie knew to enquire after fellow-Rottweiler and long-term gentleman-companion, Angus. Eddie frowned.
"We aren't really speaking at present."
"I'm sorry to hear that." I replied, sympathetically. "Whatever happened?"
"Hmmm. Caught him eyeing up those two Japanese Akitas that live down by the Fire Station."
"I know them."
"Vicious queens!" hissed Eddie, taking me aback somewhat. "Couple of evil sows, the pair of them. They just sit outside the pub, staring at every passing dog and then mouthing off about their fur colours and collaring arrangements. They're like a couple of whelping bitches."
This was so near a picture of what Eddie and Angus liked to do on an average afternoon that I inadvertently laughed. Fortunately, Eddie thought I was laughing at his description of the two Akitas and chuckled.
"But seriously." I said, "You and Angus were such a lovely couple. Don't throw it all away."
"Bless you, darling." smiled Eddie. "Still into the ladies, are you?"
"I can't help myself."
"Well, if you ever change your mind..."
"You stick with Angus, old lad. He's the one for you." Eddie smiled.
"What am I doing out here, anyway?"
"I believe you are supposed to be 'mashing my brain into a milkshake' and then drinking it?"
"Eh?"
I explained about the preceding events, from the birth of the kittens, my friendship with baby Zac, and my gallant defence of Chloe, leading up to our present encounter. As I continued my tale, Eddie looked more and more irritated.
"He said I'd beat you up, did he?"
I nodded - and the sight of the white tomcat, looking utterly stricken, discreetly withdrawing from the scene and then bolting around the corner did not escape me. Eddie sighed heavily.
"I WISH he wouldn't keep throwing my name about like that." he said, shaking his head. "I am NOT his personal bodyguard. And, honestly, we Rotties get a bad enough press as it is, without him going around shooting his mouth off, saying I'll go and beat up all and sundry."
"Eddie." I said, seriously. "Everyone who knows you knows that you are naught but a gentleman." Eddie winked at me. Then, there came a female call from inside his house:
"Ed! Breakfast!"
"Oop - that's herself [his partner]. Delightful to catch up with you again, dear boy. See you around, Jasper, old love."
"Bye Eddie." I grinned. "And you make it up with Angus. Life is too short for feuds."
With a wag of his tail, Eddie trotted back into his house. As the door closed behind him, I heard a loud call:
"Keviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin!! A word. NOW!"
With an air of profound relief and satisfaction (mixed with a slight twinge of pleasure at meeting Eddie again), I pattered back into my house - before Chloe latched eyes on me....
I believe the word most appropriate to the situation is "PHEW..."
Good night.
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