Halloween 2021

When is a dog not a dog? 

When she's a spider (I didn't find it funny either).

I needed a costume for the Pawz&Co Halloween party. This is what the humans bought me. Isn't it ridiculous! I have enough trouble getting two front legs into my Equafleece, never mind six. I was terrified all my pals would make fun of me, pulling my legs but they were all equally embarrassed by their own costumes. (see below)

A sample of the embarrassment (or originality, the humans called it).

Why do the humans go nuts for Halloween, dressing up and making a mess of their windows and gardens? On tonight's walk, I was frantic. Everywhere I looked there were pumpkin lanterns and spooky decorations and gangs of scary children demanding sweets. I couldn't wait to return home. I rushed back so fast I nearly forgot to pee (I remembered just in time and went on the front grass). 

Sorry but Halloween is not my idea of entertainment. I mean trick or treat? I'm only six months young. I've not learned many tricks. l can manage a sit and occasionally a stay (my recall is fab) but ask me for a paw and I'll blank you. Give me a treat any day! 

In fact, give me a treat every day!

Life Explained

Back at doggy daycare with a scar healing on my underside and Mr Pugglesworth was no longer interested in me. One sniff with his flat Pug-nose and he scooted off in search of fresher meat. I sniffed my wound and wondered if it was infected. There was no sign of swelling, no redness to alarm and no discharge to lick away. Everything was normal (except for the scar).

I spoke to Winnie the golden Cockapoo. She's wise and knows a lot about life. She was the one that advised me not to engage in playful activity with a larger dog because, when they're behaving boisterously, they'll end up accidentally hurting me. She recommended I find someone of similar size and build then nudge them politely enquiring if they'd like to engage in a game of chase.

Taking me aside, we found a quiet couch. Given the volume of barking, this was quite a feat. She told me to sit down, that she had some bad news. I sat. She didn't give me a treat. I thought that was the bad news. I was wrong. She whispered that I now could never have puppies. 

I looked at her confused. I was only six months old. Why would I want to have puppies? I had a life to live, friendships to grow, a modelling career to build. I didn't have time for boy dogs, never mind hanky panky.

She told me I'd been spayed and there was no going back from there. The deed was done. She assured me there were positives. I wouldn't go into heat and get pestered by every randy boy dog in the complex; I was less likely to develop cancer in later life, and it was also a sign I was maturing. She reminded me how small I'd been when I first arrived. I was now nearly as tall as her. I didn't hide in a corner anymore. I had lots of friends that played with me when I wasn't napping. All the humans still thought I was gorgeous, even with my scar. I was to keep on enjoying life, getting up to mischief and making the most of my time. There were toys that needed chewing with my new teeth. 

I listened to her kind words and reflected on their meaning. It was a period of change but in many ways, things were the same. I just had one less choice, one I had never considered anyway.

More fool the humans. Now they won't make a fortune selling my babies. 

I will remain forever unique.

Garden Visitors

 

Recovering from my surprise operation, I've been spending a lot of time watching the wildlife that frequents the garden. I've not much else to do. I'm not allowed to run about and occasionally have to wear a costume to stop me from licking my wound.

We get a variety of birds: from tits to pigeons to crows and magpies. When they're not eating at the dangly feeders, they like to perch on the pergola. They pay for the privilege by dropping tips onto the slabs below. I like to sample the nicer ones (unless the man is about - he chases me away and scoops them up for disposal).  

Then we have a squirrel that returns often to bury his winter food in the plant pots and raised bed. I can see where he's left everything and later poke about to smell if they're worth a nibble. Again, the man chases me away. You'd think he didn't want me snacking from nature. To be fair to the squirrel, he's a smart cookie and will often only pretend to bury his nuts, wasting my time and energy trying to dig them up.

Lastly, a cat comes a visiting, attracted by the many birds. I've not yet caught it on camera (or in real life). It lies in wait under the bushes beneath the bird feeders. When one of the small birds comes close it pounces, rips it open then carries the dead bird away. It has a high success rate, which annoys the woman. If she sees it, I'm allowed to shoo it away with my barking. I've developed a gruff growl just for such occasions. But only for such occasions. I've been warned the neighbours over the back fence have sensitive ears and a penchant for complaining. They're even immune to my gorgeous looks, which was previously unheard of.  

 

Not the Groomers

 

I don't cast my coat so the humans have been discussing the need for me to attend the groomers for a cut and blow-dry. It seemed they'd planned an appointment for Monday. 

The day got off to a bad start when I didn't get breakfast. Initially, as both of them were off work, I thought this was down to a mix-up, with each thinking the other had filled my bowl (I empty it so fast this is understandable).

Then, I thought I was being taken for a walk. I didn't complain. At least, not until I was bundled into the back of the car. I still hadn't had my breakfast.

I was driven to Bridge of Weir, the village where the groomers have their shop. We were early so waited outside until it was time. We could have popped into a cafe for a takeaway breakfast but the man didn't think of that. 

A golden Alsatian was on one side of the waiting area sitting behind a clear dividing screen with his human. I greeted the old dog from behind my human concerned over the dog's size and large teeth. I needn't have worried. The Alsatian was in no position to bite me as he had a toothache. 

A woman with a clipboard talked to them both, discussing the procedure. I thought it odd that groomers would do tooth extraction as well as a clean and polish but diversification is often a necessity in today's modern world (as Mr Puggleswoth once expounded from the roof of a children's toy buggy). 

Then it was my turn for the chat. She didn't ask how much shorter I wanted my coat or how I'd like my beard styled. The conversation was about blood tests and ovaries. I couldn't make out the accent of the woman but trusted they knew what they were doing.

I was then led off to a small room. No pre-cut biccy or bowl of munchies. When the staff started the shave my leg down to the skin, I thought they've gone too far. They'd left me with a bald patch. I'd be a laughing stock at doggy daycare. 

Then she produced a syringe. What kind of groomers need to sedate their clients for a trim? Something was off here. When I woke up, I discovered they'd botched everything. I had a scar on my privates and had a lampshade on my head. Suddenly, a couple of treats were not going to appease me. I wanted compensation. 

When the human returned for me, they paid two hundred and seventy pounds (for a haircut - are they mad?) and made another appointment for a week's time. I thought no way am I going back there. Get me out of here Pronto. I don't normally refer to the man as Pronto but I was still woozy from the anaesthetic.

He drove me home. I removed the lampshade in the car. It didn't suit me at all. Their next act of cruelty was to force me to wear an inflatable ruff. It was better than the lampshade in that it allowed me to eat and drink from my bowl but it looked ridiculous. It was just as well they only let me out into the garden. What if we met someone on a street walk? It's not Halloween yet.

To add insult to injury, when I was eventually fed, I vomited up my lunch all over the carpet. All that food going to waste left me highly distressed. I complained bitterly all day and all night from the discomfort of my wound and from my hunger. I made sure the humans suffered along with me. They'd been responsible for my coat getting ruined so I intended to ruin their holiday.

The man was sent to buy me clothes. Something snazzy to cover up the shame of my wound. He came back with a pack of baby grows. It seems in human age, I'm size eighteen to twenty-four months.

I have to say I do look rather dashing in them. I think, once the hair had grown back over my scar, I might investigate a career modelling for doggy glamour magazines. 

No looking down my low-cut top

I'll Never Be A Gardener

 

As I mentioned before, the man encourages me to join him in the garden prior to my bedtime. He wants me to pee outside so I won't need to go during the night. Now I'm aware of the concept, I won't play ball for anything less than a half Wagg training treat. That's also my price for agreeing to play with a ball. Retrieving should never be its own reward. 

But I digress.

Tonight, he was scuffing stones from the slabs in an effort to remove temptation from me when he spied a leafy shadow. Kicking it aside, he didn't realise it was a slug. At which point was a slug became entirely appropriate. He slimed his slippers up big time. Even I wouldn't touch them, which is saying something. Normally, I'm happy lifting them from the kitchen and taking them to the living room. Not under command, you understand. This is for my pleasure only.   

Slugs are one of the few things I won't eat in the garden (or anywhere else for that matter). I prefer my snacks less slimy. I'll eat spiders and beetles and grass and leaves and twigs. I love anything wooden, the fresher the better. Sometimes I don't even wait for them to fall from the bush. I'll gnaw away until the branch is chewed through. This annoys the woman. She summons me back into the house but doesn't give me into trouble. She's read her puppy books and knows the value of positive reinforcement. I'm praised for returning.

So I do it again. 

Her temper remains calm for at least two returns after which she tells the man to deal with me. He becomes the bad guy or would be if he could keep a straight face. When he calls, I come running because I know he's going to give me a treat every time. 

What I want to know is: why is it when she removes the twigs it's called pruning but when I do it it's called vandalism? Is it because my shoogly teeth leave a ragged edge whereas her secateurs make a clean, sharp cut? 

I'll never be a gardener.