Let’s ignore the US election for a bit. So… erm… it’s nearly my birthday!
I‘m not sure what I want other than I want something big and not useful or for the house, something that reflects my new “self-care” focus. I’m thinking dramatic, I’m thinking irrational, I’m thinking eye-roll stupid, I’m sort of thinking I’d like another dog.
I am a dog person. I love dogs. They make me smile really lots. I say hello to most of the dogs I pass on the street, more than babies, I can’t help myself.
I already have two dogs. I love them but they are bad dogs. At the moment, they are generally gripping my shit. Very. Much.
I shouldn’t moan. They are wicked simply because I have spoiled them. I don’t reinforce their training. I prefer to blame the other ‘shouty’ adult family members for their behaviour rather than me schmoochy-coo talking to them as if they are my other hairy children.
I adore them really.
This gunk-eyed wally is McFwuffy, formally called Alfie, here sporting an aerobie that he’s got stuck round his neck, and looking worried as usual.
He is a cry baby. He gets scared of random things including the kitchen bin, the oven and going through certain doors in the sort of way that makes me think we’ve got a ghost.
The other day he stood at the top of the stairs and cried until my husband went up and brought him down even though he’s been living here nearly 5 years.
He mines the bathroom bin for used earbuds and similar to chew. He rubs his face in dirty underwear. He steals and eats Peperami condoms (the filthy sheath things inside the outer wrapper) at every opportunity costing us a fortune at the vets because he has tummy ache and can’t poo.
He has had ‘the chop’ but is still a rampant sex-pest. Especially if your dog is fluffier than him, especially if it’s a boy.
He loves a fluffy boy dog. Hard.
Good things: he is SO FWUFFY. He is so cute too. He has such a perfect track record of winning prettiest dog awards at local dog shows, we feel guilty attending any more.
We swagger up at the last minute, he puts out with the heartbreaker “help me, they are cruel to me” eyes and a shake of his baby-soft fur, and we know we’re getting the rosette. Almost criminal.
Technically, he is called Alfie Two… he was the replacement, a puppy, to help us forget about Alfie One.
Alfie One was a very cute little rescue dog from Battersea who we adopted just in time for Christmas a few years ago. After a few days of homely love, he suddenly decided he was not cat-friendly after all and for the sake of our lovely old moggy, he had to spend the whole festive season on his lead, tied to someone, muzzled like a hairy Hannibal Lecter.
We were managing door openings with the skill level and trepidation of astronauts managing airlocks.
It also transpired that he had probably mainly been raised on pizza and since his “rescue” had been barely grudgingly surviving on dog food, watching and waiting for the moment when he could launch himself off the back of the sofa, fly over everyone’s heads like a rabid bat dog to land in the middle of the dining table and fight terrified, still traumatised, children for their slices of Domino’s finest.
Yes, sometimes a dog is not for life, it is just for Christmas.
He was returned at New Year…
Walk. Of. Shame.
Husband, I love you. You were a goddamn hero taking that one for the team.
The more recent addition is The RatBag, full name given by daughter: Mitzi Belle Rose.
She is a cross-breed we refer to as “The Shit-Poo-Hua!” (Shih Tsu, Poodle, Chihuahua). Daughter has been trained to say this in a loud voice, and to accentuate the “HUA” with a karate chop or leg kick…
She’s adorable when she’s just been clippered, like cuddling a hot squidgy velvet sausage but that’s mostly about it.
* gross out warning *
She eats Alfie’s poop out of his bottom whilst he is pooping it, like he’s her special Mr Whippy machine. She bullies him too.
She has a random honking cough like an old tramp who has smoked for 40 years. She probably does smoke up the end of the garden for all I know.
She snaffles food from daughter and hides it in the duvet and my pyjamas.
She is house-trained unless it is really raining, then she craps just exactly where she likes.
She does a weird dominance thing where when someone sits down on the sofa she stands over their feet, squats slightly and gently dabs her (always slightly damp) fluffy lady parts against their ankle skin.
If she does it to me and I boot her off, she will then spend the next while aggressively climbing up my front and trying to sit on my face. A dirty little dog whore, doing it for kicks not cash.
They do have good points, some of which work in a beautiful universal-balance Yin Yang way, for example:
- YIN: constant hoovering up of dropped food and licking at icky patches of ‘stuff’ to ensure floors look clean (superficially but that suffices most days)
- YANG: regular honking up of non-edible matter and masses of bubbly yellow bile to ensure floors get properly washed more often than they might otherwise…
More on the upside: they give the best cuddles. They are hilarious to watch when they try to run on the wood floors and can’t get any traction. They adore our daughter, they’re her confidantes, companions and never judge her when she’s feeling overwhelmed; they would always defend her from monsters and they would never eat her rabbits even though they look really yummy.
They definitely help us sort the human wheat from the chaff, you can’t fully trust a human who doesn’t like dogs. They will full-body-slam their love into people who don’t like dogs. One of my besties doesn’t like dogs; they like to lick her legs… they never do this to anyone else.
Flipside: they bark almost constantly. They stink incredibly. They love rolling in the most god-awful things that they can find.
A couple of weeks ago they found and rolled in (note: IN) a cat corpse. Mostly in the chest cavity, fortunately (!?) organs no longer there. Alfie attempted to get his head inside the cat’s head as if he wanted to run along letting it trail behind him like a batman cape.
Last week Mitzi rolled in human vomit, disgusting. She was sopping wet and covered in “chunks” from nose to tail, I was retching so hard I could see stars and nearly gave myself a prolapse. I honestly wished a crow would mistake her for carrion and carry her off.
On reflection, I think I will probably ask the birthday fairy for handbags and shoes, a pamper session, facial and a whole load of new make up.