The thoughts and activities of Tom Cupples, a retiree from British corporate life now enjoying sunny days in the South of France.
21 July 2010
Shadow’s Blog - Woof Woof
Right, it’s my turn. I’m fed up with my master denigrating me in print and whilst I can’t speak, I can type – I’ve watched him often enough so read on.
I’ve got lots to say, particularly about my food. I mean I’m 12 years old in doggie terms which, depending on which internet site you go to (try www.woof-woof.com or www.single-poodles.com), means I’m somewhere between 78 and 84 in human terms, just slightly older than my master – woof woof.
Right – so they feed me dried biscuits – every day. Sometimes, if I’m really lucky, I get a bone from Ed’s but it’s not a bone I can chew and get to the marrow – no, they get me a bone which must come from the knee of a dinosaur and all I can do with those is to bury them and then when I get home, I get into trouble for having a dirty nose. I mean – a dirty nose – is that all he’s got to worry about?
I’ve heard them say that I’m fed dried biscuits so that I don’t smell in the evenings but I reckon it’s my master who smells and because I can’t answer back and defend myself , I can’t tell people that it’s really him so I just sit there and take the abuse – dog’s abuse if you ask me!
God – these biscuits are boring. What I’d do for a bowl of Pedigree Chum or even a can of Chappie. Sometimes if I can smell Angie cooking some steaks next door, I hot-foot it over there but she’s been told not to feed me because apparently I’m over weight. I mean overweight at 84 – who’s worried?
Fortunately, we’ve got a couple of cats, Bijou and Coco and whilst they get fed dried biscuits also, at least when I eat theirs, it’s different – variety is the spice of life and their biscuits are a change from the norm and when I stick my nose in their milk and gulp it down – bliss! But then I get into trouble again – my master knows the cats never finish their food or their milk, so when he sees the empty bowls he knows I’ve been scavenging. I’ve even tried leaving a little bit in the bowls to put him off the scent but he seems to know – he always says something about my white nose. I’m missing a trick obviously.
And then there’s my grooming. Each year, round about the start of summer, I’m literally dragged down to the poodle parlour for a haircut. I’ve heard my master say that my haircut is more expensive than J’s, and at 70 euros, I suppose it is but included in the price is half an hour in the pen with some tasty poodles and terriers – all females. I know my time with the bitches, sorry ladies is limited because my master picks me up not long after I’ve been finished – damn - so I try to get as frisky as quickly as I can and then when I’m just about to get down and dirty, I realize that I had my bollocks chopped off when I was one! It’s so humiliating when Fifi and Chantelle say ‘c’mon then big boy’ and then laugh! The French are so hurtful. But then I realize that my first owner was gay and I realize that I probably wasn’t supposed to ‘do ladies’, so when I go back home and try it on with Rocky the Rottweiler down the hill, he doesn’t seem to understand and kicks dirt in my face and of course, when I get home, I get a slap for having a dirty nose. It’s just so unfair.
So, life is just a dog’s life for me. The cats get to sleep on chairs and sofas but I’ve got to sleep on the tiles. The cats get tickles and cuddles – I get slaps (for my dirty nose). The cats sometimes get fish and what do I get? The extra spaghetti when my master makes Carbonarra which seems to be about 4 times a week!
Anybody know the number for the SPCA?
Oh and that reminds me, we did get another dog a few years ago, a husky called Harry and boy was he trouble. He used to drag me down to the village about 3 times a week and that’s about 4 miles! And then we’d be picked up by the gendarmes and put in the dog’s home which is called Spacca. My master would pay the fine, pick us up and then I’d get, yes, you’ve guessed it, a slap! It’s the story of my life.But at least it was Harry who was shipped out, but I hear he ended up in a huge villa on the coast down in Eze and had a lady Yorkshire Terrier called Botche (what sort of name is that) to ‘play’ with. I also hear that their normal dinner was foie gras and sundried tomatoes and what do I get – dried biscuits. Life’s just not fair.