Kernowdog

Name:
Location: Cornwall, United Kingdom

Sunday, October 30, 2005

Dog alone

That was weird: I’d nearly finished my blog for the day when the computer crashed. Just turned itself off. So I lost everything. Really annoying, as I’d been particularly eloquent.

G has gone to Bristol, and won’t be back all week. I tried to make her feel guilty by looking sad and soulful, then felt bad when she said she felt guilty. Hope she’s had a good drive, cos she doesn’t like motorways.

S is no substitute. All he’s done today is make plum jam, do the washing and ironing, and prepare his classes for next week. Says he’s being observed; about time, I think. Has he devoted any attention to me? Oh, no.

Had a good walk with the two of them this morning, though. Went to the woods near Trelissick. No rivers to leap in, unfortunately, but it was gloriously muddy.

Had to ask for my breakfast this morning. The selfish pair took advantage of the clocks going back by having a lie-in. Not a thought for the hungry dog. So I made S get up and feed me.

He enjoyed watching Middlesbrough beat Man. Utd last night on tv, but I found it tedious; went to bed with G. She’s just finished this novel by Claire Francis about poles. Seems a funny sort of topic to write about. G has told S to read something cheerful while she’s away this week. So what’s he chosen? Bleak House. Not my idea of a fun book, judging by the title. All the books he reads are dead miserable; don’t know how G puts up with it.

He says he wants to go and read the papers now, as he’s not had time until now. Don’t know what he means by this. I didn’t see him doing anything. But then I have been sleeping most of the morning. Dreamt about Maple next door. I caught him.

Friday, October 28, 2005

st piran's oratory

G is just going to the garage to get the car's brakes fixed. She thinks S should go, but for once he's got his own way. Says he has to be up early tomorrow, which is a Saturday, when he doesn't normally do early, to have his flu injection which she organised yesterday. She thinks he's going to get avian flu otherwise. So his line was that it was her fault he'd have to miss his lie in tomorrow, so she should take the car today. Seems logical to me.

Yesterday we went to the Penhale dunes. I like it there: nobody about but dogs and their owners. We went to inspect the church of St Piran, which has been excavated recently. It had been buried in the sands in the early eighteenth century, when it was abandoned. G said there was his oratory nearby too, but S said that wasn't right, there was just the one church under the dunes. Then we met this tall chap with two springer spaniels, and he said there is an oratory between the hill with the cross on top, where we were, and the excavation. S seemed surprised that he was wrong; G didn't.

I hate springer spaniels, with their whippy tails and grinning faces. And what a stupid name: it's demeaning to dogs. If I was a spaniel I'd be a 'Walks Elegantly' spaniel. No springing for me.

G has lost the post-it where S wrote all the details of this blogspot. She says he should have filed it away somewhere safe, not just left it lying around on her desk. This surprised me a bit, because she should know he doesn't put things away. Then he found this WH Smith rollerball pen that was his. When he accused her of pinching it she said she'd just bought a pack of them, and the propelling pencils. He said it was spooky that she should buy the very same packs as him.

His irony fell on stony ground. Now she's late for the garage, because she searched for his bit of paper with my details, not trusting him to look properly. Can't say I blame her, as his idea of searching for something is to look immediately in front of him for about ten seconds.

He went to Plymouth on Wednesday to meet his friend. They just sit around talking about literature and football. Don't see the point myself. The hole I'm digging behind the fuchshia bush in the front garden has more purpose, and is infinitely more entertaining. I'm hoping to burrow under the wall, into next door's garden, where I can spring out, no, LEAP out on Maple the stupid cat. I'd like to get at Rosie who lives next door the other way, with her six toes on the front paws. It's not natural. Reminds S of that Crown of Creation sci-fi novel about the mutants and the giant horses. He says Jefferson Airplane got the song from it, but I can't see it myself.

Anyway, better go now and see if this posting will work, seeing as he couldn't enter the address and everything, and had to fiddle around to find the Create Post section. I know he's still fuming inside at G, but I think it's his fault.

Saturday, October 22, 2005

Speechless

Just checked Cross Town Rebels' website with S; as I thought, G got it wrong. Matt's record release isn't called Reckless, it's Speechless. She got the Mish Mash bit right though. They tried to play the MP3 file, but realised their speakers weren't plugged in, so they gave up. Hopeless.

S read me this story in the Guardian this morning. Seems there's this Shetland sheepdog called Sandy (didn't know they had any sheep in the Shetlands, just ponies; maybe that's what they round up?) who won't turn right. They have to do a three-mile detour to go to the park nearby, because the short route involves a right turn, and the dog just sits down or runs away. This dog is a star. Don't know why he got into the paper, though: I've been doing that for years, except it's when my people want to turn in any direction I don't want to go...

Autumn leaves

S & G have been so busy there's been no time to blog. G has been back and forth to Bristol and Saltash by train, car, plane. G who used to get lost on the underground in London. S has a break for a week now, so I've persuaded him to get back to the keyboard for me.

While they've been working hard I've had a tough time too, what with guarding the house while Dave the builder and his team were painting the outside of the house, then just guarding it. Trouble is, now I'm a bit deaf, I don't even hear the doorbell, and S thinks I'd let a burglar just walk over me, and that maybe I'd just give him a lick. But I did nearly get next door's cat this morning. Chased it round down their garden, but it escaped. So I drank its bowl of water. Yesterday I had the cat next door on the other side's plate of food. It was quite palatable. Better than my boring dry biscuits. S reckons I'm allergic to wheat, so can't have normal food, but I'm not so sure. Last night I fell so deeply asleep he didn't wake me for my suppertime rice. I was devastated this morning when I woke feeling hungry and realised what had happened.

Had a call from Matt this morning. His label has just produced some record that's apparently doing really well, and he's just been to Norway. I never go anywhere. It's called reckless, and they're called what G pronounces as Mismatch, but it might be Mish Mash.

Nx's sprout continues to grow, and should be out just before Christmas. Everyone seems to think it'll be a girl, but I'm not so sure. Can't get too excited; it's not as if it's a puppy or anything. I'm looking forward to licking it, though. Babies taste great.

S got some special shampoo from the vet last week and washed my paws. It's supposed to stop me nibbling my toes, and seems to have worked. So that's one less pleasure for the dog. They've just been cleaning the house, so S was quite pleased to escape and come to the PC. Now he says he's hungry and wants to listen to the football, so G will make him do the ironing. No-one thinks about what the dog wants.

Maybe I'll go and dream about catching the cat. He's called Maple. Pathetic.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Midweek angst

It's Weds evening, and S just volunteered to go to Sainsbury's to get the eggs G said we needed; came back with two bottles of wine, some beers and fruit and veg. Said he queued for ages then realised he'd forgotten the eggs. The football's on tonight, and G reckons he's incapable of watching it without alcohol. He has been quite good on the cutting down on drink this last couple of weeks, I suppose, but G feels he's weakening. Has the moral rectitude of a biro.

G can't understand why it's necessary to watch England now they've qualified for the World Cup. He rambled on about the need to ensure the collective lack of confidence in the team's recent displays is seen to dissipate, or some such rubbish. I reckon it's just an excuse to drink midweek. He puts it down to excessive strain at work, but he doesn't know what angst is; I have to guard the house all day. Not easy when you're deaf.

G left at 5am yesterday to get the plane to Bristol. The return flight was cancelled because of fog, so she had to be bussed back, and didn't get in till 1 am. So now his line is that he is tired through being woken so early, then staying up late waiting for her. He was in bed when she got in though, so she wasn't over-impressed.

My anti-arthritis drug seems to be working, but I've got the most awful itchy skin. He keeps throwing cushions at me in the night, saying I'm keeping him awake with my licking and nibbling at my toes. It's not my fault: if he bought the decent drugs they'd stop the itching as well as the ache in my joints. Skinflint. Serves him right if I nibble.

He has to go now: footy's about to start. Can't miss that, can we? Oh, no. Self, self, self.

Saturday, October 08, 2005

It's Saturday, and both my people are home. G came back from Bristol last night; S and I walked over to the train station to meet her. It was one of those horrid red Virgin trains, trying too hard to look cool. G hates them because they never have enough carriages. And they always smell of chemical toilets, she says.

She'd been away all week, just back for a night on Thursday. This meant I had to rely on S for my walks, which is always problematic. G had the car, too, and this meant we could only do the local, boring walks. Did meet Max the border collie one morning. He's mad about his red plastic bone. Mad Max. Stares at it for hours from the elevated lawn while it lies on the pavement below. S likes to pick it up when we pass and throw it up the lawn for Max to chase. He retrieves it, but doesn't let S take it from him. I find this procedure baffling, and demeaning to us dogs. It shows Max up for what he is: a vocational studies dog. Me, I'm an intellectual, as my name suggests. Literary pretensions. S disagrees; says any dog that likes rabbit poo can't be considered intellectual.

So Max's rituals are still to my mind pathetic. You don't catch me chasing toys, let alone retrieving them. You threw it, you fetch it. Though my mother was a flat-coat retriever. Must have lost something in the genes. Maybe my standard poodle father was a rebel. He certainly never had the poodle haircut, according to S, and I never have either. Though my groomer did like to leave a fetching fluffy bouffon on top of my head. S always trimmed it when we got home. Said he felt embarrassed walking me past the raucous drinkers sitting outside the pub in central Newquay. Shows a certain ambivalence about his sexual identity if you ask me. Though I did have to find something decomposing to roll in as soon as I could after being bathed and groomed, to get rid of the salon smell. Perfumed poodles are not my idea of canine attractiveness.

I like Saturdays. After I have breakfast I go back to my duvet on the floor while S & G read the paper and drink tea. Now they've just got up. G is making the poached eggs and toast while I get S to write this for me. Then we'll go for our Saturday walk in the woods. This means I get to jump in the river and search for the bobbing biscuits that S throws in for me. He finds it amusing that I find it difficult to find them and bite them out of the water. My long muzzle gets in the way of vision, and it usually takes several snaps before I succeed. Sometimes the current takes them away before I find them. He then sniggers while I search fruitlessly in the clear water.

G's just called him for breakfast, so we'd better finish now. I love the smell of toast in the morning.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Greetings from Kernow

This is my first posting in my new blog. I am a Cornish surfhound named Bronte. I have lived in Kernow/Cornwall nearly all of my 12 years, but was born near Bath, and spent 6 months in Somerset, before my people moved further south-west.

I'm a retroodle: a standard poodle crossed with retriever. My father was a white poodle, mother was a black flat-coat. I'm allergic to wheat, nibble my toes out of habit, and look for food at all times. I love the sea, but hate to get out of my depth.

I hope to maintain these posts as often as I can, but have to rely on owners to do the typing, and they're very busy people, so I can't guarantee being too frequent. Today He is working from home, so I'm enjoying having company for a change. The Cornish sun is shining, leaves are turning brown and yellow and starting to fall, and the pantomime horse on the hill opposite is wearing his winter coat, so his black patches are mostly concealed. Swarms of small flies are congregating at the windows, like swallows about to depart. Why are they doing this?