Name:
Location: Cornwall, United Kingdom

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.