Kernowdog

Name:
Location: Cornwall, United Kingdom

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Jack's first visit to the grandparents: mixed success

Last day of February; when I was a pup my mum told me that if March enters like a kitten it leaves like puma – I think that was what she used to say. I don’t think it’s what they call a Leap Year, which is a pretty odd thing to call a year. A slow year, or a fast year, if you’re having a bad or good time perhaps; but under what circumstances would you look back, before New Year’s Eve, and think, ‘Yep, had a good leap this year’.

Just back from a week’s cottage holiday in Dorset. It was great. Near a place called Lulworth Cove, with loads of army camps nearby, so we felt quite insecure. The Jurassic Coast was a big disappointment: saw some fossilised dinosaur pawprints in the museum at Lulworth, otherwise not a thing.

Got lost in the heather walk at Studland; S disappointed he saw no avocets. Don’t know what’s so special about the legal profession.

I got quite tired – can’t manage these epic journeys like I used. It was nice to curl up in front of the wood-burning stove in the evening, and there was a toasty aga in the kitchen. G no longer hates these, after her unfortunate experiences with the Rayburn in the last house. Three hours to make pasta is a bit excessive.

Nx, Gz and baby Jack came shortly before. Everyone seemed very excited, but as I’ve said before, I can’t see the novelty. Keep getting these photos of him. Whatever. G took some splendid ones of me; does anyone ask to have a copy? Oh, no. If S wasn’t so hopeless he could post some on here. I might look into this. He did look quite sweet when he wasn't howling. I suppose. With his little sleep suits. Did taste good, too.

R and R came to stay for the first w/e in the cottage. They all ate and drank loads, and there was multiple snoring all night. I must admit I made my decorous contribution. They always make a fuss of me, which I take to be a sign of discrimination, good taste and general good-eggness.

S had a bad throat from Wednesday. Said it was tonsillitis. I think it was a sore throat. Even went to the doctor, scared he was getting the quinsy he had last year again. Was most disappointed when she gave him a prescription for antibiotics. I think he was expecting ER at least. He says his bugs are bigger than average. Pathetic.

G is off to Bristol for two days tomorrow, so it’ll be short walks and long stares at the football for us. Having just finished a biography of the rivetingly interesting Jane Austen, he’s been inspired by the literary pilgrimage in Dorset to read Gittings on Hardy. He sounds a cheerful soul: couldn’t bear to be touched. What a fool – it’s my second greatest pleasure in life. The first? Food.

At least I don’t demand lavender massages like Jack. Who’s he named after: Jack Horner, who sat in the corner (which is pretty much all he seems to do, so far)? Jack in 24, battling against the clock to get another bottle in before the colic sets in? I don’t see it. Must be Jack Spratt. Can’t eat fat or lean yet: what use is that?

But we must be magnanimous. Jealousy is most unbecoming. I’m not jealous. Just cos he’s getting all the attention I used to doesn’t mean I’m jealous. I’m bigger than that. I’m in touch with my unthrusting side. Pushing yourself forward is not an attractive trait; neither is staring cutely at swinging cuddly toys hanging from your cot. Anyone can do that; it takes no special skill, yet everyone seems to go into ecstasies when he does it. I could follow the track of a bobbing pink elephant if I had one to follow, which I don’t. But I’m not bitter.

He can’t even talk.

Or walk.

Did I mention I was sick on the moors on Monday? I even do that with more panache.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Horror cats and hyacinths

I have received another response to my blog, this time, can you believe it, from a cat. I am horrified. I have devoted my life to the destruction, intimidation and some other word ending in tion of cats. I hate them. They serve no logical purpose. Why should a rat, a mouse a cat have life? They are vermin. They inhabit the sewers of normal life. They are despicable. If there were cartoons of them, I would have no problem.

I don’t understand Maisie’s rather cryptic comments in her response. Does she have a drug problem? She and her sharp-toothed friend do not seem to correspond to normal civilised conventions; she is a non-cat. I do not recognise her. She and her acolytes are the spawn of Sheba. May they suffer from blocked flaps, and an armed insurrection of the rodent tribe.

Meanwhile, if I can return to proper blogging duties…

Mary went home, and seems to be doing ok. S’s mum has broken her wrist; I think tripped in the night by an errant feline. G has gone to some place called Barnstaple. Sounds more like a record label.

R and his chums had better watch out: there is such a thing as a Brontefada. Maisie is not beyond the scope of the retroodle network: we have been watching her. Video evidence may well soon be released.

S & G are about to be visited by the new grandchild. If he cries, he’s toast.

They may not share my views on that, but as G. Galloway would say, hey, do I care?

S made me watch Fahrenheit 9/11 the last two nights. Made me think. Felines of mass destruction: watch out. We are on to you. With your little velvet paws. Your little teeth. Your flaps. You are the liminal ones.

The squirrels have eaten the hyacinths.

The horse blocks the path in the mornings. S has to move him, but fears the hoofs. Hooves? Roof, rooves? Style guide, I need you. I’m a dog, not a prescriptivist. I don’t care, I just read James Meek’s People’s Act of Love, and I favour the Mohican. Read it and weep.

Lost the thread there. Tired. Need sleep.