Location: Cornwall, United Kingdom

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Heatwave blues

It’s been a while since my last posting because I’ve been incarcerated while S and G went on holiday. They were in Crete while I languished behind bars. In the sweltering heat. The screws had to hose us dogs down to try to keep us cool. The basset hound kept up that unearthly Baskerville howl all week. He needs help.

They say they liked Crete a lot, and enjoyed the cottage they stayed in. It was very hot, but not as hot as England, though Cornwall was cooler than most places up country. I’ve been on a course of antiobiotics for my infection problem, and it seems to have helped my weeing problem. The vet says the growth on my bladder is not good though, and the tests indicate it could be a tumour. The tests aren’t conclusive, and I feel all right in myself, so I think I’ll be ok for a while yet. I don’t want any nasty invasive treatment, and will rely on nature.

Had my hair cut by the groomer while I was inside. Feel much better as a consequence, less hot. Look much prettier, too.

Bridget who lives next door gave me some cat biscuits tonight to welcome me home. The only good thing about cats is that I get to eat their food, smarmy little vermin.

No squirrels evident for quite a while; maybe they’ve all got this squirrel virus that’s killing the red squirrels – though apparently the grey ones are immune to it. Typical: the chavs survive, the toffs cop it.

Not much more to add today, I’m afraid: being banged up for so long there’s not much to say of any interest. S says the Cretans are liars, but do you believe a Cretan who tells you that? I say who cares? He goes on holiday and comes back even stupider. G just told him to check for a baby Jack blog, so he’ll have to leave off typing this now. Jack was laughing on the phone just now, it seems. Sinister, I call it. What’s he got to laugh about? Doesn’t he care about Hizbullah?

Monday, July 10, 2006

Off to prison

I’m off to prison today, so am not feeling too great. Didn’t even want my walk this morning. Had to make S n G feel bad about leaving me. They’re off on holiday to some place called Crete. Sounds like an insect.

I’m going to have a haircut on Saturday, which will be good, because it’s been very hot and sticky lately, and my shaggy fur makes me uncomfortable.

Vet told us that I’m not well this week. Have a lump on my bladder. I wondered why I had to keep weeing. Now they’re dead worried about me. I am too, I suppose. All part of life’s rich tapestry. There’s only one journey, as I was saying to them yesterday when we went to Trelissick for my walk. Went all existential on them.

I’m not too worried about kennels this time; S had to take some Rescue remedy though.

He was very excited about the World Cup final yesterday. He was quite upset when Zidane was sent off, and thinks that Italian guy said something really nasty to him. If he did, he got what was coming to him in my view, though I’d have probably bitten him.

They’re off to Weston tonight to stay with G’s mum Mary as they have to get an early flight from Bristol next morning. They might get to see the famous Jack. I was in big trouble for some of the things I said about him. G thought I was rude, but I was only saying what I perceived; he does look Rooneyesque.

Cute pictures of him came by email, but he does have some unpleasant eating habits. His blog is quite good. Sounds like his new car is ok. Not too keen to hear he’s been consorting with cats. Vermin. Good only for gloves.

Must go now; prison beckons. Time to put on my most doleful look. Hope the vet has good news.

Monday, July 03, 2006

New settings

Been having trouble getting comments posted to my blogs. Just got S to change my settings, so this is a test to see if comments are enabled now.

Jack's rival blog and the real reason for the World Cup debacle

So, a young pretender has emerged: baby Jack has produced his first blog. Not bad for a first effort, either, though I suspect he had some help from him mum Nx, whereas mine is at least all my own work. To paraphrase Capote’s summary of Kerouac’s prose: that’s not writing, it’s typing; I compose this, S just types it up. He lacks the imagination to do more.

Besides, Jack looks like a cross between a sober Charles Kennedy and a slightly less psychotic Wayne Rooney. He’s not even house-trained!

That’s a sore subject with me right now: had a wee sample taken ignominiously this morning, which S left at the vet’s on his way to work. The vet rang later in the day to say that I seem to have a problem, and I have to go for X rays on Weds. I’ve had this problem for a while now, and it’s most undignified. S and G are worried for me, but I think the antibiotics they say they’ll give me will clear it up. I go into prison at the end of the week so S and G can go to Crete for a week. Typical. No-one thinks of the dog.

S has been dead grumpy since Sat. when England went out of the World Cup. Every time it comes round he seems to think they’ll have learnt to take penalties, pass the ball to one of their own players and not to the opposition, sometimes beat an opponent by using skill, athleticism and ingenuity, etc. Then we produce our usual performance of inept underachievement. I think it’s because there aren’t enough English players in our top clubs, but S rebukes me for this and says it’s recidivist or racist or something. Nonetheless we still can’t string two passes together. France has Zidane, Brazil had Ronaldinho (S thinks he was smuggled out before the competition and replaced by a cyborg) and who do we have? Peter Crouch. He is to football what praying mantises are to philosophy.

Is that the plural of mantis? Mantes?

He’s been poring over the papers since our exit, alternating in his vituperation between the manager, the opportunist Swede-the-greed, with his huge salary and small invention; Rooney, with his Croxteth ethics, Beckham, with his fading genius, and the Tories, who he usually blames when anything goes tits-up. I feel it’s something to do with the pre-match microphone that broke when Becks was trying to read his anti-racism tract. It clearly freaked him out that the feedback could be heard in Antartica. The English players’ wags were less attractive than the other teams’ players’, too, and this surely undermined their confidence and self-esteem. In today’s Times there’s a picture of the Wimbledon players’ consorts: pure class. I rest my case. It’s nothing to do with tactics, and the relative merits of holding midfielders or the Lampard-Gerrard axis; it’s all down to looks. Look at me: the best-looking dog in the peninsula, if not the south-west of England. Everyone coming out of Sainsbury’s when S and I are outside waiting for G to finish reading Good Housekeeping in there on a Saturday says it: what a handsome dog! A winner. No self-doubt. I could even score a penalty if I put my mind to it – better than that pouting pretty-boy Madeira cake cheat who tried to get Rooney sectioned during the quarter-final. No wonder van Nistlerooy (is that how it’s spelt?) can’t abide him. Could be though that he’s better looking than Ruud the Mr Ed lookalike – which returns me to my earlier thesis.

Apart from the football it’s been hot and muggy here, so I sleep mostly. Bark at next door’s cat with the six toes… freak. Think of things to dream about. This might be my last blog until I’m released from kennels, so think of me in solitary, staring through the bars at the light. Pining.