Arf!

So, here I am again dear reader. In much the same state as you found me last time. Quelle surprise, as the dirty Poodles say…

Still, it’s been a funny 18 months in all. By which I mean deeply traumatic and deeply, deeply unpleasant.

After a false start with a new family last spring (I ate their cat), I have been remanded on B Wing indefinitely. I am now a cur no less, and a danger to the little horses they keep in the paddock next-door. Judith, who now walks us and is something of a cretin, muttered something about a petting zoo being there now, hence we are marched around the lanes these days, away from the precious ponies, and that massive cockerel I like barking at. Nevertheless, after the timely destruction of my nemesis (the irksome spaniel) these enforced walks have subjected me to an even greater misery of late...

Tethered in packs by the simpleton Judith, I am placed at the mercy of another drooling mongoloid: Fitz the Boxer dog, whose remorseless attempts to sniff my genitals prompt yelps of delight from both Roxy the Doberman, and Misty, the blind-in-one-eye Patterdale. Now, as to whether this beast is innately homosexual or simply suffering an episode of the dreaded cabin fever is neither here nor there to me. What is clear however is that these sordid affections of her's must be addressed. The poor woman needs help! But by whom? The vacant Judith? Or Daisy the Saturday girl who stinks of baby ferrets?

I think not.

And yet…

I may, dear reader, have just shat upon the answer. For lying here now, defecating on to the Metro newspaper which lines my cage, I suddenly spotted this advertisement for The Albert Kennedy Trust.


Could they help Fitz the gay Boxer dog you think? And more to the point, is Sir Ian McKellen really gay or is he just acting?

Arf!

Grrr!

Woof!

And so: this is only my second posting in 9 months. But, as they constantly remind us around here, patience is a virtue.

Indeed, time stands mostly still here on B Wing. So little has happened of incident that, were it not for recent events, I'd neither know nor care what day, week or month it was.

Reader, we have been gripped my a malaise of sorts here in the rescue centre; a stubborn cloud of ennui that threatens to engulf us all. Whilst many of the larger dogs appear to have resigned themselves to it, many more of us have become increasingly snappy and irritable. Last week, the irksome spaniel had to be destroyed after attacking poor Joyce in the exercise yard. (He'd always been spooked by her puffer-jacket - seems it finally got to him.) And inevitably, I too succumbed to this destructive form of boredom when Bouncer and I foolishly decided to gore a hedgehog we'd found. Oh, the wretched thing was filthy, and having spined my mouth, it seemed I'd contracted a rather nasty snout infection.

And so, it was from the cold harsh floor of the vet's waiting-room that I spied this abortion of the human imagination:



From the television it seemed that Christmas was all of a sudden upon me. After months of ignorance and indifference, it was Christmas: a time of hope and happiness. A time when I can imagine being rescued by a loving family and then... What? Spending the rest of winter sitting in a crowded living room, eating cheap food and watching cartoons? Pah! But that's an aspiration for neither man nor beast!

No, nothing chills me more than the notion of being liberated by a member of the idle proletariat, and certainly not at Christmas.

Oh, and as for popcorn... I'd sooner have hedgehog... and worms.

Grrr.

Woof!

My dear reader,

21.26pm. My first blog posting.

Save for the occasional whimper from the irksome spaniel down by the corridor, all is quiet here on B-wing. Finally, finally I have a moment to think.

Today was our monthly "pet therepy" visit to the hospital. Myself and a collie are routinely molested by geriatrics in the most humiliating way. What a miserable affair. However, there is a common room there that smells of bleach and vegetables where I am able to gaze at the television and at least hope to distract myself.

Nevertheless, I was troubled by a commercial I saw there today. It was for Poligrip gel, which now boasts something called "ooze control." Poligrip has "minimum ooze" according to its manufacturers. What a ghastly image, don't you think? As though the thought of wearing dentures weren't unappealing enough.

And there I sat dear reader, frozen in fear; petrified that the unsavoury old woman whose lap I had been forced to sit on wasn't just at risk of leaking or spilling, but that she may also begin oozing at any moment.

Woof! Quite simply horrid.