Hello all. Yes, it’s me… Suzie Cairn, back on the radar.
I’ve been away for months.. recovering from a false pregnancy.
All together now… aah!
It’s not something I would recommend it to anyone, though. Does nothing for the figure. Big fat tummy, boobs so big that Sonnie, the drooling old Collie, asked if I’d had an enhancement.
‘A what?’ I asked.
‘Breast augmentation,’ he explained. ‘Like that Jordan woman…’
Sonny belongs to a doctor and doesn’t miss a trick. Very with it, he is.
Not like The Old Dear who bought me from a rescue centre and shares my life
Before my delicate condition was diagnosed, I’d found myself doing odd things like mounting chair legs, lamp posts and young trees.
So she took me to the vet – a lovely Australian gentleman who kept calling me ‘puppy’.
‘Hello puppy… let’s get you up on the table, puppy. Let’s listen to your heart, puppy. Examine your ears, your teeth, your tail… there’s a good puppy…’
(Great for the morale, that, considering I’m seven years old.)
Then he turned me upside down, began examining my girlie bits, squeezing me where it hurt and said something I didn’t quite catch. So I tuned into The Old Dear’s thoughts.
The what glands?
The memory glands? She knew dogs had long memories but, clueless about biology, didn’t realise there were any glands up there in our brains.
She began to wonder if I was remembering the good times I’d had with my doggy boyfriend before getting myself in this state. Oddbod, Bronson, Sonny, Atilla the Hound…?
A dabbler in psychology, she prided herself on her knowledge about human thinking and the capacity to remember, but could never quite get the hang of our vastly superior thought processes.
Memory glands, she kept repeating to herself, obviously confused.
Turning to the vet, a look of utter confusion on her face, she voiced the words.
‘Yes,’ said the expert. ‘They’re full of milk. Look…’
Brief Encounter revisited
Speaking of the mammary (oops, memory), remember Oddbod, the big macho Staffie who lives next door to Carrot Cottage?
Well, I saw him yesterday, across a crowded street. He saw me too. He winked, I blew him a kiss , but sadly that was all, because I was waiting for a bus with The Old Dear.
The bus came, we waved goodbye and, wet-eyed, gazed at each other through the window. Just like in that old weepie Brief Encounter, though hopefully with a happier ending because I aim to catch up with him on my next visit to Carrot Cottage.
I’m looking forward to making another great escape through gaps in the leylandii so that we can go exploring again.
Darling Boy
The Old Dear and I moved house recently and now that I’m living in a less salubrious district, the local dog population is also less – er, shall I say – ‘upmarket’.
On my previous stomping ground, they were all pedigree and very snooty but here they’re mostly mongrels and not nearly so well-barked.
Even the names were different.
Out there we had Christabel, Philomel, Phillida, Laetitia, Quested, Uriel and the dreadfully spoiled Darling Boy.
Here we have Izzy, Ozzy, Patch, Butch, two Mollies, two Pollies and a Holly. Oh, and a Dalmatian called Stripes (get it?).
I sneaked out through the garden gate the other day and discovered that the French doors leading to next door’s garden were open. Wandering inside I discovered a friendly human called Audrey watching a TV programme about antiques. She said hello and invited me to sit down beside her. She spoke to me, stroked my ear and played with me before inviting her husband Philip to let The Old Dear know where I was. And just as I was getting comfortable, she attached a long piece of string to my collar and walked me home.
Sleepovers with Bronson
Yes, yes, I do still go for sleepovers with my best buddy Bronson (cross Rottweiler/Collie) who lives in Tunbridge Wells. We share his bed and he lets me sleep with my head on his very hairy tummy. Naturally, when in Royal Tunbridge Wells (to give the town its full title) I’m on my very best behaviour. I don’t beg, don’t snatch, snarl, growl or ever pull on the lead when The Old Dear’s friend Pat takes me out.
Bit different from when I’m at home and do more or less what I like.
Too smelly for Joey
On Wednesdays and Fridays, the Old Dear and Oeda take me walking with a big black daftie called Judy, whose tongue hangs out the side of her mouth with excitement at the prospect of an hour’s fun. She leaps and bounds all over the place, hides behind the hedges and in the long grass. When she’s wet, she shakes herself all over the rest of us and her coat goes curly.
First time I accompanied them I jumped in a stream and scrambled out on the opposite bank. It took me ages to work out how to get back.
Next day, Joey jumped in the same stream and got stuck in the mud and couldn’t get out until Oeda lay down on the grass and managed to pull him out with a stick and a piece of rope. Or that’s what he told me anyway. He shivered at the very thought of what he’d been through.
I think he was looking for sympathy, poor old thing. He’s coming up to 11 now. His jowls are grey and his legs are stiff, but he still enjoys a leisurely stroll and a spot of sunbathing on the lawn.
Says he’s not going in the stream again. Too deep, too sludgy and too smelly for his taste. But then, what do you expect from a pedigree?
So there you have it. I think I’ve updated you on my activities since we last met on this page. As Bugs Bunny and his friends say in all the best Disney films: That’s all for now, folks.
Byeeee….
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