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….

Related posts:

1. Suzie’s Blog – An Eventful Day!

Yesterday was quite a day..

It started off with my human panicking over a broken tooth…. hers, not mine. She’d been eating what she thought was a nutty biscuit, only the ‘nut’ she swallowed wasn’t a nut at all, but half of the offending tooth.  Humans, honestly! Why can’t they just settle for leathery chews like me and my mates.  Much safer… and tastier.

Anyway, she rang the dentist.  He offered to see her straight away and next I knew, she was sobbing into my fur, muttering something about operations, and blood and not being able to look after me any more.  What a fuss. She had to be forced to go to the dentist, driven there – with me sitting at her feet – by a human with a lot more sense.

Walking with Bertie

In the event there was no operation, no blood and it all came out in the wash.  Sort of.  It is not for me to go into the gory details of humans in distress.  Not that she was, any more.  In distress, I mean.

To celebrate the fact that she was still alive, she started kissing me and hugging me and thanking me for keeping her company.  Then on Mrs Sensible Human’s invitation, we went for a long walk with a big, slobbery Pointer called Bertie.  We walked for miles through woods and fields, after which we said goodbye to Mrs Sensible Human and Bertie. My humans told me we’d be going home on the bus.

I wagged my tail.

I love buses.  I sit in the aisle, snuzzling up to all those humans getting on and off, letting them make a fuss of me and telling me how cute I am.

Cut, shaved and bathed

Our bus was standing at the stop by the time we left Mrs Sensible Human and we ran for it. This bus only runs once an hour and if you miss it you have to hang around for ages for the next one.  And if that doesn’t turn up…
Normally, that wouldn’t bother me, but I’d been to the beauty parlour a few days ago and it had left me feeling cold without my top layer of fur.

The beautician had picked at me, cut me, shaved me, then put me in the bath until I was only half the dog I used to be.  I wouldn’t mind but now the weather has turned cold I could do with one of those lovely tartan coats you see spoilt dogs moseying around in.

Jolly, the spaniel who lives over the road, wears one.  He’s always showing off ‘cos he knows I’m dead jealous.  It’s got a fluffy white inside and looks really cosy.  Great for when it’s raining.  Or brass monkey cold, like today.

Controlled by my human

I do wear a harness, though.  Nothing to do with keeping me warm.  The idea is to give my human control.  If I pull her, she tugs the thing and hey presto, I’m back alongside her.  If I wander sideways into the bushes, another tug and I’m back to where she says I should be.  If I lag behind…ah, well, that’s a different story, as I’m about to explain.

The harness I wear is quite difficult to get on and off.  I mean, it’s not the sort of thing you can just step out of.
From all of this, you’ll probably gather that I’m a great one for pulling ahead, with the occasional forays into the bushes alongside us, or even to poke my head through holes in neighbour’s fences. Walking behind my human is not my style.

A bag of chocolate balls

Or it wasn’t… until yesterday.  I was watching, fascinated, as some schoolboys tucked into a bag of little chocolate balls.  The smell was making me drool and wish they’d drop some on the pavement so I could have a taste.

I’m not allowed anything fancy, you see.  Apparently, I’m too fat, so have been put on a diet of dried High Oats food, with no treats.  None at all.

So you can imagine how I felt when I got a sniff of those little chocolate balls.

‘Suzie…’ yelled my human: Come on.  Hurry up, the bus is about to move off…’

Everything happened at once

She gave a tug of the harness, then everything happened at once.

One of the boys dropped his chocolate.  It fell on the pavement and I licked my lips, suddenly realising I wasn’t in my harness any more.

Wah-hey, I’m outta here.

The chocolate ball rolled onto the road and under the bus. I swooped to get it, and oh boy…  was it good!

I’m under the bus

My human turned round, saw where I was and all hell broke loose.

‘Suzie..leave,’ she yelled.  ‘You’re not allowed to eat chocolate. Drop it.’

Too late.  I had already swallowed the thing and was on the scrounge for more.

The fact that I was under the bus seemed to have escaped her

When realisation dawned, you should have heard the commotion at the bus stop. Schoolboys were shouting at the driver that there was a dog under the bus and please would he not start up his engine.

My human was screaming, throwing her arms in the air and at the same time managing to throw her shopping and my harness on the bus.  Talk about juggling.  How many arms does the Old Dear have, for pity’s sake?

I felt another hand grab me by the collar, pull me out from where I’d been sniffing sundry delights and pick me up. Next I knew, I was on the bus.

Rolling in the aisles

One of the schoolboys held me, another minded my human’s shopping and my empty harness and a third helped the now-very-stressed Old Dear aboard.  I felt myself being manhandled by all sorts of people while the harness was placed back on me and the Old Dear’s other items returned to her.  And then the funniest thing of all happened.

When she went to sit down, the seat tipped up and she flopped onto the floor, beside me.  Seeing her in what I took to be the play-position, I got into it too, stuck my bottom in the air, wagged my tail and licked her all over.  The other passengers were rolling in the aisles.  So I licked them too.

She’s a one-off

Thanks to heavy traffic, the ride home took twice as long as it should have done and I’ve never enjoyed a trip so much.  Pity I can’t say the same about my human.

But I love the Old Dear.  She’s a one-off, my human.  Life was so dull before I met her.

Related posts:

1. Suzie’s Blog – I’m Back!

I went to Carrot Cottage yesterday.  No, it’s not a carrot-shaped house, but it is rather lovely. Got the name I think because someone used to grow carrots in the garden. The Carrot Cottagers have two cats (Jimmy and Luna) and a dog (Joey). Whenever anyone calls, the conversation always gets around to cats vs dogs as pets. Who’s cleverest, who’s silliest, who can jump highest, run fastest, do the most tricks. Well I know who I always vote for in the dog vs cat debate: dogs… because I am a dog.

Dead mice for tea

We’ve already met, but in case you’ve forgotten, let me remind you that I’m a sweet little black, spikey-haired Cairn terrier.  A breed which humans say make great pet dogs.  Of course we do. Oh I know pet cats are fine too… if you like something that spits, scratches and brings dead mice in for tea.

Daft animals cats. I’m so glad I’m not one of them.

Pushing the boundaries

My best friend Izzy comes from a family of German shepherd dogs and I love him to bits but he doesn’t come Carrot Cottaging with me.  It’s too far for him to travel.  And he doesn’t drive.  So I play ball in the garden with Joey instead. Joey’s a big yellow Labrador, too soft for his own good.  He does everything he’s told to.  He doesn’t have a stubborn streak like me, always does what he’s told and is horrified when I suggest pushing the boundaries.

Take yesterday, for example. The front door at Carrot Cottage opened and he caught me looking longingly outside.

‘You’re not allowed out there,’ he sniffed.

‘Who says?’

‘You’re just not.’

‘Well I’m going to.’

‘You can’t’

‘Watch me.’

Enjoying the freedom

I sneaked out when none of the humans was looking and went happily roaming around the village. Singing away to myself, wagging my tail, enjoying the freedom.

Suddenly, I became aware of footsteps approaching from behind.   I was being followed… and sniffed where you wouldn’t want to know.  Nice.

‘How doo..’  The voice was a deep, dark brown.  Its tone was rich and mellow.  I turned round and came face to face with the most fabulous big, macho Staffie you ever did see.  Sex on legs, he was.  Made me all dewy-eyed.

‘Hello.’  I fluttered my curly lashes.

‘Name’s Oddball… what’s yours?’

‘Soo…. oo…zee…’ I managed breathlessly.  He was such a hunk.

‘You new round here Sooz?’

‘Er, no… just visiting… you?’

‘Yeah. I live over there…’  When he pointed out his house I noticed a cute little white patch on his undercarriage.  Wow! That dog was such a turn-on.  ‘Wanna go for a walk?’

‘Oh yes… pul-eeze…’

Setting off together, paw-in-paw

We kissed and cuddled, then set off together, paw-in-paw. Aw, it was unbelievable.  Oddball and me, moseying round the village like we’d known each other all our lives. Real soul-mates.  We were just about to get together properly (if you take my meaning), when …

‘Oy, you two.,’  Our beautiful canine thoughts were interrupted by a human voice bellowing across The Green. ‘Where d’you think you’re off to?’

‘Nowhere,’ lied Oddball, when he’d just offered to take me into the orchard.

‘What’s up?’ I managed

‘We’ve been rumbled.’

‘Wh… what…?’  My ears went flat.  My tail dropped. Oddball grabbed hold of me and we started to run.

‘Come back here, you two.  Sit, Oddball… Sit, you little tart.   And leave my Oddball alone…’

Just call me ‘beauty’

I didn’t like being called a tart and even if The Man didn’t know my name, he could have just called me ‘beauty’ or something…

‘Hey, you… I said SIT.’

Okay, okay. No need to shout.  I plonked my bottom on the edge of the pavement. Side-by-side we sat like a pair of dummies, letting Oddball’s human put leads on us and walk us back to where the houses were.

He guessed I’d come from Carrot Cottage because the humans there are always entertaining… cats, dogs, other humans…

Oddball insisted on coming in with me, making sure I was all right. With tears in our eyes, we parted company.  But not before swapping mobile numbers, e-mail addresses and promising to keep in touch.

Jimmy and Luna took one look at us going our separate ways and laughed their socks off.

Cats are so cruel, aren’t they?  Beastly creatures.

As far as I’m concerned when it comes to the cats vs dogs debate, the answer has to be dogs. No contest.

Related posts:

1. Cats or Dogs? It’s a Matter of Taste
2. Dog vs Cat

A dog bed for me? No way.

Okay, so I’m a dog. A bitch, if you must know, and proud of it. Yeah, yeah, I’m aware of the insulting connotations and I do know some humans who really are bitches, but they’re a different bucket of frogs.

Suzie’s the name. I’m six years old – that’s about forty-two to you, dear reader. And I’ve just been rescued from the Kit Wilson Trust in deepest Sussex, whence I emerged with a car full of dog food and dog supplies. Dog collar, dog lead, dog food bowl and lots more besides.

I’m a very classy little pooch, and am pleased to say that I have landed on my four little feet in a very upmarket part of Kent. Garden of England and all that. Loads of space to mooch around in and explore.

A lot of dogs back at the kennels suffered from high levels of stress. Not me. I liked it there, but I like it even better here.

Among the many ‘welcome to our home’ gifts are two dog beds… a tartan one for upstairs and a two-tone brown one for downstairs,

Upstairs, downstairs and in milady’s chamber.

That’s where I sleep, don’t you know.. in milady’s chamber. On her bed, if you must know…

Her big, soft, comfy bed. So why on earth should I settle for a dog bed when I know for a fact that I’m way better than any hot water bottle she ever had down there at her feet. What’s more, I don’t leak…. oops (sorry!)

Anyway, on the way home from the kennel, we stopped off at a shop called Paws for Thought and ended up buying a whole pile more dog supplies. I was allowed to mosey round the shop and look at their impressive display of dog collars, dog clothes, large dog beds, small dog beds, and a whole range of dog coats.

Not that I’d want to wear any of them, mind you.

The nice lady in the shop tried to fit me up with a pink tartan coat that had a fluffy white collar. Honestly, the indignity. Then she produced a raincoat, and something in camel hair that made me scratch like the fleas I know I’ve never had. Thanks to regular squirts of Frontline!

‘Isn’t there anything else I can get you?’ the shop lady asked my human. ‘I’m sure you’d love a smart new bed for your dog. I have wonderful supply of pet dog beds.’

‘No thank you, responded my human. ‘She’s all right there.’

I’m all right anywhere, actually. I just wanted to get out of that shop before they rigged me up in leotards, or a tutu. Rumour has it that my predecessor had a wardrobe full of dog coats. And I’m just not into dressing up. I’m perfectly happy with the black, wire-haired coat I was born with.

Thank you very much.

They family are talking now about bringing down the large dog bed stored away in the loft. It’s a heavy, durable plastic bed that’s easy to clean, they assure me.

‘Then you’ll have three, sweetheart.’

Well, they needn’t bother bringing it down. Honestly, I don’t see the point of a dog bed. However many they give me, I’ll still feel the same. As I’ve already pointed out, the perfect dog bed for me is six foot long, has a big thick mattress, a duvet and lots of feathery pillows.

So let’s cut to the chase. Here, dear humans, is how to get the best out of this particular dog.

As you all seem so fond of the dog beds, how about Himself, Herself and The Old Dear settling down in the dog bed and giving me the choice of their human ones? Then we’d all be happy. Treat me like a human and you’ll save yourself a lot of hassle… and money!

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