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A dog’s lot

December 16, 2010

I was born on June 1st 2001, in a farm shed, in Wiltshire, one of nine beautiful puppies. We had our own fenced off front lawn (not mown), and one of my first memories is being shown by my real black Labrador mum how to do our jobs outside, in the tall grass (tall to me anyway!). Do you know, even now that I am very grown up, I can’t perform my jobs outside until I have found grass taller than me, failing that, a nice leafy bush. Sometimes, I just put my head in the greenery and do the rest in full view.

Mum and Dad came to see me and the family and, a bit later, paid the farmer a small fortune in order to get me to their home in Dorset. That night, after crying quite a lot and making an awful mess of the newly decorated utility room, I finally fell asleep in my new cosy bed which I shared with a hot water bottle and a ticking clock. The next morning, after food, cuddles, a visit to this enormous garden at the back of the house, car again, we ended up at what is called THE VET!

THE VET is where Mum and Dad take me quite often despite my clear dislike of the place. I tell them again and again that it is not my idea of fun, yet they are very persistent. Now I just go along with it, head very low, tail tucked in, lead stretched to a maximum, shaking all over every time they look at me. I won’t tell you how many injections I’ve had to tolerate. Once, they had this crazy idea to have me “done”. Not very nice. It hurt quite a bit and I still don’t know what it was all about!



Then there is the bit where you are having fun chasing a rabbit in the bushes and suddenly, your paw is bleeding…VET again!…and again. There is a lot of flint around our village and my paws have suffered a number of cuts. Mum is quite a good nurse I suppose, but she thinks putting a lampshade around my neck is going to make things better (?).

What about the TICS? I never know when there is one. Sometimes, Mum lets her hand roam deliciously around my blackness and there is a sudden stop—-oh no!!!!!!! She’s found one! She puts some latex gloves on and fetches a special little green hook from the drawer under the telephone and there she is, on her knees by my side.” “Alice down…, roll over… Good girl!” I comply, what else can I do? She zooms on a particular spot (I never know where it is going to be and sometimes it is quite rude!) and she slides the minuscule hook under the beast. A quick twist and …hurrah! She’s got it. Don’t feel a thing except for hurt pride. I crawl back to my bed, thoroughly humiliated.



What about the “going on HOLIDAY” lark? Do you know what? I need a pet passport. It may sound posh but if you think about it, it means VET again. Mum and Dad work out how on earth they can get the French VET to see me between 24 and 48 hours before our return to England. If there is a snag and your 48 hours has gone by, you have to start the procedure again…and guess what?. Back to the VET. It’d better not be a Sunday or a French bank holiday! In the meantime, I could get double dose of injection and worming medicine  for nothing! Mum and Dad are scared of the customs officer, I swear. I usually give these fellows a good warning to keep off but it does not seem to improve things. Do I like France? Don’t mind it. It smells different and French dogs are not very polite AND you don’t see people armed with poo bags. It gives a dog a bad reputation!

I’ve had to learn some French words so that Mum’s brother who is from over there can take me to the beach: allez,A, on va se promener, Alice?( that’s my name, by the way). Not a real problem as you can easily guess what a French human wants you to do, if you are a bit clever.

I suppose you could say that I have a cushy life. Dad takes me for my walks every day, whatever the weather. We go swimming in the river very often, sometimes at the beach. Love it! I am called a very good dog (the best). I don’t understand humans, though. Like, we, dogs, can’t swim at the beach in the Summer. That’s when we need it most!

Unlike Mum or Dad, I love rolling in fox poo or very smelly things but I really resent the hose treatment that follows.  I don’t steal food but I am not allowed titbits between meals (not fair!). Mum weighs me regularly so that I don’t become fat (yet another visit to the VET!).

I only bark fiercely at those men in fluorescent jackets who steal our rubbish on Wednesday mornings, at Tim who insists on leaving milk in our porch and at the man in the red van who throws letters at the house. My life ambition is to get the window cleaner because he is rude to me! I let other visitors know who guards the house and then we can talk business.

I love my lot, thank you very much!


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