August 15, 2006
It’s quite unheard of for us to keep diaries, but I’m different.
It’s true (I meant the being different bit), at least where Mummy’s concerned. She thinks I’m confused because I paw like a cat (god forbid!), skip like a rabbit and gallop like a horse. To be honest, I take offence to such horribly pedestrian comparisons. And, quite frankly, she’s the confused one: she’s a flamingo, swan and hippopotamus combined.
Let’s make this easier for you to understand: Mummy tries to be as elegant as a swan and as poised as a flamingo, although in reality, she’s as clumsy as a hippo. For the record, Mummy says porcupines are clumsy animals, although I never did think so. I wonder where she gets her info from. Check your Internet and you’ll see I’m right: hippos are the clumsy ones.
Oh, don’t get me wrong — Mummy’s got some class (you can’t be too classy if you’re clumsy. Mummy, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry, but the truth hurts) and she’s no prima donna. She’s a decent-looking broad, but she has her occasional blonde moments which makes me want to bark some sense into her thick head. Not that it would do much good; she ignores me half the time anyway.
Did I mention that Mummy is vain, too? She is. Extremely.
But, all that vanity is quite a waste if you consider her strange ability to slip and fall even while watching her step. And she has the gall to laugh at me when I sometimes crash into the door! If only she thought about it a little harder, she’d realise whom I take after. Again, sorry Mummy. The honesty-is-the-best-policy applies here, too.
You might think I’m being harsh but, really, Mummy is a hazard to herself. I’ve seen her close her car door into her thumb, bang the hammer on her own finger while trying to put up a picture on the wall, run into a pole, and there’s more, but it’d fill up another post.
But I love her. I can’t wait for her to come back from work. I can’t wait for that look on her face when she sees me as soon as she walks through the front door, weary from a long day.
Sometimes I get so over-excited, I pee! I can’t help it because sometimes, I can’t control myself. But, Mummy’s a darling; she never frets. The most she does is cluck her tongue in exasperation or sigh like an old lady and then clean up the mess.
She can be quite daft, though. Not daft in an irritating way like how Uncle Ben can be, but just daft in an adorably idiotic way.
Some weeks ago, she took me home with her for the weekend (I live with dad; yeah, it’s a weird joint custody arrangement they have there), and as is the usual practice, she’d take me for walks from her apartment to the gravel where I can play and perform my, err, daily ablutions.
(Can I just say how lucky humans are to be able to take a pee or poop in the privacy of their own toilets. Us dogs have to do it in public in front of people and insects and the horrible creatures they call cats. Where is the dignity in that?!)
At the time, she had just taught me how to walk the stairs, and because I was new at it, I was a little slow. Call it being careful. But what made it extra difficult was that I absolutely, desperately had to go because Mummy woke up late that morning. I thought I was gonna explode! What’s a little doggie to do but let go a few turds on the way down the stairs, right?
Needless to say, she was totally oblivious to my predicament, so bent was she on hurrying up so as not to be late for work (note to Mummy: next time, wake up earlier). Naturally, she found it difficult to drag me along and I think she was about to grumble when she realised what happened. And all she did was laugh. How cool is that? I bet your momma would give you a hiding if she caught you pooping on the stairs.
Now, if it were up to Uncle Ben (he lives with daddy), he wouldn’t even bother to take me for a walk or, at least, even open the door for me so I can run out and take a dump. See, daddy lives in a house. So he’s got a porch. So all Uncle Ben has to do when he babysits me is to open the damn door. It’s not like I don’t make it clear enough. All that pacing and sniffing and whining and, in the worst case scenario, barking (!), should account for something, innit?
Like I said, that guy is a strange one. He gets a kick out of showing me stupid monkey faces and trying to con me into playing catch with him. But, when I try to get his attention so he can take me to the toilet, he wouldn’t budge. Not. An. Inch. And then I’ll have no choice but to let go on the floor because I can’t hold it any longer.
And what does Uncle Ben do? He says it’s my fault, then leaves the mess for daddy or Mummy to clean up.
I could take liberties with Uncle Ben and he wouldn’t be responsible. For instance, Mummy wouldn’t even let me play in the grass cos it’s dirty (yeah, she’s ridiculously anal about hygiene), but Uncle Ben’d let me out (usually not when I feel like peeing or pooping, mind you: the dude’s got his timing all wrong!) and I’d get my paws all filthy and caked with mud.
Then when Mummy comes back, guess who gets punished? Me. Cos Uncle Ben would say that I ran out to play in the garden and wouldn’t come in when he told me to. Moron.
Oops, I gotta go. Mummy’s calling me for din-din. God, I hope she’s not giving me anymore of those awful organic things again. She oughta do something about her culinary skills and add some kidney in there for me. Anyway, gotta run.
Catch yawl later.. woof!