Tag Archives: Dog

WHOof Am I?: Life & Times of A Spoilt Doggie 2

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Me at 8 weeks old. Daddy just brought me home for the first time.

 

Sept 10, 2006

It has just come to my attention that I have been talking too much about other people and not introducing myself. I apologise. Having a big heart and talking about everyone else but myself is part of my charm.

I have never always been called Cleopatra. In my birth certificate (or pedigree certificate, if you prefer that), I am known as Allstar Camelia. Yeeaaah, not the most interesting of names to go by. Allstar? God, who the heck comes up with names like that? I could probably still stomach Camelia, but even then, only if you paid me two years’  supply of Greenies or Dentastix.

Mummy and daddy changed my name as soon as they brought me home. I must admit that I was pleased to be renamed — and that of an Egyptian princess to boot! WOOT! Sorry, that’s your language. In mine it’s WOOF!

Back to (the original) Cleopatra, though. What a hotshot she was! She was Caesar’s and Mark Antony’s mistress, like one after the other! She must’ve had lots of fun being the belle of the ball. I’d be lucky if I get to even have a boyfriend, let alone a friend who’s a boy! Mummy’s super anal about me not getting friendly with the boys. Someone please sign me up for a nunnery already!

On a positive note, life could be worse. For instance, I could’ve been born a boy and that would’ve been disgusting. Imagine humping everything within reach! Case in point: I remember meeting a miniature doberman pinscher once. He was a bleeding mad, ridiculously little thing who was infuriatingly noisy and, for reasons known only to him, loved spinning in circles. His name’s Adolf, by the way…it figures.

Anyway, we went to visit Mummy and daddy’s friend that one time. Adolf tried to be charming, but failed miserably. I suppose I should give him points for effort, but I’m not feeling particularly charitable today. Or that day, for that matter. The pedigree in me just refused to come down (it’s a long way down, mind you, seeing as he’s so vertically challenged) to his level. After a few moments, he just gave up trying to be friendly, and decided to get down (up?) to, well, business.

Yes, he tried to hump me. And failed. Miserably. Because he was way too short and, gawd, way too out of my league. It was quite amusing, really. I didn’t have to do much, except stand there  — it’s not like he could reach me anyway. On his hind legs, his little wee-wee could only come as high as the back of my thighs, although I have to say cum come he did not, heh heh. What a loser.

Well, folks, that was as close as I will ever get to being intimate with a boy. It’s ok, I’ve resigned myself to being devoted to Mummy for the rest of my life anyway. There are worse things that could happen.

I realise that I have meandered quite a distance from my original purpose for this post. Sorry, I get it from Mummy. She gets carried away too sometimes. Very short concentration span.. such a child, she is.

So, let me just get down to it:

Pedigree: Miniature Schnauzer (I hate the word ‘breed’. Makes me sound like a mongrel)
Colour: Salt & Pepper
Height: Almost reaching Mummy’s knees
Weight: About three bags of Addiction Porchetta dog food
Date of birth: 2 May 2006 (In doggie years, I could be older than a whole lot of you)
Star Sign: Taurus
Favourite food: Addiction Lamb and Porchetta
Favourite treat: Greenies
Sex: Bitch (For the record, I hate that word, too. Plus I ain’t getting any. Sex, that is. Bummer)

I live with Mummy, so come visit me — I’m never too busy to sign autographs.

WOOF!

The Life & Times of A Spoilt Doggie (1)

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Aren't I gorgeous?!

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?!)

Anyway.

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!

If A Dog Could Talk

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Cleopatra: the sweetest doggie ever

I’VE often wondered what Cleopatra would say if she could talk. For the record, Cleo is my pet Miniature Schnauzer. Would she have a British accent? Yeah, let’s give her a British accent…something like Jamie Oliver’s. How would her voice sound like? Meryl Streep, Julia Roberts, Cameron Diaz? Queen Latifah? Maybe Cameron for now, until I find someone better (I’d prefer Meryl, but take a look at Cleo and you’ll know she ain’t gonna pull off a Meryl).

Having Cleo has been one of the most wonderful experiences ever. It’s an incredible feeling knowing that when I leave for work in the morning, she misses me. When I get home in the evenings, she is waiting by the door to jump at me and lick my hand or face in dizzying welcome — the lonely hours she endures when I am away all forgotten.

Cleo’s an early bird..err.. dog. She’s always awake before I am. I know, because despite the fuzziness that accompanies those moments when I’m stirring from sleep, I can hear the patter of her footsteps as she circles my bed, waiting for me. The minute my alarm clock rings, she shoves her furry little face into mine and attempts to lick my nose so I’ll get off the bed and take her for a walk. Sometimes, she resorts to desperate measures like pawing me or jumping on the bed.

She always stops by for a goodnight gaze and a pat on the head every night before slipping to her usual spot (under my bed). As always, I can see part of her little head or bits of an ear peeking out below. When it’s particularly warm and balmy, she sleeps out in the open — always within an arm’s length from me.

Cleo knows when I’m sad. Many times, she’s sat patiently while I cry into her fur, not minding that my tears are capable of  leaving her quite damp. And always, she looks at me with those grave, solemn eyes, never judging; always my biggest fan despite my screw-ups.

I first had Cleo five years ago; she’s the best thing that ever came out of a past relationship. Yet, I am guilty of sometimes taking her loyalty and love for granted; I forget.

A friend of mine sent me an e-mail recently, which reminded me of the many ways to show love to my pet. Thanks, Jean, for the Pet’s 10 Commandments. It left tears in my eyes.

A PET’S TEN COMMANDMENTS

1. My life is likely to last 10-15 years. Any separation from you is likely to be painful.

2. Give me time to understand what you want of me

3. Place your trust in me. It is crucial for my well-being.

4. Don’t be angry with me for long and don’t lock me up as punishment. You have your work, your friends, your entertainment, but I have only you.

5. Talk to me. Even if I don’t understand your words, I do understand your voice when speaking to me.

6. Be aware that however you treat me, I will never forget it.

7. Before you hit me, before you strike me, remember that I could hurt you, and yet, I choose not to bite you.

8. Before you scold me for being lazy or uncooperative, ask yourself if something might be bothering me. Perhaps I’m not getting the right food, I have been in the sun too long, or my heart might be getting old or weak.

9. Please take care of me when I grow old. You too, will grow old.

10. On the ultimate difficult journey, go with me please. Never say you can’t bear to watch. Don’t make me face this alone. Everything is easier for me if you are there, because I love you so.