She says that it’s typical that I’ve stopped moulting,
No furballs and hair rolling black and revolting
Across her clean floors, floating into her dinner,
I thought she’d be pleased, being onto a winner.
She says it’s not fair that it’s so warm and sunny…
I know that she’s weird, but you know, it’s not funny,
‘Cause she isn’t happy to walk when it’s raining…
But now it’s all springtime and she’s still complaining!
She says that all winter I’ve been bringing mud in
(And other odd things that my paws may have stood in)
But barring occasional treats that I’m dropping,
The floors don’t need hoovering, let alone mopping!
She moans that it’s tidy, and no dust can settle,
And frankly, that’s putting me right on my mettle,
‘Cause if I’m behaving, and she’s got the blues…
Then what does a loyal small dog have to do?
She says it’s not my fault, but nobody’s calling,
That having it clean just for once is quite galling
And soon as our visitor’s coming again
She guarantees moulting and dusting and rain.
So as she looked sad, I could see I’d been shirking
My duty, so soon as she left, I got working,
I pulled down the cushions, got toys out and threw them,
Destuffing a couple so that I could chew them.
So, when she came home, she had oodles of cleaning,
I felt that I’d given her day back some meaning!
“Oh, Small Dog,” she whispered, “Just look at this mess!”
And I looked with some pride I will have to confess.
But somehow my efforts, it seemed, didn’t please here,
I’m sure that she thought I had done it to tease her,
There’s no pleasing two-legses sometimes at all…
So I may as well just stick to chasing my ball.
I live with a cow-field just over the fence,
For a guard-dog that’s really no joke,
‘Cause a cow is a curious beastie, you see,
And they all have a thing about looking at me
And their heads through my hedges they poke.
So when it is cow-season and they come out,
I’m on duty from morning till night,
For a small dog a whole herd of cows is not fair
But this spring for some reason the cows are not there…
So I thought I’d have no-one to fight.
So, I’m minding my business out there by the fence
When another great beastie I spy…
My heart gave a lurch and it really was thumping,
As big as a cow, but it’s running and jumping,
And I’d swear that it thinks it can fly!
“No barking, my girlie,” she says straight away,
“Because horses get skittish, you know.”
No barking? Well, that is just making it harder…
And what am I supposed to do now to guard her?
Just sit here admiring the show?
I’m verbally muzzled and can’t say a word,
It’s frustrating, but what can I say?
Till an unlikely saviour in form of a cat
Wanders in… and she knows I’ll be barking at that…
So a ruddy cat just made my day!
“The time has come,” the doglet said,
“to talk of many things;
Of tennis balls and squeaky ducks,
and sneaky bees with stings;
of why the sparrows fly so fast
and if that cat has wings.”
“Just wait a bit,” the writer said,
“I’m busy with these things.”
“But writer,“ said the small dog then,
“The sun will shortly set,
the pheasants will be playing out,
and rabbits too, I bet.
I really should be practising,
I haven’t caught one yet.”
“Hmm. Never mind, it’s raining
and you don’t like getting wet.”
“Ok then,” sighed the little dog,
“We could consider, please,
the therapeutic benefits
of sharing Cheddar cheese.
Or why that spider’s sitting there,
Or why do you have knees…”
“You scratch a lot,” the writer said,
“You sure it isn’t fleas?”
The clouds were turning dusky pink,
Upon the fading blue.
The writer sighed, put down the pen
another task was through.
“Come on, small dog, go get the leash,
your walk is overdue.”
The small dog answered sheepishly,
“Tough luck, I ate your shoe.”
With apologies to Lewis Carroll…. But none at all to her. She should come out more.
“You can have your very own blog, girlie,” she says. “That’ll be good.” Well, yeah… as long as I get my own ‘puter and don’t have to wait for her to get off the thing…
You’ve got to understand the set-up here. Me, I’m just a four-legs. I live with my two-legs and the fish… who don’t have any. There are pigeons and other feathered fiends in the garden, a cat in the flat upstairs and cows over the back fence. It keeps me busy looking after her and keeping her safe from them all. And that’s without defending her from the postman.
She, being a two-legs with those weird paws and fingery things, gets a ‘puter all to herself. I, being a four-legs, have to wait till she’s not using it before I can write. Is this fair, I ask you?
But two-legses have some weird ideas…
Even my books have to have her name on the cover… ’cause, ‘pparently… dogs can’t write! As I said, weird ideas…
So, all this “you can have a blog of your own” malarkey… well, there had to be a catch. And it didn’t take her long to let the cat out of the bag… an odd phrase, that, ’cause person’lly, that’s not something I would ever do… (I mean, have you tried getting a cat in a bag? They are all teeth claws and spitty bits…). Anyway…
“You can be a guinea pig.”
Now, don’t get me wrong, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for her, but I’m no shapeshifter… and I have a feeling guinea pigs eat lettuce. Me, I prefer chicken.
“Not that kind of guinea pig…”
Well, what then?
“More of a test pilot…”
Now, I know I sleep in the odd…let’s say, unusual position, but I don’t fancy dangling completely upside down…
“Daft dog! No… for the new WordPress Editor that we will all have to learn…”
Well, that’s a relief, I can tell you!
And if that’s all she’s after, I don’t mind obliging. She did have me worried for a minute though… I s’ppose she has some sense, ’cause, she says if a small dog can work out how to use it, anyone can.
My name is Ani, otherwise known as the Small Dog, and I own a two-legs.
I live with my two-legs in a quiet part of England, with lots of fields, cows at the bottom of the garden and more birds than I can handle.
When asked what kind of a dog I am, my two-legs says I am a setter-lunatic cross. This is untrue. My Mum was an English Setter, but Dad was a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever. They were both Irish and were found living together in a field while Mum waited for me and my litter-mates to be born.
They were rescued and brought to England where I was born… and found my two-legs.
We both write… and I won’t mention who sells most books, ’cause I don’t like it when she gets upset. I also have shares in another writing two-legs… the ball guy. I managed to train him fairly quickly. She, on the other hand, can sometimes be a bit of a problem…
I write a lot about that.
But she’s not a bad sort really. Keeps me in chicken and tennis balls.