Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Crating havoc

Frank's agility has never been in doubt.
Today, for example, he was found by the neighbour walking along her wall, cat like, the wrong side of our fence, as well as numerous other barriers.

I'd gone to work with him left locked in doors.

Gill gathered her cats up for fear they might eat him, and plonked him back on the right side of the boundary.

Later Dad arrived to feed and walk Frank, and he was back on the sofa, chuckling.

This evening Gill came over to tell us - otherwise we would never have known.

Later the puppy trainer informed us we were heading for trouble.
A combination of letting Frank sleep in our room and sit on the sofa, followed by shutting him in the kitchen for a couple of hours, is not, apparently, reconcilable.

Back to square one with the crate training, she said, not even trying to cover her voice.

Fuck off, Frank said, almost loud enough to hear.
I'll move out first. Gill's place is a possibility.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Wrong end friend

Today a Chiwawa humped Frank's head in the park.
He looked up at us through the randy midget's legs.
His expression needed no interpretation. It was the end of a long day.

Earlier I found him in he kitchen amongst blood and broken clay.
Finally, I thought, the shocking and unexpected proof.

On Monday morning, inexplicably, the kitchen tap had been on when I came downstairs. I'd been cross with the cat all week.

It turns out it was Frank all along.
Today, in an attempt to lay claim to the stunt, he'd jumped onto the work-surface, knocked his bowel onto the floor and somehow cut his hind leg open in the process.
A small flap of skin, but the amount of blood indicated much worse. For a moment I thought the cat may have bought it, and was considering how I could help Frank with an alibi.

Franks following attempts to escape the kitchen were illustrated with red smears and splatters on Kitchen and back door as well as the window behind the sink.

While he was being head humped, the Chiwawa's owner said she's known an Italian Greyhound once, which could jump as high as her.
'They are very springy,' she warned.
If only we'd known a little earlier.

You set this up, Frank was clearly thinking as he looked at us laughing. This is my punishment.

Monday, September 06, 2010

Rain pain

It's raining.
Frank is not a wet weather dog and this suits me. I am not a wet weather owner.

It is September though. Our first Autumn with the dog. Damp, cold and dark are on the cards for a while. So what's the plan?, since outside is unappealing to all of us in here.

Things are OK as long as you're frank.
There are cushions to fray, a cat to torment, this stupid chewy rawhide thing dad bought back from the last costly trip to Pet's Pantry which turns into mush and looks like a decomposed, muddy and publicly discarded item of once sanitary purpose, to drag all over the new sofa. The wood floor isn't bad for skidding across on claws either.. leaves tracks like a Scalextric.

I'll wee inside too if you don't mind.

If it could stop raining that would be great.

Friday, September 03, 2010

The fall

We have a cat, called William.
I wouldn't have chosen him, or any other cat. But he came with the girl, and it's almost the only thing I wasn't keen on.

I've tried to oust him. In my way.
But cats only like people who don't like them - they relate to default distain - so he's all over me at any stationery moment.

Frank thinks William is a dog. Just like he thinks I am a dog and even Jess; who anyone can see is actually a rather exceptional human being.

But he can't get why he doesn't play.
Frank tries every day, in his way.

He crouches, growls his practice growl and then belps, which is like barking only much more like a girly yelp. William is not down with this.
But, to his credit, he's not one to back down.

I was here first. She chose me before you, or you, he projects, firing me a glance of hateful adoration. I will not be intimidated. And where's my supper?, it's close on four.

Frank is ill equipped for this, or any, level of emotional warfare. Belps turn to wines. Often accompanied by a paw over the snout gesture, and eventually, ruefully, Frank fakes interest in the nearby floor and sniffs his retreat. William watches, tuts silently and plods away.

Today the aforementioned self assurance kept Frank all up in Williams grill.
You do know I did battle with a Toy Poodle down the wreck, don't you Willy? I almost won too.

So, yuknow, what YOU gonna do about it th....
Shit. Will. That's my nose, that is. Cheap shot, it's sodding massive. Aw, frig, blood and everything.


Frank's for a fall

But sir, I don't think you understand, said the man with his foot on my chest and Frank in his arms.
He is without doubt the most beautiful hound I've ever seen. You must submit.
Oh my, his cappuccino colours.
See how his tilted head woos.
Dear, shall we take him now?

This is getting ridiculous.
I'm alternating walking routes, looking for quiet paths, mutt-less cuts where normal dog owners fear to flounder. But escape, there is none.

Another corner another cooer. Each more heartfelt, impassioned than the last. He's so beautiful. I must have him and not any other.

And how does this affect Frank?
Whippets are sensitive, and you must be careful not to impart your own emotional baggage on them, for fear it shall be reflected back; so goes the threat of the expert.
Frank offers no argument to the contrary, as his tiny, nose-dominated head swells with self assurance for all to see.

He's due a fall, that one.
You can see it in the eyes of the dogs we meet as their masters fall to their pathetic knees.


Out on the bike last night. First time in a while. It was rather good.