Douggie the doggie, like most family pets I suppose, has a basket full of toys. When I say a basket full of toys what I mean of course is an empty basket and the toys are strewn all over the house. He doesn’t really do tidy, Douggie.
No one told me that having a dog would involve my house looking like a creche but hairier and smellier. Oh, the stuff I’ve found out since he landed on our doorstep. Towels, for instance, no one mentioned the endless washing of towels, did they? Oh no. They kept that one under their hats. And the hair, I was expecting hair but with the amount he’s dropping lately I’m surprised he isn’t totally bald, how can he lose that much hair and still have so much left? It’s all over the floor, rolling round the dining room tiles like tumbleweed, it’s in my food and all over my clothes. Twice daily vacuuming is barely keeping it to a tolerable level.
Oh yes, and then there’s the slobber. there’s another secret you don’t find out about until the pooch has taken full possession of your heart and there’s no way out. Geez, it’s like having a giant, hairy, four legged baby who needs massive amounts of exercise and entertaining.
I’ve been teaching him how to tidy up but he hasn’t quite got it on command yet. It still involves half an hour of training and ten pounds of sausages to get him to put the toys away, it’s cheaper, quicker and easier to do it myself. We’ll keep working on it and I’ll amaze you with a video of it when he’s cracked it.
The trouble with a big dog like Douggie is that he does tend to eat his cuddly toys. Our floors are garnished with kapok, little piles of it sitting like snowballs among all the white hair. It looks a bit winter wonderland ish in our lounge sometimes. As you can imagine he gets through a steady supply of toys and I’m regularly seen lurking in the charity shops of the borough stocking up on new ones for him. I always check that there the eyes and such are sewn and not screwed in or anything before I buy them but children’s toys are generally stronger than the ones made for dogs and last him a lot longer and of course they are loads cheaper. Not that I’m as tight as a duck’s backside or anything.
One of his favourite toys of late has been his Pooh Bear. He loves Pooh Bear and regularly sits nibbling at Pooh’s ears before grabbing him by the throat and ragging him mercilessly. Poor Pooh.
I walked in the other day to find that Pooh Bear had been murdered and eaten. His innards were all over the floor and I think it’s fair to say that Pooh was no more. I was surprised how little of him there was left.
The following morning I discovered why. Out for Douggie’s morning ablutions I was a bit surprised that it was bright orange and fluffy. Oh no! Pooh Bear has become poo bear.
Poor Pooh. Or do I mean poo?