My Sharp-tongued House Guest

November 14, 2016

Took my ball - then called me Boofhead!

So, after all the stuff I said about her smelling nice, the Fur-Child calls me a Boofhead and demands right-of-reply. In MY Blog! Here’s what she said: 

Well I mean really… but I suppose if the Boofhead General can blog, I can probably figure it out. I mean, he’s only, like, two years old -  I’m twice his age.

Anyway, I came up as a weekend guest at the grandparents’ house up on the river, which I feel is my personal resort and happy place. Every time I come, though, my idiot cousin (though mum says we’re not strictly related, which accounts for the fact I am a sleek black sort of a dog and he looks like a doormat had a run in with a Labrador) ruins things. 

It used to be quite nice when it was just the Golden Leave-It-There and Queenie - till Boofhead General came along. I first met him as a newborn with his litter-mates, not even as big as my snout and now he’s bigger than me he thinks he’s all that. He tries to mount me occasionally, which he maintains is merely “affectionate”. I say it offends my sensibilities as a lady.  Plus he’s really heavy.

Humph. Boys.

The Boss is my grandpa and I reckon I’ve got him round my little paw. The General says it’s cos I’m a guest and the Boss’s daughter protects me from being sent outside like he would be, but personally I know it’s ‘cos I’m cute.

I have been known to let out a godawful piercing bark occasionally to remind them all that I am more important than whatever they’re doing. The Boss yells sometimes when I do that and then The General and Queenie freak out. 

I think it’s hilarious to watch them go all low to the ground and eager to please – I act like I didn’t hear a thing. I please myself, thank you very much. The Boss says it’s because my parents have no discipline. Might be something in that, but don’t tell them.

Anyway, I come up from the city, which makes me quite a lot more classy than The General - though I have to admit I’m not above winding him up a bit and then acting a bit sooky when he strikes back. And as for Queenie – she is my hero but won’t have a bar of me: maybe she’s threatened by how young and pretty I am. Mum says she’s had bosses like that herself.

I think the country is quite nice but you do seem to lack some of the comforts of home up here, like vegan pigs ears and cafes specially for dogs (there is even a dog food van down there but mum won’t take me to it:  ‘Even we have some limits, Princess,' she says.) 

You don’t have the beach and stuff and dogs in the country seem to lie on the ground rather than a fluffy bed which seems more appropriate to a canine of my status. 

On the other hand though, there are lots of other things to do – like swim in the billabongs now they’re muddy and gross and even roll in dead snake. I found one of those last April and I smelled pretty fantastic.  I might be a fur child but I’m still a dog. 

A last piercing woof to make sure you remember I'm here and who's boss.  

Well, there you go. She even thinks she’s the boss, whereas The Boss is the boss. Or, maybe he just thinks he’s the boss. Woof.

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