Space Commander Ted.

Yesterday was a bad day for Ted. Actually it was a good day for him, but a bad day for a few of the house contents.
If he wants the girls to play, but they are snoozing on the sofas or in a spare bedroom, he'll try to get them off, by pulling on the throws or duvets they're sleeping on. I'm usually around to show my displeasure, but yesterday, he managed to sneak two acts of mass destruction past me. I was busy in the garden, repairing the damage Ted had done to the hedge and fence. The boy apparently has a delicate constitution ( nothing to do with his liking for long since deceased cats, Branston pickle,jam doughnuts, cow poop, and crossword puzzle books) and when his poor tum tum can't cope with his diet, he chews another hole through the hedge, so he can dump the putrified contents of his bowels, in next doors garden, because he sure as shit doesn't want it in his own, and I have to say I'm with him on that one. Anyway, while I was doing that, he was shredding a new throw that was on a sofa, followed by the massacre of a double duvet cover, complete with the duvet, and all it's fluffy wuffy entrails. In my best stern voice I asked him what he had done, but he just wagged, and looked at me with an expression that made me feel guilty for not being as impressed with his handiwork, as he obviously thought I should have been.
I don't know why I felt the need to kiss his stupid great brown nose, as it followed me round the bedroom, while I picked the duvets guts up, but I'm going to talk to the doctor about my decline.

Today I woke up to a lot of hammering, and sawing. As pathetic as it might be, my first thought was, what the hell is Ted up to, so I shot out of bed, and found the boy in the spare room, staring out of the window at a bunch of builders creating an International Space Station, on the roof of a house over the road. Yes, I know they are only installing solar panels, and it's wrong to lie, but I've told Ted it's a space station, and if he's very good, and very quiet, and stays there until it's launch, they'll let him fly it. He must believe me, because apart from a couple of pee breaks, he's still up there watching, and my house remains intact.
Tomorrow's another day, but today I'm the winner.

Where'd the time go?

It's been a long while since I blogged, and I've missed it loads. So much has happened, which I'll write about next week. Madge and Ted have both had birthdays. Madge got cushions to go with her pillows, and Ted got nothing except a reprieve on the long overdue one way ticket to Battersea Dogs Home. Pie is happier than she's ever been. If Madge and Pie were human, and I was politically correct (which I'm not) I'd describe the two of them as 'life partners'. I'm very lucky to share my life with three wonderful dogs ...I hate odd numbers, I need a little orange girl to even the numbers up. Did you notice I said I share my life with THREE wonderful dogs? I must be warming to the brown bastard after all.

Pillows.

As I've said before, Madge and Pie are best friends. They are pretty much inseperable, they eat, sleep, play, and walk together. They form a united front, against the constant attacks from Ted. The only difference in them, is, Madge likes to sleep on a dug up mess of a bed, and Pie likes the bed to be smooth. Every night, Pie grumbles, while Madge spends ages, digging, and circling, until she's got her side of the bed just right. I decided the best way to keep both of them happy, was to buy Madge some cheap pillows, then she could dig them under her tummy, like she does with the sofa cushions.

I found some for £1 each, and although I thought that was way too cheap, I reckoned I'd just replace them when they got stinky. I put Madges pillows inside some pillow cases and piled them on their bed. Well. it looked like a bedouin brothel, but judging by the way Madge flirts with the farm dogs, I thought she'd feel very comfortable. Bedtime arrived, and the girls plodded upstairs after another hard day. Pie got on her side, which was so neat and tidy, even the toughest US marine sergeant would have been impressed, while Madge leapt on her pile of pillows, and spent the next ten minutes, like a broody hen on speed, trying to get all four of them under her tummy. As one pillow popped out from underneath her, she stood up, and tucked it back with the rest of her clutch, until they were all safe and warm, and Madge had that weird, off with the fairies, smile of satisfaction on her beautiful face. Ted, is used to some of Madges slightly potty behaviour, and didn't interfere, but he kept looking at Madge, then at me, as if to say, are you going to give her some medication, she's being very 'special' tonight, before climbing into bed between the two girls. Madge was ecstatic, Pie was snoring, and for the first time in his life, Ted was totally bewildered. I drifted off to sleep, happy that for a mere £4, I had sorted out Pie and Madges sleeping arrangements. The nightime happiness lasted for two days
I woke up on the third morning, with fluff in my mouth, and a big brown spinone nose staring straight at me. In the blink of an eye, I changed from, good morning lovely boy, to the usual, I'm going to kill you, you little bastard. Madge was pillowless, and I'd woken up in Santa's bloody grotto. He'd disemboweled all four of the pillows, and the contents, were covering the entire bedroom, including the flipping walls. How the hell did he manage to stick it to the bloody walls? Ted was wagging, with that peculiarly vacant spinone expression on his stupid face. FFS, the idiot thinks he's impressed me, he really thinks he's done good!! The more he wagged, the more the clouds of synthetic pillow crap wafted about the room. Why did he choose today to do it? The hoovers drive belt broke yesterday, and I'm going to be spending hours clearing up what looks like the results of a hard days work in an Australian shearing shed, with nothing more than a knackered slicker brush. I needed coffee, I wanted intravenous valium, I should be calling his bloody breeder, and telling her to come and collect him. This dog is NOT what I ordered. I don't need this smelly, lanky, hairy, weapon of mass destruction in my life. I closed the door and stumbled downstairs, followed by Ted, who was still wagging, and oblivious of the fact that I was nowhere near as happy about the state of my bedroom as he thought I should be.
I don't know how long it took to clear up, and I don't know why Ted thought I needed his help to do it, but he did, and I don't know why I kissed him and said you're my special boy, but I did.
Madge now has four new pillows, that are sewn into pillowcases, and judging by the amount of time she spends incubating them, I reckon they should hatch before Christmas.

Safely defused.

By Thursday morning, Ted was really unwell, and as the bloods had come back clear for pancreatitis, it seemed like the only option was surgery. They all had another feel of his tummy, and said the lump was much closer to his out pipe than it had been the night before, so they'd push fluids through faster, and operate after consults if there was still no change. At lunchtime Ted seemed much brighter, the lump had shifted even further down, so they thought it would clear itself, if he was supported with fluids, antepsin (which he hates) cerenia (which is painful and makes him cry...for anyone elses dog who has to have this antiemetic, it hurts much less if given freezing cold) and pain meds. They then checked his bum again, and pulled out a few more bits of Pella, which seemed too small to have caused any problem, but were very sharp. Sam had been telling me that the boy was very gassy, and I just knew that at some point, he was going to explode, and some poor bugger was going to be caught in a hail of Pella shrapnel. In a way I hoped it was me, because I really didnt need a law suit being brought against me by some old lady who just happened to be standing too close to Ted, when he detonated. By late Thursday afternoon, nurses, vets and receptionists, were taking it in turns to try and persuade my little time bomb to eat, and by the time he came home, he'd eaten almost a whole can of tuna. So not only was he going to explode, and cause facial disfigurement to anyone caught up in the blast, but his victim/s were also going to be picking fish out of their wounds. He came home late Thursday evening, as it was thought he'd eat more at home, and that would push the obstruction through. By this point, I was ready to call in Dyno-Rod, or connect the hoover pipe to him, or roll him up like a tube of toothpaste and squeeze it out of him, but they promised Ted would soon no longer be a danger to the public. He fell asleep as soon as he got home,( in his very pink bandage, that the nurses had put I love you stickers on...aww) but woke up at about 11pm, and went out into the garden. I was following him around with a bloody torch, but he certainly wasn't enjoying his new found celebrity status, and hated being stalked around the garden. He did a few pee's, and I did a few sighs, followed by, ffs shit you little sod, and like the well trained, obedient boy that he isn't, he assumed the position, and did the dump of his life. I really didn't want to pick it up and have a look, but I knew I had to... not a single piece of dear old Pella to be found, just enough Madge fur to knit a pair of ear muffs for every Spinone in the UK.
What we think happened, was, he ate the cats leg, and that slowed his tummy down a bit, because he didn't eat the day he did that, then the next day he had chicken wings, which dehydrated his gut a bit more, then on Monday, I spent ages grooming Madge, and had a huge pile of her on the floor, which he obviously helped himself to, and that combination of events, turned the boy into Surrey's very own, weapon of mass destruction.
He's now safely defused, and slowly getting back to eating and being a pain in the bum.
The practice sent him a present, of a camouflaged Kong Wubba this morning, for being such a brave soldier, but within twenty minutes, it became a victim of a random act of Ted violence, and joined an ever growing list of missing in action casualties, I keep in the, must mend one day drawer.

Poorly Ted.

Poor Ted's not feeling too good. It might be that karma has bitten his arse good and proper, as I picked up what I thought was a chewed up stick from the sitting room floor the other day, only to realise it was Pellas femur. Ted went to the vets yesterday, as he'd stopped eating and pooping,
after a thorough check over, he was put on a drip. He then had a rectal examination, which he fought like a real man, thereby dispelling all rumours about his sexuality, Sam pulled out a few tiny fragments of very familiar looking bone, so they carted Ted off to xray, but unfortunately, he was so full of gas and fluid, they couldn't tell if he had a blockage. He came home and stayed on his drip all night, in the hope that it would rehydrate his gut, and enable him to pass Pella, if that was what was causing the problem. It didn't work, so he's been back in hospital today, and blood test results have them now thinking he's got pancreatitis. So now Ted is having IV antibiotics, anti puke meds, and fluids, before having another xray tonight. If the antibiotics haven't improved his bloods overnight, he will have an ex-lap in the morning, to see just what is going on in his very skinny, very sore tummy.
He's not the bravest boy in the world, but he's my wimp, and I quite like him.
Get well soon big man xxx x

Just Madge

I took the dogs out early, and let Madge take her tennis ball. I don't very often take it, because she just trots beside me, like one of those dancing dogs, in the very weird, boring bit of Crufts.
It was frosty when we were getting ready, so I thought I'd stick Madge's coat on her. I shouldn't laugh, because she really thinks she looks special (aint that the truth) but once it's on, she spends five minutes swaggering about, looking at her reflection in the bookcases, and Ted, being a true, redblooded, Italian male, spends just as long trying to get her naked.
Anyway, I shouldn't laugh, but I do, because I can't make up my mind whether she looks like Pamela Anderson, in Baywatch, or a reject from a long disbanded RNLI lifeboat crew. Either way, she thinks she looks good, and is nice and warm, and that's all that matters.
I tried to sneak the ball into my pocket, while she was busy on the catwalk, but she saw me, so we ended up walking all the way to the field with Madge glued to my leg in case I gave HER ball, to anyone other than HER.
After fifteen minutes of ball chasing, we walked over the Chimney Pots (it's just a big hill that overlooked the chimneys of the lime kilns, when they still dug chalk out of Box Hill) Ted and Pie were heading off for the woods, but Madge and the ball were right beside me, until she saw a pheasant fly out of the cover. Bloody hell, this sedate lady can turn on the speed when she wants to. Within seconds she was out of sight, but I could hear her crashing through the maize. No patient flushing from Madge, she put over two dozen birds up, and the noise they made, brought Dumb and Dumber over from the wood, to see what on earth 'the special one' had done. Poor Ted went into full gaylord mode, and clearly wasn't sure if he should catch them all at once, or one at a time, and if it was one at a time, which one should he choose first, decisions, decisions. Pie had taken a look, but took the opportunity of me being occupied with Ted hopping from one front leg to the other, and Madge on a murderous rampage, to go and eat a freshly made cow turd. After yelling myself hoarse, Madge finally, came huffing and puffing out of the cover, and STILL had the ball in her mouth. I took the coat off her, because she looked like she'd been sat in a gas mark 9 oven for three hours, and was getting crispy at the edges, then we all headed off towards home. In the last field we walk through, there's a huge water tank for the cows, that Pie and Ted always get a drink from, but I think in all the time I've known Madge, she's only drunk out of it two or three times. Today all the running about had made her thirsty, and she made a bee line for the water, jumped up on her back legs, with her front paws on the top of the tank, and started crying like a girl. I was crapping myself as I ran over to her, because I thought she'd hurt herself. She hadn't, but she had forgotten the object of her deepest desire was still in her mouth as she went to drink, and the ball was now floating about in the water tank, and all three dogs were playing apple bobbing, Madge was bordering on complete hysteria, and I was bitterly regretting the last cup of coffee I'd had before we left home, because I wasn't sure my bladder would hold out, and PMSL was becoming a real possibility.

Rambler ramblings.

I'm not very keen on ramblers. Probably because I've never felt the urge to walk the downs with a bunch of anally retentive people, wearing my trousers tucked into a pair of red itchy socks, with a laminated map, and Christmas cracker compass hanging round my neck. It also annoys me that they take up all the outside tables at the pub, to eat their own sandwiches (invariably Shippams Bloater paste, on thin white plastic bread) and share a communal half of shandy with twenty four straws.
So yeah, up until today, I wasn't keen on ramblers, but my tolerance was pushed to the limit this morning, and as a group, ramblers moved above wet socks, and just below okra, on my list of strongly disliked things.
Why? Because today, this bunch of intrepid explorers, upset Madge, and that really isn't going to happen without incurring my wrath. Not content with wandering around, dressed like Worzel Gummidge wannabes, these fishpaste munchers have now added walking poles to their endless list of must haves. Gaylord was skipping along, with a teasel stuck in his beard, tossing acorns, Pie was trying to get as much of a cow pat down her neck as fast as possible, before I could catch up with her, and Madge was bumbling along, with her nose to the ground, on the scent of anything that could potentially be dinner. We were just about to walk through a stile, but as I saw two people walking towards us, I made the dogs wait, because Pie's beard was dripping with green stuff, and I just knew she'd feel the need to sniff at least one of these strangers in an area where a green stain wouldn't be appreciated. The dogs were really fidgety, because as soon as they get through the stile, they know they are seconds from the river, but the ramblers were taking their time, and Ted wasn't prepared to wait any longer, so he squeezed through a gap in the hedge. The girls stayed with me, and finally the fishpaste munchers emerged on our side of the stile, complete with rucksacks, that looked like they were carrying enough crap to survive in the wilderness for at least six months, and a walking pole each....bare in mind I live five miles from the M25, and manage this walk with just an iPod, and a blue, made in Taiwan, Pets @ Home, tennis ball thrower. I really don't give a monkeys, that these people are as overdressed and overprepared, as I'd be, turning up at McDonalds in a cocktail dress, with a table cloth, silver cutlery, and a cut glass decanter to pour my milkshake from, tucked under my arm, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't seriously pissed off, when these idiots, started using their damn poles, like extras in some third rate swashbuckling film, to fend off two well behaved ladies, who just wanted to go swimming. What the hell was wrong with these people? I'll admit Pie wasn't looking her best, with cow shit dripping from her chin, but the only danger the ramblers were in, was the distinct possibility that she'd shake her head, and they'd get splattered with green spin gloop. Then the female rambler made a HUGE mistake, she hit Pie with her pole, and was screaming at me to control the dogs. It really wasn't the dogs she needed to worry about, but she didn't seem to have realised that. This stupid woman had walked towards Pie to hit her, but it wasn't Pie who was bothered by the whole bizarre event, it was Madge. She was leaning against my leg, shaking like a leaf, and drooling for England, while the ramblers continued to fend off a bemused Pie, who'd now been joined by a soggy, overexcited Ted. Mr Rambler, was yelling at Mrs Rambler, to stop being daft, Madge was having a breakdown, Ted was shaking the River Mole over both Mr and Mrs, Pie was prepared to go another few rounds with anyone who was up for it, and I had lost all sense of decency, and was explaining that we were on the North Downs, not the frigging foothills of Kilimanjaro, but unless Mr Rambler, wanted to see his wife skewered on her walking pole, he'd better drag her sorry arse out of my reach.
Yes, I know I've blown my chances of joining the WI, but I think that might have happened last week, when Madge ran into the allotments and took a dump on Mrs Meadows plot (head of flower arranging), and had Mr Rambler not carted his potty wife off, I could well have ended up being the second person from my village to stand trial at The Old Bailey, but, the rectal insertion of a four foot six walking pole in a rabid rambler whilst defending my dogs, is a marginally more acceptable crime, than the last person to appear there, who was accused, and found guilty of several close, loving relationships with pigs at a local farm.