A Scouser in Kent

THE DOG'S BLOG
You do know I'm a dog... don't you? Good. Then read on...
Tuesday, December 18
Who's a clever little bunny then? How many dogs do you know who can not only write a diary but get themselves an e-mail address too? Yup... that's me.
My human is out lunching at a place called Morello's in Matfield (a nearby village).
It's only when she takes herself off like this that I have a chance to go on the machine.
The minute she says 'Be good... mind the house,' and shuts the front door behind her, I'm off upstairs to the room she calls her study to switch on the computer. So here I am, busy pawing at the keyboard, Googling away to find out what all my old friends are up to and e-mailing any of them with blogs and websites.
You know, it's at times like this I thank my lucky stars I was born medium-sized and will never grow big enough to slobber all over the place like Joey and Bronson do when they're excited.
Monica hasn't a clue what I get up to when she goes out. And neither has anyone else.
But I need to stay alert. One half of my mind is always tuned in to the clackety-clack of her fancy shoes getting louder and louder as she struts her stuff along the alleyway outside. I can hear her long before I see her, so always log off in plenty of time, gallop downstairs at breakneck speed and jump into my bed. The minute I hear her key in the lock, I begin snoring loudly.
'Oh, you are a good dog,' she cooes, trying not to wake me up. 'Thank you for minding the house.'
And I'm rewarded with a Bonio.
If she's been out foraging for food, I can smell it a mile off and race to the front door to greet her with a big wet kiss. I like to sniff in her shopping bags and try to identify the contents. It's only when my human is out that I get to play on her machine because when she's at home she's forever on it herself. Says she's writing another non-fiction book. I don't believe her. Judging by some of the conversations she's been having with her friends, I reckon it's a saucy blockbuster she's creating... you know, one of those thingies they call bodice-rippers. Hey, what's a bodice, anyone? And why would you want to rip it?
My boyfriend Bronson came to visit on Sunday and we exchanged Christmas presents. The one I gave him is a special see-through stocking. Sort-of fishnet, with all sorts of goodies inside. How saucy is that?
His present to me is wrapped up in gold paper with a bow on top, so I haven't a clue what's inside. All I do know is that it smells gorgeous. Can't wait to rip it open on Christmas day. Rip... rip... oh crikey, you don't think it's a bodice, do you? Would that make me a bodice-ripper?
What do you think, everyone? ScouserinKent@btinternet.com.

A SCOUSER IN KENT

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 5
Out on my walk just now a man stopped me, said 'You're a nice fella, aren't you?' and asked my name.
'She's Tilly-Mint and she's a girl,' said Monica, all sniffy, as if the poor man was meant to know. It's because of the macho studded collar she's put around my neck. Honestly, why can't she give me a pretty pink frilly one, then nobody would be confused about my gender.
The studded collar was originally for Ronnie, the English Bull Terrier who used to be my brother, but it wasn't big enough for him. So I got it instead.

A SCOUSER IN KENT: Dog's Tales

DAY ONE...


Tilly-Mint's the name.

If you go 'Googling', you'll find it used as a term of endearment in Liverpool, where I come from. Well, maybe not so much now. But historically, it was mostly how fathers addressed their daughters (as a variation of Queenie, or Princess).

Sadly, I haven't the vaguest idea who my father was. My mother either, for that matter, because I was abandoned when very young and left to roam the streets.

My first memory is of being taken out for a drive to West Kirby, on Wirral, then being dumped in Safeways' (now Morrisson's) car park. A little old lady took the belt off her dress, tied it round my neck and used it to take me to her very posh home in Caldy. She bought me a lovely soft tartan bed, matching coat and water bowl as well as a box full of toys.

I had a wonderful time running round her bungalow but unfortunately had to move out soon afterwards because I was too 'frisky' for the lady's sedate lifestyle. So I took up residence a few miles down the road at Meols.

Taken for a medical examination I was described as 'a dominant bitch'. My human (Monica) was horrified and thought the vet was describing her and she got all snooty with him. Although, actually...

No, my lips are sealed. I have to be nice or she'll cut back on my supply of dried pigs' ears. Real delicacy those... particularly the hairy bits around the edges.

Anyway, Rob the vet began poking and prodding me in all sorts of lovely places, so I gave him a wet sloppy kiss. He tickled my ears, gave me a big chewie and my human a big bill.

My early days are a big hazy. But I had a wonderful life in Meols with Joe and Monica and a spotty English Bull Terrier called Ronnie. Ronnie used to shake hands with one of his back paws. He thought he was very funny and so did I. I loved my humans and I loved Ronnie.

When Ronnie went to the great kennel in the sky, a Border Collie called Scheppe joined us and we were a foursome again. Scheppe was what my humans called 'fragile' because he had lots of ironwork inside his legs after being involved in a road traffic accident. I didn 't love Scheppe. I tolerated him. It wasn't long before he followed Ronnie to the great kennel (nothing to do with me). The humans thought he was wonderful but he could be stroppy with other dogs, so no doubt he'll be up there somewhere as I write, having slanging matches with Ronnie, Duffy, Gonzo, Gusto, Danny and all the dead cats our humans dispatched earlier.

The original idea was that Scheppe was Monica's dog, I was Joe's and everything was fine for a few years. We couldn't have been happier, the four of us. Then suddenly, horribly and with very little warning, Joe and Scheppe were both taken from us. We two did our best to jog along together. She did a lot of crying, and so did I. Maybe she understood what was going on, but I didn't. At all.

Until Monica's friend Adele said something lovely. I quote: 'Now Joe has something of yours and you have something of his.' When I thought about that, I found it very moving. And it stopped me chewing my paw ... a habit I'd resorted to after our tragic loss. Rob said my paw-chewing was like thumb-sucking or comfort-eating. That I'd get over it in time. And I did. But not before developing a strange hard lump called a granuloma which had to be treated with all sorts of needles and sprays and eventually an operation to remove the thing. To make matter worse, while I was all bandaged up, a dysfunctional stray dog attacked me from behind and traumatised me so much I was back at the vet's for more surgery. I survived that and a rather serious liver problem and here I am now, four years on, writing my diary.

It was strange leaving Meols and saying goodbye to all my friends on Wirral - particularly Margaret and Calvet who lived over the road and fed me fabulous home-baked dropped scones.
No, they didn't even have to drop on the floor for me. Margaret reminded me of Joyce, another of Monica's friends. Joyce used to live in Wallasey with her Siberian Husky Luke, who won all sorts of prizes for being such a handsome hulk. Luke stole a chocolate cake from Joyce's table once and when she challenged him about it, he acted all innocent. But he gave himself away because of the cherry stuck to his nose.

Monica and I spent a lot of time with Joyce and Luke. Sadly, they are not around any more. Either of them. We do miss them both.

Kent seemed strange after Merseyside.

The first dog I met when we arrived in Five Oak Green was Joey, the yellow Labrador, who lived (still lives) at Carrot Cottage with Michael, Oeda and the family. I burst into his garden, saw him go into the submissive position and gave him a thump... just to prove my dominance, you understand. Michael was gobsmacked, Monica was horrified and told me to behave myself, but Joey got the message and now we both know where we stand.

Monica loves him and makes a great full of him when he comes to stay with us. And he's sort of grown on me. He's more macho these days.

Our first few weeks in the Garden of England were spent in a guest house run by a lady called Liz and her two black hounds. Never had much to do with them apart from the odd sniff when we met.

Then we moved to Tunbridge Wells... to stay in Arthur and Islay's house where lived Anthony (a toddler) and Deefa (a goldie coloured Collie cross). Poor old Deefa was sex mad and erotica was the name of his game. Exhausts me to even think about what went on between us. Deefa was quite elderly and I think he must have overdone it because he too is now resting in that great big kennel in the sky. Lovely dog, such a shame.

While we were staying in TW, we met Pat and Bronson. Pat and Monica became friends, while Bronson and I became lovers. Bronson is like the filmstar after whom he's named... big, strong and very hairy. He's a Rottweiller crossed with a Collie and they don't come better than that.
He's big on kissing too. You should see the size of his tongue...

On that momentous summer of our arrival, Monica and I went house-sitting at Carrot Cottage while the family holidayed in Greece. Our brief was to mind not just the house but Joey and Jimmy too (Jimmy's the cat). All went well until the night of the violent thunderstorm. A bolt of lightening struck the house and knocked the chimney and a fair portion of the roof on to Michael's beautiful blue Rover (with its personalised number plate) and blacked out all the electricity. Monica and I slept through it all, but poor Joey was a dithering wreck and had to have something called therapy from Monica which involved her talking a load of tosh into his big floppy ears. To be fair, though, she did manage to calm him down. And Jimmy? Disappeared through the cat flap at the first bang.





SUNDAY, DECEMBER 2.


Why does my tail go round in a circle every time I see a cat?
That's the only time it ever, ever does that and I'm sitting here in my favourite spot behind the front door trying to work it out.

When I'm happy, or excited, or spot a favourite human who's going to tickle my ears and give me a treat my tail wags in the normal way, swishing from left to right.
When I'm feeling guilty or unsure about something, the little white tip at the end of it moves ever so slightly from side to side. But show me a cat and the old tail has a mind of its own.
Makes me feel a right prat when I see Jimmy and Loonah (Lunar? Loonie?)

Jimmy has known and hated me for three years but Loonie Tunes only arrived at Carrot Cottage a couple of months ago. She's very young, very black and very playful. We had great fun on Friday chasing each other all around the house. Played tag around the curtains, hide and seek around the furniture and Loonie showed me her favourite trick of leaping up into the air and flying high over Jimmy.
Exhausted after all the running around, I looked at Jimmy to see what he thought. Just looked... that's all. And he gave me a wallop on the nose.
Honestly... that cat is so full of attitude.

MONDAY, DECEMBER 3
I've been to the vet's for my fifty thousand (?) mile MOT. Jumped on the scales and was delighted to find that my weight had come down again. I'm inclined to be podgy... pear-shaped like most females my age. I've been poked and prodded all over and declared fit. Then the nurse looked inside my mouth (well, it's better than some of the places she's looked in) and said I had the most beautiful set of teeth she had ever seen in a ten year old. How, she asked my human, did she keep me so gorgeous and sweet-smelling?
'Bonios,' said Monica.
'Cat poo.' said I. There's nothing I enjoy better than the end product of that Russian Blue that lives in the house round the corner. Particularly when it's warm and fresh. He comes into our garden specially to deposit his pedigree gift. Apologies to those of you out there with delicate stomachs but I'm not unique. Most of the dogs trotting around our village and in the park tell me they enjoy the same delicacy.
I see that Monica has bought me a box of my favourite dental sticks. Yummy. And a few other items she seems to think I need. Ugh.
Oh no... here she comes now, brandishing that flea drop thingie to go on the back of my neck and a huge, revolting worming tablet. She'll crush up the tablet and mix it in my food in the hope I won't notice. Does she think I'm daft?
If I turn my nose up, she'll hide it in a piece of boiled ham or a cheese triangle. And if I still don't eat it she'll put it in my mouth and rub my throat. Think that'll make me swallow it? No way. I'll just spit it out on to her freshly-hoovered yellow carpet. So there.
Best thing to do when she comes at me with her pills and potions is just to disappear. And I have some great hidey-holes in and around the house. Shan't answer when she calls me either.
So, excuse me while I disappear.



(To be continued)