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.