Rat Weasel...........

Small Dog had a haircut last Friday.

Under duress.

I escaped with only minor flesh wounds and she is only just talking to me again.

Under duress.

Never mind that I wasn't the one wielding the scissors.......I had the unenviable task of holding the bitey end, which meant that whenever PP ventured near one of Small Dog's many, many 'No Go' areas, I was right in the firing line.

Inevitably, due to the fact that she squirmed around and wouldn't stay still, the resultant cut is a tad on the scrappy side. Also, as she makes such a performance of it, we have to cut off more than we would like to, in order to maximise the time between shearings.

Admittedly it has knocked years off her, and she suddenly looks like a puppy again. However, due partly to her ridiculous behaviour during, and her raggedy appearance since, I have renamed her Rat Weasel, which is not helping re-establish diplomatic relations one bit.

She is giving us both a wide berth, as every time she comes to sit on a lap, one of sees a section which needs tidied up, and the other is dispatched to find the scissors. The scissor fetcher has to take care to keep them concealed, and approach on her blind side, while the other, usually PP, takes a firm grip and attempts to trim any stray clumps which escaped the first sweep.

This will go on for perhaps another week or so, by which time there will be enough regrowth to make the straggly patches less apparent.

I have been trying to get a decent photo of her but she has become resolutely camera shy, refusing to pose with her usual va-va-voom. As a consequence I feel a bit like a paparazzi, hiding behind doors and furniture trying to catch her off-guard.

This is the best I can do, and the pose says it all really. If ever there was an expression which said 'buggroff the lot of you' then this is it.



In other news, in a spirit of frugality and re-cycling, I'm planning on weaving a small Abyssinian guinea pig out of all the clippings............

The hottest day...........

Small Dog is suffering in the heat.

However, despite our offer of a cooling spray courtesy of the garden hose, or setting up a small swimming pool for her, she is resolutely uncooperative, confidently asserting that Yorkshire Terriers should never get wet and can't swim.

Obviously she is unaware of the power of You Tube to dispel such blatant untruths.........

Fly my pretty.............

The recent spell of hot, humid weather is making Small Dog irascible.

She's having a haircut today in the hope of making her feel cooler and more comfortable, but in the meantime she is decidedly prickly.

She's been particularly bothered by the plethora of winged insects currently plaguing everyone. As is PP who is waging a one-woman war on the surfeit of flies buzzing around.

Yesterday, in the relative cool of the evening, as we sat watching TV, unwinding from the excitement of our cinema trip, an unwary fly penetrated PP's extensive flying insect defences and buzzed irritatingly in front of the screen.

Following a few quick bursts of fly spray, it then performed a series of increasingly erratic kamikaze loops before dive-bombing onto the rug where it apparently expired. Engrossed as we were, we didn't immediately remove the body.

A few minutes later, Small Dog sauntered into the room, and after ascertaining that we weren't having tea and biscuits, or any other type of snack, sat on the rug, where her attention was drawn to the fly, which had temporarily regained consciousness and was auditioning for the a part in the fly equivalent of the death scene from Hamlet.

Seconds later, Small Dog leapt vertically into the air, shaking her head violently, while spitting (yes SPITTING!) before racing into the hallway and diving onto her bed, pawing her mouth.

Galvanised into action, PP and I hurried to her aid, and while PP rushed her into the kitchen, dumped her in the sink and washed her face and mouth with water, I retrieved the fly from where Small Dog had spat it out on the rug and hastened its final demise.

Now, while I am vague about the ill-effects of small dogs consuming unadulterated flies, I am fairly certain that flies doused with fly killer are unpalatable to say the least, and even possibly, if ingested, fatal.

Thankfully Small Dog did not swallow the fly (I don't know why) and having had her mouth and face thoroughly rinsed immediately, we averted potential disaster. She is exhibiting no lingering after effects, except for showing a marked aversion to the few foolhardy flies who have breached PP's defences into the kitchen today.

However, I dread to think what might have happened had we not been on hand.

Be afraid.
Be very afraid

Camping tails............

Small Dog loves camping.

The time spent in the great outdoors
The BBQ sausages
The opportunity to mingle with other like-minded canines
The sights
The sounds
The smells

She loves staying up late, chatting around the BBQ embers, then strolling around the site to pick up her 'wee mails'.

She loves the sun on her face, wind in her hair and the feel of the grass beneath her feet.

What she does NOT love is coming home.

As soon as we begin packing up the van she starts behaving like a stroppy teenager, becoming increasingly grumpy right up to the point where she is strapped into her car harness when she indulges in a mighty sulk which can last for days.

Once home she retires to her basket to catch up on the myriad naps she's missed out on, emerging only to chase squirrels up the garden or wander despondently into the kitchen to enquire after her dinner.

As I write she is curled up on her blanky fast asleep, no doubt dreaming of her holiday. To add to her current discomfiture she is scheduled for a bath and a haircut this week, as due to nights spent around the BBQ she smells like a smoke hound.

However, despite her current malaise, here are some of her holiday best bits..........