Do you know, as I get older I become much more philosophical. I sort of think I have gathered some wisdom through my nearly 11 doggie years (almost 77 human years apparently) although I seriously doubt it some days. Him Indoors is now effectively younger than me, so I have been told. Therein lies a poor joke seeing how his stiff joints and lack of mobility seem to get worse every day. But when young Alf comes round (9 months old Border Collie), I realize that the old story about the young bull and the old bull in the field full of cows has more than a grain of truth within it.
Alf is just like I used to be. He tears around the cottage, disappearing upstairs and back in flash, whilst I try to make myself invisible laying under the table, eyes fixed on the Boss and Auntie Karen in case there are cake or biscuits with their cup of tea. Alf is far too busy to be in the front of the queue, although he ALWAYS licks my food bowl even though it’s usually empty.
I’ve joined the world of social media recently, setting up “My Dylan Dog” Facebook page. It is currently seemingly being used for the sole purpose of advertising the forthcoming performances at Bewdley Festival, together with the occasional music gig. I would be glad to hear from any of friends on it, although I’m not certain I trust social media very much. I suppose the next thing is Twitter. I ask you, what the bloody hell is a tweet?
Him Indoors left me again recently to the tender mercies of Auntie Rachel. My pal, her daughter, Maddie wasn’t around to spoil me – I really was quite hurt by her absence. But her brother Joe looked after me really well, and so it was another happy visit. When The Fat Boy returned I ignored him as usual, just to make sure he understood who is in charge. I gave in when he cooked a rather tasty chicken for dinner and was told to behave or I would be getting none. I could not take that risk.
We wandered out again a few times to the Brewery over the road (I secretly think the Boss has a fetish for Worcestershire Way beer), but it so often ends in semi-disaster. He is not very good at daytime drinking (actually, he’s totally useless) and the inevitable result is (1) he needs to have a sleep on the settee when we return which results in (2) abandoning a nice planned dinner for toast or a biscuit or nothing at all. Which means, critically, I get a plain old dog’s dinner with no special treat added!
The legendary Mr Bridges arrived on Sunday afternoon to watch the football and share the brisket of beef. Now Mr Bridges is ok, but when wolfs down MY share of roast beef I begin to feel the green-eyed monster of jealousy. But this faded into oblivion when our team was so awful that The Boss constantly proclaimed, loudly, ” I told you Steve, they are shit. So shit. All of them. Won’t make Top Six. ” This does not bode well for a happy football season. I think I shall retreat to a safer sleeping position when they are on tv in future.
Meanwhile, we listened together to the news tonight as the law marches inexorably towards dear old Trump. His goose looks pretty cooked to me, the lifetime liar and crook being found out piece by piece in a way Him Indoors son reckons is following a similar path to Richard Nixon. Let’s hope that is a correct view, and Trump goes the same way before he can do much more damage to America. The Boss is no lover of that country (but adores its music), but reckons Trump is systematically destroying its very fabric in a way never previously attempted. At least he doesn’t shout at the tv over Trump, like he does when a picture of Corbyn arrives on screen.
Woof! Woof!
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