A Statement.

I would like to put out a statement please. I won't be taking questions.

I, Clive, recognise the right of him (That Whippet) to have his own blog. Even if he doesn't deserve one. Sorry. Anyway. I recognise that it is not a threat to my blog, that we each have our own identities and ideas and are allowed to express them.

I, Clive, also recognise that it was wrong of me to spend the week sulking about this. And that it was wrong of me to change Dylan's password (well, honestly, hasn't he heard of security? it was sooo easy to crack) so that he couldn't blog.

I, Clive, will try to more benign in future.

Trying.


Trying reealllllllly hard.

Too much!!!!

That Whippet.....




















has his own BLOG !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


How did this happen? I'm the one with the blog, not him. He has nothing to say! How could he? He's a Whippet! He's laughing at me, I know he is.

doG dammit!

OutRage! I cannot believe my Eyes!

I am almost at a loss for words. My whole world is shaken to the core.

How can I even type what has happened.

Argh!

That Whippet...I can't believe it...That Whippet....


Not happening.

Not happening.

Alive and Kicking

Don't panic dear Followers! I am still alive and well. I am now in a position to explain all!

It is Good News. It seems Mum and Dad have very kindly brought me an early Christmas present in the form of my very own Masseuse! Yes! Wednesday's visit was not in the least bit scary, and while I am a little sad that I will not be appearing on television any time soon, I must say it is very thoughtful of the old parents to treat me like this.

My Masseuse is a lovely lady with curly hair. She was friendly, introduced herself very politely (that kind of thing is important to me you know) and seemed to know her stuff. Apparently, she prefers her work to be called "T-Touch" which I had never heard of (Mum says is quite the thing) but I don't mind in the slightest what she calls it, since it basically means me getting a good allover massage.

Another great thing about the visit was that my Masseuse (sorry, T-Touch Lady Person) is also a bit of a whizz at analysing silly whippety collie things and she says...

It's all That Whippet's fault!

What is? I hear you ask. Well, everything - the tension, the rowdiness. I've been trying to tell Mum for simply ages that the Whippet is too annoying for words. He boings all over me, gets in the way, disturbs my peace and then screams like a girl when I tell him to back off. Mum has spent the last two days telling me it's not all his fault, that he's naturally excitable and that my Masseuse (sorry, T-Touch Lady Person) didn't say that it was all his fault at all, but I know I'm right.

So now we're both working on our Inner Buddhas. Me so I'm less irritable (yeah, right, me irritable? Pah!) and That Whippet so he's not so boingy. Personally, I think he's got way more work to do than me, but there you have it. If one of us is in Boot Camp, we both are.

Also in the news today: My manifesto is coming along nicely, though with all this T-Touch excitement Mum is threatening to postpone the election until the New Year. She seems to think it is encouraging "my slight ego problem" whatever that is. Anyway, I will continue in the hope that the democratic process is not messed with. Just in case, though, I have got the number of the United Nations Electoral Assistance Division, who I understand can help ensure a safe and fair election process, and I am prepared to call them in if the parents try and scotch my election to position of Pack Leader!

p.s. Dear Muppet - Even though I will not be on television, I am prepared to donate you a free pawtograph should you be interested. Just let me know.

Questions questions

I have serious concerns. Mum says something Important is happening tomorrow but she still won't say what. Instead, she's been asking me all these questions and writing them down on this really long form. About my health, how I feel, where on my body I like being touched and don't like being touched! Do I like being brushed (did she really have to ask?)!

What in the world is she up to?

She's not been asking Dylan, just me. Is it some kind of market research? Am I going to be involved in the tasting of some new and fantastic treats? Or is there a more sinister event occurring? My mind is running amok with possibilities, a few of which I shall share with you.

• I am going under the knife in some heinous medical operation (I've had one of those before and it was awful, made me wibbly for days).
• I am being signed up to a doggy dating service (I know some dogs might get all slathery at this notion but I have to say I'm not terribly interested - do you get treat matching services? oooh, have I just had the most marvelous idea? Is this a gap in the market? Note to self: do new mind meld on practicalities of idea).
• I am going to be one of those daytime chat shows and the questions are to make sure I am not a complete nutter who will ruin the show. Or to make sure I AM a complete nutter who will MAKE the show. Hmm.

You see how my mind is motoring around? I am being eaten up with curiosity. I can think of nothing else.

Well, I say nothing else, but of course that doesn't include food. I am going to have to lodge another complaint. Only one meal today. Does she think I won't notice? Does she think that by giving me a teensy bit more food in the one meal, I won't require the other?

I am sharpening my pencil.

Please think of me tomorrow. If I survive this "Important Event" I shall explain all.

Parcels aren't just sent by People!

You remember that parcel that we sent to London? And the one we got back full of delicious treats? Well, there has been a Development in this little festival of post.

The Parcel Sender came to stay. All the way from London. And get this...

It's a D.O.G.! Yes, a dog! To be precise, a girl dog called Rosie. I am supposed to say hello to her because I know she reads this and Mum said I had to. To be honest though, she had ideas of grandeur. I mean, she'd only been here 24 hours and she decided she wanted to be boss! I tried to explain about the theory of democracy, and the Campaign, and that if she wanted some action she'd need to formally become a candidate, but she didn't want to know. She may even have made a rude gesture! She certainly didn't agree. Mum said it was normal for girl dogs to take charge, but how can that be right? She didn't even have a manifesto.

She charmed That Whippet alright. All he talks about now is "Rosie this" and "Rosie that". If I hear "When Rosie was here" one more time I'll pull his tail hairs out. It's not that I didn't like her, it's just that all the rough and tumble play between her and That Whippet was inconsiderate in a small flat like ours and I got shoved around several times.

Mum says I mustn't focus on it, so I am concentrating on nurturing my inner buddha. She says I have a special visitor this week, but she won't tell me who so I shall just have to wait and see.

In the meantime campaigning is going well and I am delighted to see I have a supporter as far away as Australia! It is comforting to know that I am not alone in believing in my right to lead this Pack. Sadly I do not yet have my Campaign Badges as Mum seemed very unhappy at my using her Paypal account and took away my unsupervised laptop privileges.

Still, I am working on my posters and have some good spots picked out around the building where they will make a real impact on the voters. The patch of wall just above Dad's computer screen is a prime target. He seems rather complacent about the whole Campaign idea and is in danger of suffereing a crushing defeat if he doesn't pick his feet up. Luckily, I am a good Strategic Thinker and this I am sure will stand me in good stead.

Election Fever

Apologies for the absence but I have been exceptionally busy. The Campaign to Democratise Our Pack is coming on nicely, I am mainly still in the research phase but have learnt several vital facts:

• If you are elected leader you are in charge, and although you might listen to what other pack members have to say, it is up to you to do what you think is best (I believe I would be well suited to this role).
• Leaders get respect - I am certainly due some of that.
  
• Elections are expensive, therefore I will need to start fundraising as soon as possible (Dylan has a spanking new kong in the cupboard that he doesn't know about yet so I could sell that for starters).
• I will need some badges. Everybody will want to shout out to the world that they support Me so I will definitely need badges (see item above ref fundraising).

It seems I already have some supporters, so I have a mandate to step up to the election plate. I have polled the household (though they were all rubbish at remembering to fill out their forms so I had to do it for them) and 3 out of 3 fellow pack members all said they thought I would be an exceptional leader.

So, I am formally launching my bid to become Pack Leader. I will notify Mum (who seems to be the admin person round here) and hopefully get some pilchard bread for my bravery and civic mindedness!

Other news: We have been visiting! Yes, I am much in demand, so Mum and Dad kindly escorted me to my human grandparents. They have the most amazing garden, filled with lovely areas that are a cunning mix of plants and mud patches. They call them "flowerbeds" but I think that they are actually designed for the dual task of olfactory stimulation (sniffing flowers) and paw massage (mud is great for the pads you know). I shall therefore call them "Nose and Paw Fun Parks". Much more accurate.

Otherwise, there is an Interesting Event taking place this weekend, I can tell. I am not yet privy to the details, but I am pretty sure that Someone is coming to Visit Me. I know this because Mum and Dad are tidying up. I will keep you updated, as campaign work allows.

And now I must go and source badges on the internet. I have discovered this fantastic thing called PayPal. Now I don't have to worry about getting hold of Mum's credit card because I can just presss this little button on the screen and pay for all the stuff I want!

Sorted!

This Thing Called Democracy

I have been very interested to learn that there is something called an 'election' going on in America, which I believe is somewhere to the west of Wales, where I now reside. I have read up on what an 'election' is and am astonished to find that the leader of the pack of America is being voted for by the pack members!

I never heard of such a thing! Apparently, this is called Democracy, which is today's new word.

This has deep ramifications for my entire setup. I don't recall having an 'election' here. I've been with my pack nearly 3 years now and am sure I wouldn't have missed such a momentous event. There certainly wasn't a vote on whether to let That Whippet join. I know how I would have voted on that one!

Anyway. I am wondering. Does this lack of 'democratic rights' mean I reside in a dictatorship? Am I under the thumb of a harsh and illegal regime? Are my civil rights being eroded every moment that I breath?

Or, and this is a horrifying thought, do dogs not get a vote????

Now I cannot truly believe this, since we hounds are integral parts of the wheel of human life, but I am not sure which of the two options is the worse. Having my Dad (yes, despite her best efforts, poor old mum really isn't pack leader material) lord it up over me without any kind of mandate (I'm getting good at the lingo aren't I?) really isn't acceptable.

So it is with a committed heart that I have to launch my new campaign. The Toys are Free (I cannot bring myself to wholly explain this since it involves unacceptable levels of talking about That Damn Whippet) and my efforts are no longer needed there.

Enter....



The Campaign to Democratise Our Pack.




We have already held a straw poll between myself and Dylan and it was a unanimous vote for ME. I was delighted, and the Whippet wasn't at all coached.


Not one little bit.

My Dad is a Hero!

He is! He really is! Last night was our pub darts team first home game. But lots of people were away and there were only 5 team members, instead of 6! They would have had to forfeit! A while back Dad reluctantly agreed to be the absolute last resort I-really-don't-want-to-have-to-play home game reserve, and last night, despite the fact that the pub was heavingly busy, he bravely stepped up to the plate.

He lost his singles game. He did, there's no hiding it. But only just and I think he was just getting warmed up. It was tense, very tense. People were impressed, I could tell. And he was first, which I think is hardest. But - and get this - he won his doubles game! He won, he won! Well, him and his partner, but they both played great! Everyone went crazy!

Of course, the other team still won, but only by one game and if Dad hadn't played we would have lost by loads more games and been bottom of the league table for sure. He seems to be quite enthusiastic about darts now.

Me and Dylan had to go upstairs after the darts match finished because some girls started to play who couldn't really play at all and the darts were going everywhere except in the board. Dylan spent the rest of the night shouting, but I just slept. I'm cool that way. Dylan doesn't know when to give up.

On a different subject, I haven't yet received a reply to complaints letter, but will not let the matter lie. Parents have been a little too 'talk to the hand' about the matter so far for my liking but have agreed to reply in writing so I can put it on file. I don't hold out much hope for a positive message.

I always have the RSPCA phone number as a last resort.

OutRageous!

Well, life has taken a turn for the worse. I am sorry to report that I have been forced to file an official complaint with Parents Plc. This is what I have submitted:

Dear(ish) Mother and Father

I feel it is imperative that I point out that tonight, Thursday 30th October, I was not fed an evening meal until 10.10pm. I was fed 'breakfast' at approximately 12.58pm (which I would like to point out would technically be lunch since it was 'pm') and therefore 9 hours and 12 minutes elapsed between meals.

In that time, I played with Dylan (extensively and energetically), I stayed home alone with Dylan while you 'shopped' (emotional trauma which saps much energy), I walked up AND down a mountain and I entertained customers.

I feel that today's feeding schedule has been woefully inadequate considering the Hard Work I have undertaken. I feel let down. I feel glum.

Please let me know what reparations I can expect (the tiny piece of pizzle I reluctantly accepted at close of pub time does not count) and what improvements you intend to put in place to ensure this Never Happens Again.

Yours(ish)

Clive

I await a reply and will now retire to bed. Their bed.

Ha!

My Inner Puppy

Tonight I am feeling rather mellow. I must admit that recently I have been a little out of sorts. Yesterday was particularly trying. The darn parents kept going out and leaving me with just That Stupid Whippet for company. I got grumpy; there were words. I'll leave it there.

Today, though, I feel somewhat refreshed and my inner puppy has been out to play. This generally results in much bouncing, some really good clubbing of Dylan round the head with my paws (it's all in good fun, of course), lots of wagging and asking for belly rubs.

I have been sociable and confident. Mostly. There was that incident with the pumpkin, but I prefer not to think about that right now.

I like my inner puppy. It is a good thing. Fun, energising, relaxing. I'm not sure where you get them from, mine always seems to have been there, but I do think it is sad that not everyone has one. Do they fade as you get older? Can you get a lotion or potion that makes them stay? I would like to be able to summon it on command, but it is a slippery thing, ducking and diving.

I have noticed a pattern. No inner puppy = grumpiness. Inner puppy = happiness.

I must talk to Dad about the possibility of finding the cause of my inner puppy and how I can then patent it and sell it for millions.

Then I can have all the treats and toys that I desire. And deserve!

Prison Break-out!

So. I guess you are all wondering what happened yesterday regarding the T.O.Y. event. I'm not actually sure how to report it.

The bare bones of the matter are this: at approximately 19.10 last night Dylan entered the pub carrying a T.O.Y. To be precise it was the larger of our two soft and honky long dog toys (we have a small one as well, which I seem to remember got it a bit tight one day and is currently awaiting surgery). Mum expressed intense surprise, but concluded that it must have been a rogue toy that had been hidden somewhere and not locked away in Toy Prison with the rest of our belongings.

She removed said T.O.Y. from Dylan and put it on the high shelf in the bar (which, by the way, I had to sadly conclude was not reachable - you should have seen the risk assessment on piling up miscellaneous items and climbing up ro rescue toys!).

Dylan left the pub in a high dudgeon. I resumed my blogging activity.

At approximately 19.14 Dylan re-entered the pub with Another T.O.Y. This time the cheeky beggar was mouthing my (personal use only) giraffe bone! I have had this since I was a mere pupster and it is precious to me. Naturally, I had to retrieve it from Dylan's jaws.

Unfortunately Mum noticed. She then decided the sudden appearance of Another T.O.Y. required investigation and went upstairs. We followed.

Shock horror! The Toy Prison Door was ajar! Actually it was open by a good 8 inches! There was a pile of toys spilling out all over the floor! Mum questioned Dad who claimed no knowledge of this event. I, of course, had been downstairs with Mum at the time of the Prison breach.

All eyes swung to Dylan who stood there wagging his tail in a stupid manner.

Much discussion followed. Mum said it must have been Dylan, and Dad seemed inclined to agree. Dylan was keeping very quiet. I said that Dylan was just not capable of such derring-dos. How would he have opened the latch?

And then I remembered something. A few days ago I had seen Dylan scratching away at the door. He was being very persistent. I put it down to stupid desperation for a toy and ignored him. After all, we had carried out a very thorough reccee of the door in the early days of the Campaign to no avail.

But. Is it possible? Did Dylan's persistence pay off? Had he weakened the latch? He does have long sharp claws, could he have gained leverage?

I am still leaning towards it being a lucky break, but every now and again I see the ghost of a smug smile of his face and I wonder. I really wonder.

Of course, there is no Hollywood ending to this story. The Toys are back in Toy Prison. We have cruel, unrelenting owners.

Oh and by the way "Rosie Posie" (if that's your real name). I have seen your comment and your tauntings are nought to me. I am stronger, far stronger than that.

Put those darn scissors down woman!

I was right. She has now attacked my chest, belly and (oh the shame of it) my nether regions with those damn scissors. At that point I started a major wriggling campaign and she let me off 'until another day'.

Ominous. Thankfully having half a haircut doesn't look too stupid. At least she did both front legs at once. I remember one time she did one paw and leg and not the other, and I looked like a right ninny. People commented. It was humiliating.

So it is Friday night. I have just finished my barking-at-the-neighbour-unpacking-his-car routine. Well, he was going about it in a very suspicious manner. I have not had enough food, having only had one proper meal event and one small snack. Oh and quite a few bits of pilchard bread during my haircut trauma this morning. So, by my reckoning I am due another complete meal. More lamb breast (lovely and meaty, with crunchy little soft boney bits...mmmmmm) would be fine, but I would also accept mince. I am a little fished out, to be honest, as that's what we've had the last two days. To be honest, I'll eat pretty much anything Mum puts in my bowl (or drops on the floor, I am an excellent hoover), though by preference I would up my rations quite substantially.

Sad news on the walks front. That Whippet is now allowed off lead again, having healed sufficiently well. He was a right pain in the backside yesterday and got very over-excited, which I told him in no uncertain terms (Dad says it was my fault but I think he was mistaken) and I hold him entirely repsonsible for the fact that we were both on-leads and walked along a boring lane today.



NEWS FLASH...NEWS FLASH....NEWS FLASH...NEWS FLASH.....

Clive has had to leave off blogging temporarily because it seems that a T.O.Y. is at large!!!

Naturally he has had to go investigate. He will return anon.

A parcel arrived for me!

Not treats (sadly) but instead a new jumper. And no, before you ask, I do not wish to post a photo. I am in two minds about jumpers. It is a rare day that I actually need one, since I have such a magnificent naturally thick coat, but in this 'special' building with its 'special' heating system, it does get significantly cold in winter. And winter is on its way.

Most of the time, I am just hot and scratchy if I wear my jumper (just to clarify, I don't exactly get to choose if I am going to wear it, it gets put on me). I am an expert at extracting myself from it (either by using special secret spaniel jumper evacuation techniques that I am unable to share with you or by looking so pathetic and refusing to move that some nearby human takes pity on me).

On occasion, though, as the mood takes me and the weather deteriorates, I can be found happily - and very stylishly I may add - relaxing in my jumper, generally on the sofa or comfy chair. It stops me shivering and gives me a certain, how shall I put it, individuality.

This new jumper was tailor made especially for me by my human Granny. She has done a Very Good Job, I must say. It is dark blue with a turquoise trim. Manly. Spanielesque. And importantly, a one off. No other spaniel will be sporting exactly my sense of style.

On an altogether darker note, I am also 'developing' a new haircut. By this I mean that I have been at the receiving end of the scissors, but since this was confined to my head and neck, I suspect there is more to come.

I hate the scissors and I have used this to my advantage by training my Mum to feed me copious amounts of tasty morsels whilst she wields them. For this, I can just about put up with these vicious implements.

Anyone who thinks getting a haircut is fun is M.A.D.

Poet Shmoet

It has come to my attention that my last post has caused some small concerns. Phrases such as "going soft" have been bandied about.

Have no fear.

I am Spaniel enough that I am able to indulge in a little poetry when the mood takes me, and still be my own sweet tyrannical self. After all, was not Henry VIII an accomplished poet? And look what a leader he turned out to be! Very much in control of his household.

As for concerns about my hair, rest assured. I have more than ever and no intentions whatsoever of loosing it any time soon. It was merely a poetic turn of phrase. Plus, it rhymed.

Today we are all chilling out in front of the fire. We heroically stomped about the beach this morning in gale force winds, and I chased my ball several times. Once I've had a nap, I will be turning my mind back to the issue of No TOYS.

But just for now, I am full of food (beef mince, damn it was juicy) and feeling sleepy...

In which I get lyrical

I have had an important communication from a land far away! I had to look in the atlas to see where this "Cyprus" place was, and indeed it is many miles from here. A small place, but obviously a place where intelligent and thoughtful dogs live. In my communication (entitled a "comment") I have received highly useful intelligence that may well get the Free the Toys Campaign back on track. I need to consider my options, based on this new intelligence, but I am confident that this marks the start of a whole new phase of the Campaign.

I may even be able to get that damn Whippet back in line.

I would also like to take a moment to thank my "Followers". I don't know you. You don't know me. But you Follow Me nonetheless, thus proving your worth and dedication. I thank you all. To celebrate this special group of people, I have penned a little verse. I hope you like it.

To my Followers

You follow me, I see it, I care.
You follow me here, you follow me there.
I like being followed, I like it when you're there.
Please follow me even if I've no hair.

Thank you one and all.

Betrayel is spelt WHIPPET

Well, That Whippet now claims that not only has he been playing with Green Dog, but he has also had access to Tinkly Ball! My Tinkly Ball! Well, not the original Tinkly Ball that I loved so much when I was a wee pupster, because that one mysteriously disappeared on a road trip I took with Mum and Dad, but a replacement Tinkly Ball (though to be honest I never really took too so Dylan is welcome to it, except that I'm still not getting any toy time). And I really think he must be telling the truth because he's not played with Tinkly Ball for months so wouldn't have remembered it to make up a lie about it! I, of course, never forget a toy.

What in the world is going on?

I mean, I know he's not going out on walks still on account on that crater in his pad, but is that reason to give him privileges I am denied? Is it? We asked for toys this morning, and were told in no uncertain terms to "make do with each other". Which we did, until Mum came upstairs to see what was going on because she said we sounded like "a herd of elephants", whatever they are. We were only playing chase up and down the corridor. Then Dylan got a bit overexcited (like he always does) and started tearing around the pub and had to be sat down in a corner until he could breath properly again. Muppet.

To be honest, this whole Dylan-getting-toys thing has all but collapsed the Free the Toys Campaign Committee. Last night we sat down to talk about things and, well, it just got a bit heated. I admit I was wound up by the Tinkly Ball rumours, but Dylan just didn't seem to be taking it seriously anymore! Said since he was getting toys, he didn't see why we needed to keep on with our work! I was thoroughly disheartened and may have made a rude gesture at him.

On a much more positive note, though, the more relaxed rules about the sofa seems to be continuing. It seems that if I get off whenever I am told, I don't always get told to get off, if you see what I mean? I may have caused a little set back on the bed access issue last night by being reluctant (well, refusing, to be honest) to get off when told. The bedroom door has been shut again since then. But I am trying really hard.

Don't they know how comfy that darn bed of theirs is?

Dylan is telling lies. I am sure of it. At least, he better be. He said that while Dad was taking me out for a walk yesterday (silly cut pad boy had to stay at home) he and Mum had a game with a T.O.Y.! He claims it was green dog, which is a fairly boring toy as it doesn't squeak or honk or throw very well. But it is a toy nonetheless! I definitely don't believe him.

Although. Although. Something odd happened tonight. I was lounging good and proper on the sofa, all paws to the ceiling and that kind of thing, when Mum came up from the pub. I prepared to launch myself onto the floor when she came over and gave me a great big hug! And then she gave my chops a tickle, and then I got a full on belly rub. And not once did she ask me to get off the sofa! Lovely, but also disconcerting.

Does this mean Boot Camp is off? Dare I hope? I have also had access to the bedroom today, though I haven't risked going on to their bed. Are we no longer in Disgrace? Was Dylan telling the truth?

So many questions!

Dilemma

Free the Toys Campaign Day 5

Days without toys = 7

Campaign Report:

Hypnotising Dad: Well, I have done lots of research, and found a suitably shiny medallion with which to put Dad under the influence but I have run into an insurmountable problem. It seems I need to be on a level high enough to dangle the darn medallion in front of his eyes. But that means getting on some furniture (the coffee table is particularly suitable) and Boot Camp rules mean that I am shooed off anything that is the least bit comfy or useful. 'Off Clive' is the bane of my life! Oh for a few more inches on these furry legs of mine! So, for now, hypnosis is off the agenda.

Blow doors off Prison Door: I was originally planning to just buy some explosives online, seemed like the easiest option, but Mum appears to have hidden all the credit cards. I'm really not a cash kind of guy, plus I'm not sure any of the shops I have seen in town are that kind of shop. Also, these two numpties who call themselves my "parents" haven't got a decent chemistry book between them, so its not as if I can manufacture some here at home! Sadly this exciting option is going the way of hypnosis.

Teleport Toys out: Absolutely out of the question. No way. I saw a clip of a documentary on YouTube that showed a creature being teleported and it was...I can hardly write the words...it was turned inside out!!! I simply cannot risk such a horrible fate happening to my (sorry, our) toys. It would be nightmarishly bad. No way. No.

Chew through door: This is our backup backup plan, for when things get really bad and they are clearly not going to return the toys any time soon, and everything else has failed. Partly because it requires them to leave us for a substantial amount of time, which they don't do very often, but mainly because I suspect (in my 3 years of experience as a dog) it will get us into serious disgrace. And Disgrace is what caused the Toys to be confiscated in the first place. I believe the term might be "counter-productive".

So, I find myself in the grips of a moral dilemma.There is a new option, an opportunistic option created by my muppetish co-campaigner's leap from a great height of yesterday. This option is called "Sympathy". A simple title for a cunning approach. Beseeching eyes, as we have found, are not in themselves sufficient to wrench those hard parental hearts. But gaping wounds? A bit of oh Mum it hurts me? Woe is meeee! What would make me feel better? Well, obviously more biscuits would help...what's that? Peanut butter biscuits? Yes, well, they would be welcome. But what would really make me feel better, what would put the wag back in my droopy little tail, well...that would be a toy, Mum. Yes, a toy.

The dilemma is that Dylan is actually a bit too sore to leap around with a toy. I gave it a good go this morning, and gave him several clubs round the head, ran round him in circles barking my head off, tore up and down the corridor plainly inviting him to play, but no. He just lay there looking pathetic. Every time I got near his pathetic little paw he'd move away pathetically. So, do I make him lie to Mum when it's actually me that wants the toys? When toys might actually make his sore paw sorer? Do I have it in me to practice such deceit?




Of course I do. He's only a Whippet.

Medic!

Man down, we have a man down! Disaster has struck at the heart of The Free the Toys Campaign Committee! Dylan, foot soldier, sound board and fellow toy-lover, took it into his head to jump off a ten foot cliff on our walk today and cut off part of his pad! The blood! Eugh.

I am now alone in my quest. Dylan is prostrate at Mum's feet, being pathetic and occasionally holding his paw up in a stupid manner. His has an embarassing bandage and sock affair strapped to his paw. And he calls himself an "action kind of guy". If you can't tell, right now, I am shaking my head.

It's not as if we were even engaged in dangerous activites relating to the Campaign! Just tooling about the woods with Dad, enjoying the sunshine, sniffing out sniffs, being dawgs. It probably means a trip to the V.E.T.s but don't tell Dylan, he'll get even more drama-queenish. And that would be hard to take.

On the Campaign front, until this set-back I was hopeful that we were nearing the end of the tyranny. Dylan had put in some really solid "beseeching eyes" work last night after dinner, and reported back that Mum seemed to be near to cracking. I have been scanning the internet to find hypnosis instructions. Also, we overhead an interesting snippet from Dad, which I am sure - if I heard what he said correctly - we can use to our advantage. It went along the lines of "so long as they don't figure out how to pile stuff up and get to the shelf, we'll be alright'.

Now this alerted us to the possibility that, assuming they were discussing the Campaign at the time, not all the toys were in the Toy Prison! It is true that in the past toys have sometimes been kept on a high shelf in the pub. But, and I have to admit it's a big but, it's a very high shelf and we are not actually allowed behind the bar which would be the best location to pile stuff up (also not sure what 'stuff' Dad was referring to - is this a specific term for an item which is made for 'piling up' situations? Or are you supposed to use items we find lying around the place? Don't know.). I was hoping the Dylan and I could discuss this tonight, but he is now all "ooohhh, my paw" and "leave me alone Clive" so he's going to be no use at all.

I feel a little deflated. It has been 6 days without toys now, with the exception of the beach. They definitely won't let Dylan play with any at the moment because his "enthusiastic" style would hurt his paw. And if they don't let him, they're not likely to let me.

I guess it's down to me now. I just need to dig deep and not give up hope.

Campaign Day Two

Day 4 without Toys.

Okay, so things didn't exactly go to plan. In fact, I don't think Dylan even read the plan! Every time I went to put my paws on his back to hop up he got all ancy and mvoed about. Said I was tickling him, and it "felt funny". Idiot. Ruined everything! I didn't get anywhere near the handle on the Toy Prison door.

So, we have had to think again. Thinking is something I am good at, so I have done a thinking...thing. I call it a "Mind Meld". To be honest I'm not at all sure what one of those is, but it sounds good! It will help us decide what to do next.





I'm feeling really positive that one of these ideas will work. Dylan and I need to talk things through tonight (though why I bother to even involve him I don't know...) and we will start afresh tomorrow.

On a more positive note, we had a fab walk at the beach today. I was very worried that the Toy Ban would extend to the beach (it's the only time we are allowed toys on our walks) but thankfully we both got lucky! Mum obviously isn't so silly as to deny us on the beach. Dylan is sad though because his beloved kong is on its last legs. It is almost split in two. I had a good look at it when I took it half way through the walk (it's okay, I gave it back...well, okay, Dad took it back but that's not so different is it?) and it is definitely not long for this world. He will be lost without it.

Sadly, we were not fed before our walk (most remiss, though I understand there are "issues" to do with me having a tendency to throw up in a moving vehicle if I've eaten recently, but that was a phase when I was a puppy and I still deny that I threw up 8 times in the space of a one hour journey...). And our walk was in the afternoon so when we got home we were Starving! However, Mum did not remember to give us extra rations so I am now going to write her a note to remind her we are owed one whole meal. She is very forgetful.

I'm off to take Dylan through the Mind Meld options. One of them must be the solution to our desperate struggle!

Free the Toys Campaign!

Dylan and I have been busy. We have officially formed the "Free the Toys Campaign Committee". I am in charge. Dylan is my foot soldier. After much debate, some initial reccees and more debate, we have conceived our First Plan.



Hope we don't suffer any casualties. Will have to wait until Mum and Dad are busy in the pub.

They'll never expect this!

Disgrace!

There has been an incident. So much for Boot Camp, I suspect Dylan and I are now in Disgrace. Deep in Disgrace. We 'may' have had a scrap. We 'may' have not wanted to stop scraping. We 'may' have given each other a few little nicks and scrapes.

What is certain is that I didn't get any special birthday treats on Monday (3 glorious years since the day of my birth!). We are definitely not being allowed to commit any argy bargy whatsoever. And, and this one is a shock, so please excuse me if I falter here...we haven't seen a single toy for 3 days!

3 days!

That means no toys after dinner (a sacrosanct tradition). No toys of an evening when it is quiet in the pub. No toys. NO TOYS! Now, I am mature, I can cope. Really, I can. My main concern is obviously That Whippet, I mean Dylan. He is very keen on his toys. He mopes without toys. He loves being able to give his toys to me. Toys define him.

I am actually considering writing to someone about this. We are being forced to play with each other, for lack of alternatives. Yesterday, we had to make do with running up and down the balcony, wrestling in the living room, chasing each other in and out of the bedroom and mutual ear sniffing. Disgusting to make us resort to this. Does that sound like a happy and content dog household? No, I thought not.

It is hard to know where we go from here. Mum and Dad have given us no timetable for the release of the toys (I know where they are being held captive, but goddammit my paws can't open the latch on the cupboard door). We are being made to work very hard. 3 or 4 times a day there is training. On your mat. Give me paw. Roll over. Watch me. I'll watch them, I tell you. Everyday.

Everyday until the toys are released.

Free the toys!

I am victorious! She has crumbled before the might of the Cocker and pilchard bread is currently cooling in the kitchen. I am not supposed to know that, as she hasn't deemed to inform us, but how could she fox a nose like mine? It's about time as well, we had to make do with cheese last night! What a shocker.

Went on a brilliant walk with Dad today. All the way round the local mountain. Something wierd is happening though. Dylan and me had one of our 'conversations', which Mum and Dad hate, and normally when we do that they wade in and try and seperate us. But today, Dad just walked away from us. We were that surprised we just stopped 'talking' and followed after him. Didn't seem much point if he wasn't watching. He told Mum we'd had a scrap, though that is such an exageration - I was merely pointing out that Dylan was doing something I didn't like, and he was replying - but they seemed pleased to the point of smugness that we'd stopped once they stopped looking at us. I suspect Boot Camp rules.

I wonder if it is the garlic version of pilchard bread or the straightforward version? Do you know, we haven't had any of those tasty little peanut butter biscuits for a long time. We're definintely due some of those.

Oh! I nearly forgot! I have exciting news! Again, not something I am supposed to know, but I have good hearing and am an excellent conversation overhearer. I think, I'm not sure, but I think, that it's a very special day for me on Monday! Not Dylan, just me! I have absolutely no idea why, but I think it's an excellent idea.

A day dedicated to Clive.

Grrrrr.

That's how I'm feeling today. Grrrrrr. And Bored. Bored bored bored bored bored. My people had visitors today, who we know and love (though they brought some other different people with them too) but they were all too busy yakking to talk to us. It was all "off Clive" and "down Clive". Yadder yadder yadder.

They ate food and didn't give us any. Okay, we had a so-called "treat" and had lamb for breakfast and dinner, but what about their food? Nothing fell on the floor. Nothing. And call that a walk? On-lead and it was doing that thing where there's loads of water in the air being blown around. I got soaked! And I couldn't run around to get it out of my coat. Miserable. Came home and then they opened up the pub. No-one interesting has come in. I'm still not allowed on the sofa, or in the bedroom.

I'm fed up.

Plus, I think we're out of treats. I'm sure I heard Mum say so. But she hasn't made any more has she? And no more treats have arrived from London, or anywhere else. I'm worried. What will we do without treats? And I think Mum's up to something. She's got this book, and when she reads it she keeps looking and me and Dylan in an assessing kind of way, and talking to Dad. I've tried to figure out what the book's about, but all I can ascertain is that it has words in it. Worrying.

All I can say is that if there's not the smell of pilchard bread baking before bedtime, I'm going on strike!

Well Boot Camp continues. The bedroom door is shut, I have been denied access to the chair. I did get on the sofa in the night, so ha! to them, but apart from that my soft furnishings quota is well down. Also, I was shut out on the balcony to eat my breakfast alone this morning, which was a terrible miscarriage of justice. There we all were, enjoying a bit of sunshine and lamb bones (yummy), when Dylan (evidently in a generous mood) put down his bit of lamb right in front of me! I, being a slightly faster eater than him, had no lamb in my mouth at the time so rightly took him up on his offer. I mean, he was offering it to me, wasn't he? Why else would he put it down? But before I knew it, I was all alone and Dylan was being offered compensation in the form of one of my bits! Mum said it was only fair, but he offered it to me! He did! I did get the rest of my breakfast eventually (Dylan's soooo slow I have to wait for each piece until he's had his...yawn).

Anyway, all this stress has been somewhat alleviated by a trip to the beach! It was huge! And I made Mum pick up 6 different lots of poo (all my own, of course). Unfortunately, she had taken lots of bags with her, so didn't get to that awkward running out stage. Serve her right for trying to limit which bit of balcony I poo on - now I don't poo at home at all and just save it up for trips out.

It was a very good trip to the beach. I did lots of running around. I ate a bit of seaweed (traditional, got to be done) and Dad and I played The Game. I definitely won today. I think he only got the ball off me 2 or 3 times which is pants, to be honest. I need to have a chat with him before we go again next time, about trying a bit harder. The Game only really works if we're both fully commited. Maybe I should get him into training, get that running speed up a bit.

I'm a little concerned about dinner. I haven't seen anything emerue from the freezer and I'm pretty sure she only came home from the butchers with enough for breakfast. If I've not starved before tomorrow, I'll let you all know how it worked out.

Boot Camp Prisoner No.1 signing off.

I have the distinct feeling that I may have done something they think I shouldn't. The bedroom door is shut, so no lounging around on their bed. I have been denied access to the pub for most of the evening. There have been no toys. None. Not even after dinner (ahhh...dinner, Italian tonight with pilchards and pasta!), which is a sacred tradition! Smells of boot camp to me. I'm not even allowed up on the chair in the living room. I mean, it's my chair! I tried standing outside the bedroom door, sitting beside it even, but Mum never opened it. Just shook her head at me. I am having to sleep on my own bed!

I am at a loss to explain it. I have behaved impeccably, as usual. It's been a fairly normal day. Of course, there was that really weird loud bell noise in a neighbour's house that we had to investigate on the way back from our walk. Turned out not to be a problem, but then Dad got a bit grumpy because me and Dylan had had words in the hallway while he did stuff round the house. What does he expect? Strange house, small hallway, I mean we were keeping to a timetable! Dinner follows walk, so if you linger too long on the way home from walk you might miss dinner! At the very least, you delay dinner and that, quite frankly, is just not on.

Anyway, if anything it should be me that is hacked off with them, not vice versa. Letting Dylan get all smoochy with them up on their bed all the time. They know I don't like it. Just because I don't want to go on their bed with them all the time, doesn't mean he should be able to. There is an order to the world, and they shouldn't mess with it. I am Clive and he is Dylan. I am first, he is second. I am Cocker!

Before you all start getting worried, let me reassure you. I am perfectly reasonable. I let Dylan pull me round the floor by his silly half-eaten plastic orange bear thing just this morning! I haven't been stealing his food, and he's not hurt. He and I made it up hours ago. But we're still in boot camp.

Boot camp sucks.

A Very Exciting Discovery!

I have incredible news for you. So incredible I am still having to pinch myself to realise it is true. It would seem, though I acknowledge how much of a doubter I was, that it is Well Worth sending parcels of treats to London! Yes, I know! I couldn't believe it when Mum sent off some of our favourite treats to some unknown dog, but what do you know - she sent some back!

I am beside myself with excitement, and am now busily drawing up a plan of action for where else we can send treats to. Particularly - and this is the best bit - since the treats that came back were:

(a) different to the ones we sent
(b) had meat in them and were therefore better than the ones we sent (which only had cheese in them) and
(c) just as numerous than the ones we sent, if not more so!!!

Boy oh boy oh boy. The world just gets better and better!

ps. I have a lot more to say about this week so far, as it has been very exciting all round, but I need to go off and remind mum she hasn't given us any of our delicious London treats yet today, so will be back later. Did I mention they had meat in them?

Well it's Sunday morning after a long hard week. Mum and Dad have been very busy in the pub each night with crowds of people who don't look where they're putting their big feet. I haven't seen many of my regulars as they get lost in amongst all the strangers. Consequently, I have spent quite a lot of time upstairs with That Whippet.

Mum mentioned to me the other day that I might be being a little harsh calling him That Whippet. I have been pondering this. I admit that the name is technically inaccurate, because he's not a whippet. He proably has whippet in him (damn him and his annoying speed), but there's also a healthy dose of hairy collie (or something like that, I don't believe that's the exact breed name). But I can't call him That Hairy Collie Crossed with a Whippet can I? It doesn't exactly slip off the tongue easily. And yes, I know, I could just call him 'Dylan'. And sometimes I do. We're just going through a bit of a phase at the moment. So That Whippet he stays. Anyway, I'm not sure it was really the name that Mum was bothered by, but as she was also muttering something about 'cocker attitude' at the time, I wandered off to sniff out something more interesting.

Tomorrow, I am lead to believe, is not only Monday but is also a very special celebration day! Yes, a double whammy! It's Dad birthday and we're going to dedicate all day to having fun. I'm sure that means there will be loads of pilchard bread and cheesey herb biscuits and bones for breakfast and dinner and several walks and games and belly rubs (oooohh Dad's belly rubs......) and more pilchard bread. Oh and a third meal too. I'm sure that's what Dad would want for his birthday, it's what I'd want for mine! And if he's very lucky, we might take him to the beach.

It's going to be a Great Day.

Balls

A subject close to my heart. Very close. And, happily, the theme for TWO days in a row! Yes, it's true! Both yesterday and today have featured BALLS! Forgive me if I notice your lack of excitement...but it's okay, I find balls exciting enough to make up for any lapse on your part.

So. Today was "Day Off". That means pub shut, down tools and head for fun city! Today, we went to the beach. The beach is great. I don't know if you've ever seen one, but boy would you know about it if you did! They're kind of yellow to start with, and then a bluey-grey at the other side. Wet. Very wet. But also soft and yielding...ooooh. I love the beach. And, best of all, it's where I have my BALL! It's the only walk where I have my ball (which is kind of sad so I prefer to think of it as making the beach extra special). I get to carry my ball, and bury it in the yellow stuff...oh! and there's this slimy green stuff as well that gets heaped up around the place, and I bury my ball in that too! Sometimes I eat the slimy green stuff, but They don't like that and to be honest, nor do I much because it makes me throw up in the car on the way home. Still, I take comfort in the fact that That Whippet has to endure the smell of sick all the way home as well as me. I've not yet managed to get any of it directly on him, but I live in hope.

Anyway, back to the yellow stuff. And my ball. I dig holes and I run and run and run. And Dad and I have this Great Game. We play it all the way up the beach and down again. It goes like this. I have the ball, which I would do because it's mine. Dad doesn't have a ball. He doesn't play with balls. Unless he's playing with mine, that is. So. The game is to see how close he can get to me before I notice him and then run away. He tries to catch me and I run away. Get it? It's great! That's why it's a Great Game. Sometimes I let him catch me, because then I know he'll throw the ball way down the beach and I will charge after it and catch it and come running back and the game will start all over again!

Oh yes, life doesn't get much better than being at the beach! Or so I thought...Yesterday, I was surprised, no that's not enough, I was amazed to be given my ball in the Pub! It wasn't my beach ball but a lovely new tennis ball. I really was amazed because I don't normally get balls in the house these days (something to do with them being a danger to customers if I leave them lying around, I don't understand it myself, how could something as wonderful as a ball be a danger?). But there was no-one in and Mum was muttering something along the lines off "but he's chewed up all his other toys" which must have been directed at That Whippet because I don't chew toys, and then she produced this ball!

It was so new I don't think it had ever been played with! It bounced and I leapt. I took it under the big bench and then for a tour of the front room. It tasted great! And Mum kept bouncing it off the wooden floor and, boy! you should have seen it fly around the place! I was doing these great flying jumps into the back room after it. Really athletic! I didn't know, you see, if I'd be given it again so I really went to town. It was brilliant.

Balls really are a boy's best friend.

A thoughtful day

Tonight I am pondering the fickleness of personal attraction. I'm not talking about doggy love, but dog-human stuff. Let me explain.

There's this one woman, a local, a customer. For some reason unknown to doggydom I had an instant and strong aversion to her. It wasn't anything I could put my paw on, it just was. Everytime I saw her I was struck by that classic doggy quandry: stand your ground or flee. So I ricocheted emotionally between barking my head off (yes, I hold my paw up, sometimes I bark at people - well, honestly, some of these people...but I digress). So, either I barked or I ran, as fast as I could, to the safety of Upstairs.

But. But. Last night in she came and it was like a switch had flipped in my head! I felt an overwhelming welcome bubble up inside me. Before I knew what was what I had risen up off my front paws and placed then on her knee! I was leaning for a kiss...and my tail! You should have seen it! I was helpless in the face of this feeling. I am ashamed to say I even rolled over on my back and encouraged her to tickle my tummy. Why? Why oh why? After months of dislike, I just cannot understand it. I may hate her on sight again tomorrow, but all I know is that for now I am a straw blowing aimlessly in the wind of life. Who knows where it will take me next?

Tonight has been...well, challenging. We were of course working (hosting duties, meet and greet, you know the kind of thing) and there were plenty of regulars in who all needed sniffing out and making feel special.

2 dogs came in for dinner, who we know a little, but they don't really say hi so we just left them to get on with it. They're very polite, just not all that sociable. I don't take offence at that, each dog to itself I say.

Things got a bit crowded, though, later on. A foxy little spaniel girl came in but boy was she a livewire! A bit old for me too, so I retired upstairs and contented myself with shouting my presence known from the top of the stairs. Just so they knew. She did have good ear hair...

I came back down when Doris arrived. She's a regular who we're still getting to know. She's a bit young still, and well...she's a bit bigger than me so I watch my toes. But she's really friendly. The best thing about Doris though is that she absolutely terrifies Dylan. It's hilarious! He ducks and dives to try and get past her without attracting her attention, but Doris loves Dylan so she's doing everything she can to get to him! Fantastic! I just sit back and watch the show. Sometimes he'll sneak up on her from behind to check out her bootie but as soon as she notices that's it - he runs! Ha!

Anyway, apparently things got "out of hand", whatever that means, and him and I were put upstairs to "chill out". Like we needed it. Still, there are compensations to retiring out of the public eye. We got a cow's ear each and have a good chew on them for a while.

A happy dog is one with a very full stomach.

In which I climb a Mountain

Well what a day today has been. We have been out having adventureus in the Big Outdoors. In fact, this dog has been climbing mountains! Yes, I can now add mountaineer to my many other achievements.

To be honest, I have walked some fairly tough terrain before, with my Dad. We sometimes go for hikes, just the two of us, leaping about the heather and scrambling like pros. We're two of a kind. But today was more of a family affair, and this was the biggest hill I've ever summited.

The day didn't start too well. No breakfast (generally a good thing as it means we're going straight out for a walk) but then Mum and Dad buggered off and left us alone. Swines. They keep doing this. And when they did turn up, we still didn't get any breakfast! I let rip at this point and decided the only course of action was to assume we were going on a walk and get really excited to encourage them. Seems to have done the trick nicely! We were loaded into the car and chauffered to our starting point.

Unfortunately it turns out we had to stay on lead all the way. It was That Whippet's fault; he just can't resist sheep. I have the control required to stay focused but he goes all googoo and given half a chance would gambol right over to them. They, of course, then run around like loons being all "Arrrgh! Wolf!" and everybody gets cross.

We had to take it in turns to tow Mum up the steep bits (which was basically all of it) which was quite frustrating and I may have vented my feelings a little out loud. Still, she seemed to appreciate the helping paw, as it were, though sadly not by providing en route snacks. I had the best time out front with Dad, blazing a trail, choosing the best route and, of course, getting to the best bits first.

Oh boy were there some good bits: fetid bogs which tried to suck me under (naturally I took that in my stride, after all a boy doesn't have a good walk without getting a bit muddy); soft plump heather patches to bounce around in; pure mountain streams to pee in. Oh the beauty of it. Not one to linger on nature's elegance, That Whippet just ate sheep poo and let his tongue loll around in a stupid manner. Embarrassing.

When we finally reached the summit Mum and Dad got all pathetic and wrapped up in fleeces and coats while I just let the mountain air ripple through my fur. I was far too worried by that time about the lack of refreshments. By this time it had been several hours since we got up and I was suffering from a severe lack of ingestion. They, of course, saw to themselves first with delectable smelling sausage rolls, but my constant whinging soon produced results, and Mum got out her homemade cheese biscuits! Yum! Of course there weren't nearly enough of them, and (as I'm pretty good at counting) it seems That Whippet got the same number as I did. Don't they know Whippets are supposed to be skinny? He doesn't need biscuits. I do.

After the summit it was pretty much all down hill. Mum didn't seem to appreciate my towing skills so much as on the way up. Kept making me sit down while she clambered over rocks and walked ridiculously slowly. Boy was it dull. I could see That Whippet out front with Dad, where I should have been! I only wanted to catch up with them. There was no need for her to get so crotchity.

Still I'd obviously been a good boy because after a while Dad took both me and That Whippet and we towed him royally down the mountain. He fell over twice, but then he's not a nimble spaniel, is he? He can't help it. In no time at all we were waiting at the bottom of the mountain for Mum to catch up. I could have done it all again, I am a distance kind of guy, but the others wanted to go home.

Once home it was 11 minutes before we were fed, which is far too long. I will be mentioning this in my next memo to Mum and Dad about the ongoing Food Crisis. 8 biscuits between 2 dogs on a mountain walk? Are they crazy?

On a happier note, I have to say it was a corker of a walk. I hope we shall be doing it again tomorrow.

There has been an outrage. I am betrayed. I am still in shock, so bear with me.

It started like any other Sunday. Pub open, quiet, people in, people out. Some ate food (though why they insist on feeding titbits to That Whippet instead of me I shall never know - I alerted Mum to the fact that It was getting fed and she locked the situation down immediately. Ha.) Anyway. We had a darn tasty dinner, some kind of fish with tomatoes, some unidentified soft mush that was probably once a vegetable, a nice seasoning in the rice, a hint of cheese even - in fact now I think about it, an excellent dinner with the obvious exception that there was not enough of it. There never is.

But I get distracted. Pub dinner was over and, excitingly the oven stayed on. I took up position outside the kitchen doorway. There's this tiresome rule that I can't actually enter the kitchen. Something to do with "hygiene" whatever that is. But it does seem to be a Big Rule. That Whippet and I had a conversation early on in our pub careers about this rule and decided it wasn't worth all the finger wagging that went along with so much as a paw hair crossing the threshold. So, for now, we just patrol the borders.

So. The oven stayed on and Mum stayed inside. Soon I could smell cheese, garlic, it was alluring. Then, she ventured upstairs (closely followed by myself) and fetched from the utility room...wait for it...a Tin of PILCHARDS! Now, this can sometimes mean we are about to get fed so I must admit to getting a little ahead of myself, despite having already had 2 (excellent) meals...did I mention breakfast? No, oh okay. Maybe tomorrow.

But the pilchards disappeared into the kitchen with Mum and then the real torment started. The sweet sweet smell of baking pilchard bread. Oh my aching stomach. I sat and sat and waited and waited. Eventually she emerged. Sans pilchard bread! Nope, not a sausage (ooh, sausage!). Instead, I couldn't believe my ears. The perfidy.

The pilchard bread is for Someone Else. Yes, another dog. Not That Whippet, it's not a dog we even know, so it is highly unlikely that they will share with me! It is going in something called "A Parcel" for some damn dog in London. Don't they have pilchard bread in London? I know it's not Wales down there, but even so.

To be honest, I still haven't got over the shock. The pilchard bread is still in the building, so there is hope. Isn't there? I may still find a way to stop the "parcel" taking my pilchard bread away. And I definitely will have to do some research on who this other dog is and what kind of threat they represent to any future pilchard bread batches.

Will keep you posted! Now I have to go bagsy the best bit of the bed.

Well it turns out my secretary is rubbish! All month I've been badgering her to type up my derring-doos with absolutely no response. Finally, today, She is organised.

So. August, where did that go? And what's with all this rain? I am more than happy to go walking in the rain, but it does bug me to have to get my paws wet every single time I go outside to do my business. At least Mum hasn't made me wear that stupid coat. I have told her time and time again, that's why I have fur! I don't need to wear the damn coat. Plus, wearing a coat minimises the need for a good rub down when we get home...grrr baby. Rub downs rule.

Anyway onto the important matter of the day. I have a suspicion that I have been returned to "Boot Camp". This is what Mum mutters whenever I am manfully asserting myself - either over That Whippet or in general around the house. Apparently we have different perceptions of what level of assertion is required. I say that I may sleep on the sofa or bed at any time, and that any plates or food lying around are mine and require guarding from That Whippet. She says that I may take toys off That Whippet if I must (and believe me, I must), but that guarding is out of the question (what???) and she insists of chucking me off the bed and sofa at every opportunity. This, this outrage, is Boot Camp. Otherwise known as "taking me down a peg or two".

So now we're at that tedious stage where she is pulling me up for grumbling at That Whippet, or using that oh so negative command "off!" with boring regularity. But don't worry, I shall get through it. I have infinitely more patience than Her.

So, She has now finished her toast (disgusting, She didn't share any of it). I am due for a snooze.

Let me introduce myself

My name is Clive. I am a Cocker Spaniel, 2 years and 10 months old, and I live in a pub in Wales., with my mum and dad and my brother (sort of) Dylan. He is scruffy.

For some time now, I have been of the opinion that I should share some of the thoughts I have with the wider world. I have so much to give. So, this is what I shall use this blog for. Also, to give you a little insight to my world, the world of the cocker, the world of the Pub Dog.

Notable events today included:

- a trip to the beach (always a cause for celebration since it involves not only a trip to the beach but free-range play with My Ball) and,

- a haircut (never a cause for celebration, though it does involve me getting rewarded for my eternal patience with lots of treats - in this case, homemade cheese & herb biscuits. Damn they were tasty).

As I type (okay, as I dictate and my secretary types - these paws weren't made for keyboards you know), I can hear beery voices floating up the stairs. Pubs, I have discovered, are quite challenging for a sensitive boy like me. I have my favourites, and I love it when little people come in, but groups - pah - not sociable! They don't look where they're putting their feet. Times like that I belong on the sofa, or the bed. Or alternating between both.

Anyhow, it's time I went off to look for my supper (mum isn't quite of the same mind as me when it comes to supper-rights but I am ever hopeful!).