Turns out there are worse things than collie whippets

I honestly would not have thought it possible, but it seems to be true. Don't get me wrong, I still have no time for That Whippet, but I find myself on occasion siding with him against IT.

IT is new. IT is everywhere. IT seems to have an obsession with my ears (well that one I can understand, they are after all fantastic ears). Just as I have settled down for a comfortable snooze on the sofa IT arrives, dribbling, burbling nonsense (all the time, really, it just spouts gibberish), staggering like a drunkard and reaching out with its wet little hands to paw me (paw me...get it? ha!).

Now I have always had an affinity with the small people. I know where I am with them. I sit, I give paw, I am adorably gentle. That is innate in my small people friendly soul. I am reliably informed that IT will one day become a small person. Personally, I just can't see it. IT's not cute, doesn't tickle me nicely under the chin or throw my ball.

On the other hand, IT takes up space on the bed where I used to be, gets fed before me (possibly the worse crime of all) and has significantly decreased the amount of me-time I get with the parents.

Oh and this one is almost unutterable, but I will be brave. IT has meant that not only am I attacked by the dreaded clippers, but I was abandoned with a complete stranger who locked me in a cage and then attacked me with the dreaded clippers.

I believe the parents went to a nearby pub while this heinous crime was taking place. There is no justice in the world that can right this wrong.

Things I have learnt in my absence...

1. Do not wage war against the person who feeds you.

2. Do not wage war against the person who controls your access to the internet, and therefore your blog.

3. Some kinds of 'diet' are apparently not temporary.

4. Clippers are very scary things and not worth the chicken titbits that accompany their use (I never thought I'd say food wasn't worth it, but on this occasion I have been felled by these buzzing nightmares).


Officially, Mother and I have declared a Truce. This, apparently, is what you do to end hostilities. I prefer to see it as a tactial maneouvre. I am playing a Very Long Game.

My goal?

As much food as I desire and abolition of all 'diets'.

From the Front Line...

...sssssh! Don't shout, I am reporting this in secret so that the powers that be around here (aka Mum and Dad) don't censor me. Yes, things have got that bad, and all out war has broken out.

Since the mutilation of my undercarriage, the inadequacy of walks in the days that followed and the appalling changes in diet (i.e. not enough food), relations have broken down. Mum has been unmovable on the subject of food supplies and so I have taken it upon myself to supplement my pathetic diet.

Night raids on the kitchen have so far been quite successful, my high points being an entire loaf of bread and a rather fine pack of weetabix. I now go in there whenever I can in order to chance my luck and fill my ravenous stomach. Of course this has led to much stomping around by parents, and an increased likelihood of the door being firmly shut. I am having to get sneaky. I have found a wonderful camo outfit on the net and am weighing up the merits of wearing it for stealth, against the fact that I find wearing 'clothes' demeaning.

Mum and Dad tried to distract me by taking us on a trip to the Cotswolds, but while it might have had its enjoyable moments, it didn't for one instance take away the enormity of the task at hand.

I Must Be Fed More.

Captain Clive, over and out.


Ssssssssssssssh!

Nag Nag Nag

'Don't lick there'...'don't jump up'...'no running around'...blah blah blah....

This is soooooo boring. I'm not allowed to do anything fun. I haven't been out for a walk since Monday. I felt too depressed yesterday to write, it hurt when I sat down and I couldn't get up on the bed unassisted. Embarrassing. I felt so low that Mum took advantage of me and made me wear my fleece because I was shivering. I told her it was only because of the shock of my loss, but no, she insisted I was cold and needed it. Grrrrrrr.

Plus, I'm sure my food rations have been cut AGAIN. Mum says I'm still on a diet to lose weight (what???? I'll be a skeleton if she has her way) has now been upped because 'done' dogs put on weight more easily. Even less food. Great.

My life is hardly worth living.

Oh, and I have decided I have a bone to pick with Dad. He's a bloke, right? He has...bloke's bits. So, here's my question.

How in the name of everything manly did he let her do that to me???????????

Hmm? Dad? Oh, nothing to say eh? Funny that. Realllllly funny.

I have been violated!!!!!

Shock. Horror. The most fell deed imaginable. Betrayed by my own mother!!!!

Please, if you are of a squeamish nature, I beg that you look away now. And no, Bran, there are no photos.

The truth is...I can hardly bare to say it. Here goes...

I have been unmanned! Yes! I, Clive, am two peas short of a pod! Or should that be two pods short? Well, however you like to put it, I am no longer the man I once was. My short and curlies have been shaved as well so I look like an overgrown puppy whose pods haven't even shown up to the party yet.

The Shame.

I really thought, at the grand age of 3 1/2, that I had gotten away with it. That Whippet had been unmanned since before he came to live with us, and to be honest he's such a girl anyway he'll have hardly noticed any difference. But me! How can I strut my manly stuff now?

The worst of it is I've hardly had anything at all to eat since 7pm yesterday evening. Mother seems to think a tiny bit of roast chicken when I arrived home will be sufficient, but she should know better!

I am overcome by feelings of loss. I will retire.

Adieu.

Oh the shame...

In a cruel retaliation for my revealing Mother as the One Who Knackered the Old Ship Clock (yes, it was her all along, sneaky woman...), she has grasped the scissors and I am now many hairs lighter!

She may as well have taken the clippers to me. Just as I had grown a magnificent furry mane, I have been cut down. Shorn. Embarrassingly so. And it's a ropey haircut too because there are still long bits sticking out in places. I can tell people are laughing at me.

I will require vengeance!

I am lost for words!

I am accused of heavy handed interview techniques with the witnesses! I cannot believe it! I, Clive, am a perfect gentleman! Yes, I am capable of sticking up for myself when required, but to say such dreadful things!

The situation is this. Sometime since my round of interviewing last week, one of the witnesses - the Old Ship's Clock - has developed a little 'issue' . I suspect willfulness on the clock's part, or maybe even a conspiracy to turn this case on its head and frame me - the brave detective! - but the fact is that the hour hand on the clock is looking distinctly cockeyed. Perhaps this is some kind of reaction to the original crime? The other clocks aren't suffering in the same way though. It is most mysterious.

There is another facet to this problem. They do say that the person who reported a crime is often actually the perpetrator, and so I suspect Mum may have had more to do with it than she is letting on. But for my own mother to be using me as a fall guy? I wouldn't have thought it possible!

I am going to have to practice a little divide and conquer, and go talk to Dad about this.

By the way, my nose is improving slightly, I think the lovely little bits of cheese that Dad is giving me morning and night are really helping, but since there is no proper explanation of the cause, I am still very wary that I am being targeted in order to stop me detecting.

I wonder if Sherlock Holmes ever had such problems?