Canis non grata

There’s the doghouse then there’s the ultimate doghouse: not being spoken to, in utter disgrace, can’t have pals around any more.

It’s been a sorry week.  Blotted my copybook by peeing on a stranger’s bowling bag then overnight I vomited and pooped without a warning bark that I was poorly.  She forgave me for that – can’t blame a sick dog, can you – but she was a bit perturbed when she later found another puddle in the same place after the sprog, here for lunch, stood in it.  I hadn’t asked to be out.

The clean-up, however, was not over.  After lunch my pal Chip and I were playing in the front room when, no idea what got into us*, we had a peeing competition against the floor-length curtains.  Screams all round, buckets of detergent, spray stuff and total banishment to the rainy yard for him and me.

My mum wouldn’t look at me for the rest of the day and says I can’t have pals visiting if we behave like street dogs.  It could not get any worse.  Canis non grata for the forseeable future.

  • Truffle’s mum here: presuming this was assertiveness/territorial behaviour.  But it’s absolutely not on.
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