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.

Back to normal

Our house is back to normal at last – would not want to experience another three weeks like the last, with the house in turmoil, my mum going bananas and me starved of attention.  Last length of wallpaper hung in the sitting room late this morning and whoosh – sofas back in place, new curtains up, my sleeping place restored on the rug.

My mum was so worn out she managed to get an emergency body massage at her favourite salon and came back somewhat more mellow.  A stiff gin and tonic did the rest.  Feel safe to leave her and go off the bootcamp for the weekend though I gather I’m coming back to parade for visitors tomorrow night.  Suppose after that I’ll be left on my own (THE CAT won’t keep me company) cos mum has decided to take them out for curry rather than shatter herself again cooking and playing hostess.

Maybe I’ll get a doggy bag this time – rice, naan bread, mild meaty dishes welcome – but no Madras, thank you, burns my tonsils.


I lend a helping hand.