Anybody who reads my stories will know I’m talking about Peppie Gibbons, my
companion, the Whippet. His Dad was on the move again and he had come to stay a
while with Uncle.
He was with me for about four months this time and every day he would greet
me with a smile and a lick. I would either greet him back with a smile and a
rub under the ears or try to wring his friggin’ neck depending on my mood.
I don’t like to embarrass him but I will by telling you about events that
both made my day in one instance and sent me into panic on another. In the tradition of keeping you in suspenders
I’ll give you the bad news first.
I’m not sure how it happened exactly but I thought he was outside wandering
around. He had earlier been mesmerized watching the Battle of Britain between
the Magpies and the Cockatoos high above our roof and was prone to wander off
daydreaming about either Rabbits or ‘Diva’ his new found female friend in town.
On this particular day I was of course talking to myself as is my usual
want at the keyboard of the computer.
‘Shut up’ I thought I heard him bark through the Den window, ‘For Christ
sake shut up’. I just ignored him and changed to whistling tunes from The King
and I.
‘Shut up’ came the bark through the window again, ‘or I’ll kill myself’.
This went on through several ethereal renditions of ‘Shall We Dance’ until I
finally copped a whimpering through the front door which sounded like a refugee
being disemboweled by Pauline Hanson.
‘I’m killing myself - you made me do it’ he yelped outside the front door.
I raced to the steps to find him sitting there, his left paw raised toward
me. He had done this often when attempting to make me think he had
‘arthurmaritus’ in his paw and needed to be hand fed.
But this time it was seriously dripping blood. I could see his reflection
clearly in the red stuff pooled in front of him as he lapped it up thinking he
could balance the loss by drinking it or maybe it was because he didn’t like
being messy.
My God I exclaimed you did go and slash your wrist? (or whatever bit of dog
that’s called). It was spurting out with such force I thought how handy it
would have been around the time of my last grass fire but that’s another story.
I could see no evidence of a Stanley Knife so had to assume he had hidden
it before racing to get my sympathy. I reacted quickly by skipping my cup of
coffee, raiding the First Aid Kit, binding his ankle (or whatever that bit of a
dog is called) with an elastic bandage and getting to the car.
'I dot tor paw and you expect me to walk to the tar?' he barked …..’ you
uncaring, callous, c…t’
A half hour later I could see why Vets have really shiny floors. The moment
that Peppie realised he was to progress out the door at the end of the waiting
room towards a bright white light (some say the sign of impending death) he
tried to lock his legs to the floor, make himself very floppy and flattened his
ears in an attempt to slip his collar off. To no avail however. The slippery
floor gave way and like a loose Catherine Wheel he slowly disappeared through
the opening.
A couple of hours later when the Gin and Tonics had worn off he swayed
unsteadily back through those same doors and into my waiting arms. His welcome
and his demeanor told me straight away that he was now very happy to be out of
the clutches of the Vet but wanted to be carried all the same.
‘I dot tor paw and you till want me to walk to the f…...g tar’
It was I who also almost needed intensive care when presented with the
account. ‘I wanted some stitches not a bloody kidney transplant!!!!!!’ I
exclaimed when faced with a $409.00 Vet Account—and I was not a member of Medipet
either.
For months after his operation he was still using his sore paw as an excuse
not to do anything for himself even down to preparing his Martini’s (shaken
vigorously, not stirred), putting his collar on to go out and even down to
standing there while his cloakroom assistant dressed him in his finest to go
down to the pub and lay around with Diva.
But it was all a put-on for he was not smart enough to realize that his
foot was quite cured when it came to chasing down other small animals or racing
up to me for his daily bone. He was always keen to point the bone at anything
else but himself when things went wrong.
Food and water, cuddles, a nice warm bed and the occasional sniff of a butt
is all a dog needs to be happy.
By the time he went back to his ‘Dad’ his foot was well mended so much so a
month after he returned home he tested it out under the tyres of a passing car.
But more of that later.
As one would know dogs take quite a bit of looking after, considering they
always want to go ‘walkies’, and I for one was quite pleased that Peppie just
wants to lay around all day like me. We just fill in our days contemplating for
me ‘the effect of gravity on stomachs’ and for him it was ‘new ways of licking
his genitals’.
Occasionally he will go and practice for his attempt at ‘Ninja Warrior’
(SBS2-Sundays-7.30) but it doesn’t last long. He soon smells a rabbit and goes
off on his usual wild-goose chase. He hasn’t caught a rabbit yet (except
tearing apart my feather duster) but the rabbits don’t know that and have gone
off to live next door just in case.
I’m not sure that I should call him a wimp just yet but he’s definitely
taken on some of my pacifist tendencies. Whippets by nature will tend to take
off like an Scud* Missile after anything considerably smaller than themselves,
however Peppie, maybe because he’s nearly as lazy as me, has decided to ignore
mice for the meat to entrails ratio is not to his particular liking, so he just
lets them run over him on the way to the mouse trap.
Mouse-trap? Yes! Not even Pacifists object to the snap of a trap when in
competition for the loaf of bread. I had so many of them that I was catching an
average of one a day for nearly a month, and I tell you no lie that I caught
two in the same trap going for the same cheese, but I could still not find
where the little buggers were getting in. (I found it this week where the TV
cable comes up through the floor following the removal of a wall cabinet). Once
the mice were eradicated I had no further use for the traps and ate the
remainder of the peanut butter myself.
Chortling (a belly laugh you keep to yourself) caused me to consider the
now redundant mouse traps. One morning I was laying in bed watching a daddy-longlegs
jerking himself across my bedroom ceiling when I heard a loud snap followed in
a second by a brindle blur shooting across the bed like a lost meteor. Dawg had
snuck his nose behind the fridge and set off the last remaining nibble of
peanut butter. The shock caused him to propel himself towards me and seek
sanctuary under the doona.
Now, as I have said before, furniture was out of bounds, and I gave him the
distinct impression that he leave the bed immediately. He obliged but for the
next two hours he wouldn’t walk past the fridge unless I was with him like a
surrogate body guard against whatever it was that tried to take his nose off.
Worse than that he became so ‘sooky’ that he even gave up sleeping on his
KISS bean bag under an Onkaparinga blanket with his own convection heater. He took
up temporary residence in a Thai Airlines bag at the foot of my bed in a less
warm or comfortable environment for the next three nights and waited for ‘dog
smugglers’ to rescue him.
He was so angry at being repatriated back to his detention centre that I
woke up the next morning with great gashes across the backs of my hands. He had
obviously been so intent on revenge that he forgot to consult his Balliere's
Nurses Dictionary to work out where my arteries ran. Thank heavens his memory
is worse than mine after I gave him half a cow to eat and divert his attention
from my wrists
I had read via Google that it was nigh impossible to train Whippets to keep
off soft and floppy objects and hence his need to lay all over either me or the
sofa. I found it awfully off-putting however when he wouldn’t stick to licking
just himself but play with my nuts as well. Eventually I decided that my body
and all the furniture it used were to become ‘off limits’. But how to do it
????
Left over mouse traps. Yes. I could now start taking the tips off my
fingers setting them up for the dawg. For about three nights I set one trap
right under the red blanket on the lounge where I found ‘his dent’ every
morning. As far as I can tell he never again tried to sneak onto the lounge at
night for fear of that indescribable thing hiding under the blanket to snap at
him when he nodded off..
Peppie is always trying new things. The other day while we were in Ballarat
he insisted on going down to the Centrelink Office and asking whether there was
a ‘Work for the Bones Scheme’ available. Never one to skive he was forever on
the go and constantly trying to find either something to eat or something to
insert his penis into.
I must explain that Peppie is an ’intact’ male. This means that even if you
smile at him he gets an erection.
He was watching TV recently and whimpered my attention to a programme about
Queens Nevertitty of Eyes Jipped or so he tried to tell me. It was a picture of
his Great-great Grandfather 634 times removed on a wall of her tomb.
Gesticulating with one paw whilst pointing to himself with the other he
seemed to be asking if he could have a fluffy coat like the one Granpa was
wearing.
Down we went to the shop where we picked up a little fluffy cardigan with
duffle-coat buttons. Despite the fact it had long sleeves he eagerly shoved his
front legs down them and asked me to button him up. He was as proud as punch
and, after thanking the kind lady, jumped straight into the passenger seat of
the Ute and began giving waves like the Queen. He looked very much like the
Lucky Dog at the Chinese Take-away.
When we got home all of the sheep, even Max, fell about laughing. They
almost giggled their udders off. Then at this sight Dumb and Dumber the two
Alpacas lifted their skirts and began running around screeching at the big blue
ball of fluff bouncing up the drive-way.
Rabbits were coming from their burrows to watch the sight and even Bobby
the Brownsnake had to swallow his own tail to prevent himself from laughing and
upsetting the balance of nature.
‘HIMS OFF CHASING NEW SOUTH WELSH RAREBITS’
Or at least that’s where Maxine advised me he had gone too with a big smile
on her face having been restored to the top job and the top paddock
simultaneously. I did not have the heart to tell her that her ascendency to the
level of God may only be a temporary one.
Max has never forgiven me for taking Dawg into town in the car regardless
of how many times I tell her that I’m sorry but her body is unable to negotiate
the passenger seat especially just prior to shearing. It would be like driving
with an exploded air-bag sitting next to you. Because of this there have been
things I have not told her for fear of upsetting her and being pelted with poo.
Like the time Peppie was sent off to Doggy Day Care. Why is it that Car
Servicers, Public Transport and Motels hate your pets? OK so Peppie may be a
little obsessive compulsive about how and where he goes to relieve himself but
he is certainly polite enough not to do it indoors. That reminds me of the time
we went down to Geelong
and he winged and winged until we got to a park where he could hop out for a
moment. It was then I noticed a small pellet of excreta on the seat about the
size of a pea. He must have got a little shock and accidentally let one go
because he certainly calmed down when he got back in the car.
Another example of his politeness was the time he sat in the car with a big
bone while I went to the movies. When I came out the bone remained untouched.
He would not eat the bone until I had given him permission so it must have been
an extremely agonizing wait.
Anyway, as usual, I’ve wandered off the story. Yes. The first time he went
he did not want to go through the gates despite my assurances that it was not a
Concentration Camp. I don’t think the sign saying ‘BEIT MACHT FREI” impressed
him either.
When I went to pick him up on my way home he bounced happily up to the car
to proudly display his ‘Spiderman’ painted snout and a piece of butchers paper
on which he had done a huge paw painting with his own poop.
Now I know I’m not exactly an art critic but I can tell you that I know
shit when I see it.
The next time he had to go he almost tore himself free of the leash to get
in. He seemed to be more than happy to spend time there especially after
sighting the sign that said ‘Macaroni Crafts Day’.
Story-telling is also a favourite of his, something he picked up at Day
Care I expect as just before we both put ourselves down for our Nanny Nap he
insists on being read a chapter of 'the Velveteen Rabbit' before going
bye-bye's. I also suspect, as he still has all his dangly bits, that he might
have a met up with a female friend there that he like because last week when he
went for the day he jumped quickly out of the car and show that I was not the
only one that had a fifth limb that dragged along the floor. I’ve told him to
be very careful when he lays around with Diva at the pub not to mention any
other women.
A quick note to end this story. He has only ever stood up to Maxie once.
She stomped her foot, he stood his ground and she almost stood on him. He quite
quickly learnt that nothing stands between Max and her Malt Pellets even if it
is pretending to be a sheep wearing a ghastly blue fluffy cardigan.
<><>
</><><>
</><><>
</>
<><>
</>
* Note: I
used the word Scud in this story because they have a notoriously mean
turning circle although accuracy tends to be guesswork.
|
