The Dog's Blog

Thursday 21 August 2008

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 21:03:58 GMT

Today, I saw a pair of pigeons engaged in the procreative act. I was intrigued, for it looked not only most uncomfortable but also highly impractical. Precarious too, as the young lovers had chosen a very precarious old, decaying branch for their deed of feathery passion. It was all very unromantic too. I thought BC was not good for the ladies, but his efforts against my partner's tranquillity pale significantly when compared with the pigeon. It was over in seconds, amid much flapping of wing, and his lady looked distinctly unimpressed. I almost felt sorry for her, considering she was by now, in all probability, with egg. After this lusty interlude, the couple just went on with the business of building their nest. Not even a post-coital biscuit.

All this was viewed through my partner's office window the other day. It has been preying on my mind, so I am glad to have finally had the opportunity of committing the event to blog. For, I have been denied access to my computer of late. My partner has been adapting a poem into a short stage play. She has been asked to produce and direct a small piece of drama for a group of local children to act at an environment-themed day in October. Unable to find anything readily available that suited the purpose, she turned to the last bastion of support for the needy - Yahoo Answers. I highly recommend it. A bright spark replied and recommended Dr. Seuss's The Lorax. My partner was dubious (not being the biggest fan of green eggs and ham or cats in hats on mats, nor even the duck with luck having a ..., etc.), but when she tracked the poem down, and we read it together, it proved to be absolutely perfect. A serious, valid message, clearly presented, yet not so bleak and chilling that it would distress young and sensitive children. A bit like me, really.

So now, my partner is engaged in forming the poem into a playlet suitable for the children to perform. It is proving a little more challenging that she anticipated, but I believe the initial work is almost done. Honestly, it was Jane Austen last year and Dr. Seuss this year. I sincerely hope there will not be any Fedor Dostoevsky-themed events next year to occupy her and keep my blog and I apart. I have been trying to teach her to say "No", but all I can achieve is a small sound similar to "Of course, I'd love to." The only time she ever correctly pronounces "No" is when I am inexplicably detected in naughtiness. It simply isn't fair.

Yet I digress. I had segued nicely from the pigeon incident to my partner's office before I became distracted. The same day of seeing the pigeon-tryst was the first time I had seen Ewan after he confided to me his fears regarding a sinister lump found on his body. Upon my arrival at the office, poor Ewan was trembling and looking exceedingly forlorn.
"How's it going?" I asked, kindly, "Did you get on alright at the vet's?"
"Didn't go last night." he shivered, "I think I'm going tonight." He leaned in closer. "Jasper, I'm scared. I think it's got a bit bigger."
"Oh no!" I sympathised.
"Oh yes. Last night I was just lying down, thinking about cheese, and I swear that it was bigger. It's still leaking that hot runny greeny-stuff as well." The poor dog began to whimper. I pitied him.
"Well," I said, "It might not do you much good, but would you like me to have a look at your lump? I might be able to smell if there is anything seriously wrong. No promises, but I could try..." Ewan's eyes brightened.
"Oh, would you Jasper?" he said, "I'd be ever so grateful." Ewan flopped onto his side, exposing his skinny, furry belly. I commenced my examination.

After several moments of looking, I had not been able to locate the lump and I could smell neither infection nor tumour. I stole a glance at Ewan's face - he was looking pensive, still waiting earnestly for my prognosis.
"Erm," I said. Ewan jumped at the sound of my voice. "I can't seem to find your lump, Ewan."
"Are you sure?" he asked, trembling, "It's pretty big. You should be able to see it."
"Well, where should I look?"
Ewan craned his neck around to look at me, and jabbed his paw in the general direction of his lower belly.
"Quickly, Jasper." whimpered the unfortunate dog, sounding like the very epitome of dignified suffering, "It's getting dark... I think this might be it...." he howled mournfully. I hurried to examine more closely Ewan's shuddering body.

I found his lump.

"Ewan."
"Yes, Jasper? Should I go towards the light, Jasper? Goodnight, sweet friend...."

"EWAN!"
Ewan opened his eyes and looked at me hopefully. I hardly knew what to tell him. But the painful truth had to be told. "Ewan, that... that lump.... that lump is.... your willie."
"What?!"
"It is your willie."
Ewan looked down sharply, back up at me, then down at himself again.
"Ah, but no. Yes, no - Jasper." he replied, "What about that horrible hot stuff that comes out?"
I sighed.
"Ewan, does that 'stuff' coming out coincide with your trips to the toilet, by any chance?" Ewan tilted his head while he considered this.
"Ye-es." he said, "D'you know, I think it does. Oh, Jasper, what is it? Do you think we shall ever know?"
"It's WEE, Ewan. That is YOU, going to the toilet. It is your own, normal, healthy wee."
Ewan started wagging his tail, and he licked my nose.
"Does this mean that I am not going to die in a minute, then?" he asked. I merely glared at him.
"Possibly, Ewan." I replied dryly, "Possibly." I was not even going to ask about the cheese.
"Wow, Jasper. You're brilliant." enthused Ewan, "You should be on the television."
"I'd only fall off." I replied sourly. I was not in the mood for ANY further conversation with the pea-brained Ewan.
"What?"
"Ewan, would you like to play a little game I have invented?"
"Oh, brilliant! Yeah!!"
"It's called 'Ewan Sits in the Corner All Day and Doesn't Annoy Jasper'. Off you go."
"Wahey! Great game, Jazz!" Yes. I thought so, too.

And thus ended Ewan's brush with death.

Last week heralded the anniversary of the creation of this blog. Two years since I began sharing my thoughts with the world. I had hoped to have something more worthy to share with you on this occasion than Ewan and the everyday functions which baffle him so. How the mighty are fallen.

Good night.

Sunday 10 August 2008

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 15:27:51 GMT

And so now my partner's mother tells me that I am elderly. What is WRONG with the ladies in this household? Could it be that they are jealous of my Peter Pan-like retention of my pupish charms and vitality? I have my suspicions. Happily, on this occasion my partner was quick to defend me. She castigated her mother for her abuse of me and obtained the concession that I "have plenty of good years left".

I suppose I did bring this particular attack upon myself. Maisie had been away for around ten days and I was seriously beginning to miss the specially cooked and blended suppers with which she has taken to providing me, while my partner is finding things a little difficult financially. I was feeling particularly aggrieved at the temporary loss of my fine dinners when, on the evening in question, my partner placed the contents of my usual "Gourmet Hi-Life" sachet in my bowl and set it down on my food-mat. I just stared at it.
"But this... this... this is dog food!" I spluttered.
"Your point being...?" responded my partner, unamused. I was rendered barkless. Completely without sympathy, my partner just muttered "Eat it, Jasper."
I had a full-on strop, refusing to eat my meal and stubbornly resisting any attempts by my partner to take me out for some exercise.

After the afore-mentioned "elderly" dialogue, I submitted to my partner's demands that I get into our Little Green Corsa and be taken to Abbotstone. I quite enjoyed it. Upon my return, I ate some chives from my partner's mother's miniature herb garden, as well as a few of her nasturtiums, to punish her for her insolent accusations. I found that this sparked my appetite, so I gobbled up my dinner while no-one was watching. Absolutely delicious.

Quite apart from all this, there have been troubling happenings at my partner's workplace. I accompanied my partner to work on Friday and arrived to find Ewan (nitwit dog, not cherubic nephew) looking utterly miserable. As Ewan's usual state is 'so relentlessly chirpy you want to batter him' (even when he is asleep), I was concerned.
"Are you alright, mate?" I asked. Ewan let out a doleful howl.
"Oh, Jasper, no." he whimpered, "I have to go to the vet. I have got a lump." I expressed my sincere sympathy and Ewan nodded. "I think I'm going to the vets tonight. I'm really scared." and he howled again. Although it may seem callous of me, long-time readers of this blog may be aware that even basic things like breathing and going to the toilet present Ewan with something of a challenge. I therefore wondered if Ewan's "lump" was going to turn out to be a toe, or his nose. Upon closer questioning, however, Ewan's problem appeared to be genuine. His fear was certainly very real.
"It will be OK Ewan." I said comfortingly, "I've had two operations and everything was fine. You just have a little injection and go to sleep, and then you wake up and it's all better. It will all be alright." He nodded, but didn't look convinced.
"I'm still scared though." he whimpered "The lump is quite big and horrible stuff keeps coming out of it."
"Blood?" I questioned, rather doubtingly. I could not smell blood or broken flesh on him.
"No." he replied, quivering a bit, "It's yukky hot, yellowy-green stuff."
"Pus." I said, "It probably means you've got a little infection somewhere."
"Really?" said Ewan, sounding hopeful for the first time.
"I'd still get it checked out though." I surreptitiously eyed his 'below-tail' area. "Ewan, can you remember ever having an operation before? If you can remember, you'll know that it will all be OK." Ewan frowned and shook his head.
"No-oo." he said, after some thought.
"Are you sure, Ewan? Not a little operation when you were younger? I think you have probably had the same operation that I had when I was a young man..." Ewan looked completely lost. "You know, " I prompted, "A little operation downstairs...?"
"Oh no," said Ewan, brightly, "No. There are no stairs at my vets, it's all on one floor."
Good grief.
This would normally be the point when I would walk away, for fear of doing Ewan actual harm. However, he was in genuine terror about his lump, so I remained to try and soothe him. I think I succeeded, for after a few minutes Ewan said "Can I have a cuddle Jasper?"
Here was a new one.
I gritted my teeth and said that he could, and Ewan flung himself against my flank, whining pitifully. I stayed still, after a short while realising that he had fallen asleep. I dutifully remained, until I got pins and needles in my shoulder and it went all numb, and then I gently freed myself and scuttled away. I will see how Ewan gets on at the vets. If it does turn out to be something serious, I may recommend to him Mr. Matthews - a very gifted surgeon and my own personal physician.

My partner is developing a new game, for readers of my blog to play online. It is based upon my sleeping arrangements and is provisionally titled "Where Is Jasper?" I am interested to see what the game involves, although it does smack slightly of disrespect, so I may not allow it to be uploaded.

Good afternoon.

Sunday 3 August 2008

Sun, 03 Aug 2008 20:57:27 GMT

My partner tells me that I am getting "elderly". The reason for this impudence is not the sprinkling of 'frost' that peppers the black fur on my face. Oh no. This came about yesterday morning - she left me to have a lie-in while she fulfilled her morning routine. On returning to our room, she found me looking out of the window and muttering to myself. And that was it. How, I ask you, does this make me 'elderly'? My partner regarded me silently for a moment before she laughed and, gesturing out of the window, said "Jasper, do you remember when all that was just fields?" I scowled at her. It IS all just fields (apart from the bits that are houses and roads). I suppose that, in human terms, I would now be approaching 63 years old. But I am a man in his prime. Aside from the afore-mentioned frosting (paw on wood) I can keep up with the best of them - and still outstrip some. I have as much energy and vitality now as I had when I was a pup. My partner is very cheeky - and she would do well to remember that my teeth are still in perfect working order.

But this has been a somewhat unhappy week. Last weekend, sadly, came the news that one of my friends from the USA, Stoker, passed away on Friday. Rest in peace, mate. Actually, no – I hope your body rests in peace – the soul that is the true Stoker is, I am sure, up in heaven as I type, harassing angelic deer. Have fun Stoker – and save some venison for me!

Prior to that sad event, my friend Angie told me that she has taken a nasty fall and is not well. I do hope that she will be lots better soon, and flying around like Queen Boadicea in her mighty wheeled chariot. GET WELL SOON, ANGIE.

Compared with the above, my little problems seem rather trivial. But problems there have been. If you are a dog, and therefore lower to the ground than some, you will know that, cometh the summer; cometh the grass-flea. Oh yes. The irritating little b*st*rds have been feasting on Jasper this year. It is an annual problem for me, but this year seems worse than usual. The itching is driving me insane. Accordingly, my partner found the bottle of medicated shampoo, obtained from the vet at greatcost last year. I uttered no protest as my belly and Little Jasper-region were lathered and rinsed with the power-shower. The relief was exquisite.

Not long after I had dried off, Maisie escorted me to the park. Candy and Harvey were already there, playing with Candy's football, the recent troubles all forgotten. They hailed me as I approached and encouraged me to join in with their game. As we gave each other the usual sniff-over, I saw a wicked twinkle appear in Harvey's eye.
"Somebody smells nice!" he grinned, mockingly. I knew what he was getting at, and I wasn't having it.
"Shut up Harvey." I growled, but he just winked at Candy.
"Has someone's little lapdog had a bubble bath? Aren't you all soft and fluffy, like a little puppy?!" Candy laughed.
"Harvey," I cut in, dryly, "Just remind me exactly what it was you said the other day about Candy's fat bottom?" My so-called friends just hooted with laughter, and Harvey snuffled over my newly-bathed belly.
"Mmmm..." he continued, "Fresh as a summer meadow, and silky smooth too..." I bared my fangs and saw the sunlight glinting off them reflected in the silver buckle on Harvey's collar.
"Harvey, I'm sure your mother told you never to play with sharp objects?"
Their giggles continued, and I sighed and decided it was easier to just let them get on with it.

I was diverted from the mocking taunts by the approach of a newcomer, who bounded up - an affable looking border collie. I looked beyond him and saw his two partners stopping to talk to Maisie and Harvey and Candy's partners. The new chap said that he was staying in the town on holiday and his name was Charlie. I introduced myself and he asked who the other two were.
"Oh, they're just some animals I used to know..." I muttered, watching Harvey, rolling on his back, entertaining Candy by pretending to lather soap into his belly. I sighed and shook my head.
"What are they doing?" asked Charlie. At that, Harvey got up and he and Candy came over to sniff the newcomer and introduce themselves.
"Where are you staying?" asked Candy, politely. Charlie explained that his partners had a caravan and they pulled it along with their car and then they parked it and slept in it. I HATE caravans - my partner and I always get stuck behind a slow one when travelling to Dartmoor. I suspect it might be the SAME one, with a secret vendetta to annoy me.
"It's fun." explained Charlie.
"Yes, it probably is." I replied, "Compared to a rectal examination." Candy laughed. "After all, what could be better than living in a tin box for two weeks, listening to your partners pee-ing in a little bucket?" Charlie wagged his bushy tail and smiled.
"I pretend I can't hear that." he grinned. "Can I play football with you?" We all agreed that he could, and his tail wagged even harder. "Yes!" he yipped, bounding over to the ball, "Come on then, England v. Germany 1966! I'm Geoff Hurst's dog!" This was more like it!
"Bobby Moore." I barked
"Bobby Charlton!" yipped Candy, "Harvey, you can be Alan Ball - your fur is the right colour."

We began our game, and had been happily playing with the football for a good few minutes, before Harvey stopped and stood still, a puzzled look on his face.
"Hang on a bit," he said, "Shouldn't one of us be Winston Churchill?" The remaining three of us skidded to a halt, crashing into each other as we did so. We all turned to look at Harvey.
"Is he joking?" asked the new dog, Charlie.
"Unfortunately not." I replied.
"Harvey, you nematode." said Candy. Poor Harvey. He's nowhere near as bad as Ewan, but he does have his occasional flashes of idiocy. We stood and regarded him uncertainly, until I happened to catch Candy's eye. We leapt on Harvey in a moment, our footy game entirely forgotten. Charlie joined in, wuffing and scuffling as we all piled onto the unfortunate Harvey.
"Buuuuuundle!" he cried, in rather a muffled bark, from beneath the pile of assorted dog. He wriggled out and took off down to the bottom of the park, with the three of us in hot pursuit, baying like hell-hounds. We caught up with him by the edge of the river and tipped him into the water - a fair price to pay for being witless. Harvey surfaced and paddled back around to the bank, spluttering and laughing. He clambered out of the river and then chased the three of us back up to the park, where we finished our game.

I enjoyed myself so much that I decided I would endeavour to forget Harvey and Candy's mockery. There's nothing quite like your friends, after all.

Good night.

Sunday 19 July 2008

Sun, 20 Jul 2008 16:58:15 GMT

As so often in such situations, the downfall of one heralds the rise of another.

It did not go unnoticed that Harvey was very swift to step in when I inexplicably fell from favour with my chocolate-coloured Labrador girlfriend, Candy. I was smartly dismissed from her good books when I asked her too many questions about another young lady. I still cannot fathom out why this should have been so disagreeable to her. However, I decided that the only option available to me was to offer her a gift and crave her forgiveness.

When venturing to the park, Maisie (who looks after me while my partner is at work) fills her pockets with biscuits, which are shared out among the members of my pack that we happen to meet. Armed with the knowledge that Candy likes these biscuits, I paid a visit to the tin. I proceeded to carefully pick out all the yellow ones, as they are my least favourite. Actually I can't stand them. Sometimes I will be brave and eat them, but I often spit them out. They are yukky. We made a little bag out of clingfilm for the yellow biscuits and my partner found a pretty sparkly ribbon on a Kylie Minogue fragrance set that she got for Christmas, so she made a bow with that at the top of our little gift bag. The next day, it was off to the park...

Half-way down the top field of the park, my ears picked up the sound of raised voices. I couldn't hear the actual barks, but someone was clearly extremely cross. Intrigued, I trotted towards the sound. Before I could get into the lower field, there was a shrill yelp and, a few seconds later, Harvey came crashing through the hedge, yipping frantically. He skidded to an abrupt halt when he saw me. I noticed the sunlight glinting off a few flecks of saliva droplets on his neck fur, indicating that he had been nipped.
"Jasper! Jasper! She BIT me!" wailed Harvey, panting heavily. I quickly sniffed over the young Staffordshire.
"It's alright Harvey," I said, "The skin isn't broken, it's just a nip. Now, just be calm. Who nipped you?"
"Candy!"
I frowned. Candy may have the occasional mood swing, but she is no biter.
"Come on then," I said, "What did you do?"
"Ummm..."
"Harvey...?"
"I said she had a big bottom."

Oh, Harvey. No, no, no, no and no. I thought I had schooled him well. True, he is NOT the brightest bulb in the box, but he is no Ewan. I gave a heavy sigh and fixed my eyes on him.
"Harvey." I said firmly, "What have I ALWAYS told you?"
"Ummm... Not to say things about ladies' bottoms?"
In fact, I had given the pup a sturdy grounding in all things female. Aside from the bottom topic, I had also cautioned him NEVER to mock ladies' weight, fur-styles or menstrual cycles. Never. Not under ANY circumstances. Don't even THINK about them, in case something just slips out accidentally. And I even warned him about the question that should be feared the most... "Beware." I had told him. "Beware. If she turns to you and asks 'Do you think this new collar makes me look fat?', be rightly afraid. For you cannot win here - it is a cruel trap. You are damned either way. If you answer 'Yes' the painful ramifications are obvious. If you answer 'No', you lay yourself wide open to the inevitable 'So you think I am fat normally?'. Flee from this scenario. The only sure-fire way to win this one is to pre-empt the question. As soon as you see your lady trying something on, or brushing her fur, this is the moment to step in. You IMMEDIATELY say 'How lovely you look, my dear. I am lucky to have such a beautiful companion.' If, despite this, the question arises then run. Just run. I usually employ the 'Was that the doorbell?' technique to instigate my flight from the dressing-basket."

All this I had told Harvey. All this I told him again. He nodded sagely and said he would seek out Candy to apologise the following day (when his eyes weren't red from whimpering).
"Will you put in a good word for me, Jasper?" he asked, in such a plaintive voice that I pitied him.
"I shall see what I can do, Harvey." I said, winking at him. Actually, I was privately relieved that I was having this conversation with him, and not Ewan.

After Harvey had trotted off with his partner, I ventured into the lower field and spotted the fair Candy. Looking closer, I could see that she did indeed seem to have a bit more slip to her hips, but I did not care to go the same way as Harvey. As I neared, Candy turned and ran towards me.
"Boohooooohooo, Jasper!" she wailed, "Harvey said I had a fat ar*e!" I wasted no time.
"Oh no, my dear. You are as perfectly formed now as you ever were." And with that, I produced my gift. Smooth, Jasper, smoooooth, heh heh.
"Oh, THANK YOU, Jasper!" cried Candy, bestowing me with happy licks and affectionate nips, "How could I have ignored you? I hope you will forgive me. And you have picked out all the yellow ones because you know they are my favourites! You're just so wonderful!" Ahem, yes....
"No, no, my sweet." I said, "It is I who must humbly beg forgiveness. I tormented your pretty mind and should not have asked you about that smelly old vixen. She is nothing to me. Please accept my apologies."
"Of course!" she sniffled, as her partner took the little bag of biscuits for eating at home. We raced each other down to the river - I let her win.
"And do not mind that Harvey." I said, once we were in the water, "He is young and foolish. We must not judge him too harshly."
"You are right, Jasper." said Candy, looking adoringly at me, "You are ALWAYS right."

A fine result. Phew.

Good evening.

Sunday 13 July 2008

Sun, 13 Jul 2008 22:37:12 GMT

What a rum old week it has been.

I think I have just about recovered from the shame of last weekend's exposure at the fayre. Alas, Candy still is not speaking to me, though I cannot fathom out why. I picked up the scent of my beautiful exotic vixen in the woods the other evening, and had a rather unpleasant epiphany. Her odour marks were, as before, rich in warmth and femininity but were tainted with the scent of something I had inexplicably missed before - pregnancy. Oh bottoms. That's the end of that, then. I wouldn't even want to look after my OWN mewling pups, with their attendant concerns of milk provision, education and tiny puppy-poops, let alone someone else's glut of passion-fruits. Especially a scabby old fox's. I shall just have to sigh over what could have been.

I ventured humbly into the park the other day, seeking out Candy. I saw her in the lower field - she was playing with Harvey (tan-coloured young Staffie: my former protegée, now a bit of a pest. Not a bad soul though, really). I bounded up to them. Candy stopped playing and just looked at me.
"Alright, Jazz?" yipped Harvey as he gave me the customary sniff-over. I offered my greetings to them both. Candy gave a little grunt and raised her snout into the air.
"Harvey." she said, as before, in a high-pitched, rather strangulated voice, "Would you tell Mr. Stafford that I am not speaking to him." And off she stalked, towards the gate that leads down to the river. Harvey looked at me and shrugged.
"Jasper," he began, "Candy says-"
"Yes." I cut in irritably. "Thank you Harvey, I heard what she said."
"Blimey mate, what did you DO?" I shook my head, and explained my last rational conversation with Candy, pertaining to the vixen and my series of questions. Harvey considered this for a moment and then shook his head. "Nope." he declared, "Can't see anything wrong with that." I nodded and was about to reply, when we heard Candy's voice.
"Harvey! Come and have a swim with me!" Harvey smiled apologetically at me, shrugged again, and capered off. I was left to amble back to Maisie, just as confused now as I had been before. I think I might have to purchase Candy's forgiveness with a little gift.

But now to other matters. In the strictly non-Mafia sense of the word, I recently became a godfather.

A delightful pair of swallows set up home in a nesting space in one of the outbuildings at my partner's place of work. Nature took its course and five little eggs duly appeared. These birds being inoffensive, I took it upon me to guard their home and soon grew as fond of the eggs as if I had laid them myself. Ewan and I watched as, one by one, the eggs hatched and the parents busied themselves feeding their new brood. And here, in a picture taken by my partner's boss, are my little godchildren:
My partner says the one in the centre looks like "old man Steptoe".

As Ewan and I surveyed the growing family, I with a growing sense of pride and he with a growing sense of ignorance, the familiar question-and-answer carousel began to spin.
"Jasper?"
"Yes Ewan?"
"What are they?"
"They are birds, Ewan. Little baby birds."
"Oh right, yes. Brilliant."
The usual few seconds' pause.
"Jasper?"
"Ye-es?"
"Wh-" But I was away and into the edge of the woods before the inevitable "what are birds?" could fall from his mouth, to lay a few little eggs of my own, heh heh....

But alas! Why will such things ever come to pass? Wednesday last week was a day of constant torrential rain, without a let-up. The downpour made it impossible for the babes to be fed, and it was excessively cold and damp. The next day brought us the tragic realisation that all the tiny ones, without exception, had perished from hunger and cold. Brad (the ranger) and my partner's boss gently lifted down the five tiny bodies (the parents had gone, we know not where) and laid them to rest at the edge of the woods.

There are some dangers from which even I cannot protect the innocent. Their loss affects me deeply - but, dear reader, do not weep for them. They are gone over to a better place, where the predators never have to be feared and the food is always plentiful. I will miss those little tinkers though.

And so another week begins. I wonder what this one will bring....?

Good night.

Monday 7 July 2008

Mon, 07 Jul 2008 23:35:40 GMT

Aha! (grrff... snuffle..httt...snort)

Hang on... (sssfhhh...snff)

And... I'M UP!

Phew! I am not used to doing things for myself. I am used to better attention than this from my staff. My partner has been MOST neglectful in lifting me into the typing chair to update my blog. I have been most dissatisfied with the enforced separation. However, my partner has gone out with Dolores to see Maureen Lipman and, as you can see, I have managed to log on and haul myself into the typing chair unaided. I think I might have strained something.

As an illustration of just how tardy my partner has been can be taken from the fact that this entry was originally begun in the local pub, being paw-written on a sheet of paper before I returned happily home to type up my notes. This was LAST Monday. A full week has elapsed since then. And this despite my very clear squeakings and hints to my partner. I suppose, when you love someone, you have to love them even when they are annoying but, really, this is a bit much.

I have also had a most trying weekend. It is no small wonder that I have kept my sanity. Yesterday the weather was so foul that I could not be persuaded into taking my exercise. Well, neither would you, if you had to clean yourself with your tongue... But the day before, Saturday, was more testing even than that.

My partner's dramatic society had a stand at a local "fayre" (and I'll tell you frankly now: I didn't find the fayre fair at all). She and her colleagues were promoting their next production - a pantomime for December; this year it is to be Robin Hood. I had benevolently agreed to accompany my partner to this, knowing as I do that my presence always attracts much positive attention (see the recent photograph of my charming mug from the local paper in a previous entry). As a way of drawing further attention to our forthcoming theatricals, it was agreed that one or two bods would dress up in suitable Robin Hood/Maid Marian/Merry Outlaw-type costumes.

Now then. The perceptive among you may have already twigged as to what might be coming next. I still struggle to find the words to describe my opinions on the subject. So instead, with barely-concealed indignation, I share with you now the following photographs featuring the lovely Helen dressed as Maid Marian, her boyfriend Tom costumed as one of the two Robin Hoods and one other "volunteer".

How can I show my face in the park again?

My partner informed me that, if I wished to continue being fed, then I would enjoy myself. True, the lady in the ice-cream van DID give me a few broken cones to eat, and I did attract a lot of adoring attention. But I believe it came at a rather high cost to my dignity. I learn, however, that it could have been WORSE. The other outfit that my partner was considering for me was that of a medieval court jester. My partner ultimately decided that the little bells on the hat would be too irritating for me. And for this I am supposed to be grateful. I am still considering what punishment to administer. But I believe it may involve a light supper of hard-boiled egg, broccoli and Jerusalem artichokes consumed just before bedtime. Oh yes. There will be nothing "merry" about that.

On to easier topics: My partner and I attended the local pub quiz the other day (the day I composed my now-outdated paw-written article, in fact). We usually do quite well, winning at least a free drink or two and sometimes even some cash. My partner is good at history and general knowledge and I like the meat-related questions. The evening was also a bit of a compromise between us - I wanted to go out that evening, but was too tired for sport, as I have been somewhat overdoing it of late in the woods. On a previous evening, I had been en route back to the car after a highly satisfying time chasing wily beasties, when a rather chubby fox unwisely crossed my path. Naturally, I gave chase and a frenzied pursuit ensued. I was somewhat surprised to scent that my quarry was actually a young lady, and it didn't take all of my nasal capacities to detect that she was mighty attractive. Pondering this fact slowed my pace a little, and the fair bloom outran me. I was so busy watching her magnificent behind swish away that I tripped and fell face-first into a stagnant and befouled old puddle.

I returned, stinking and filthy, but exhilarated, to my partner who was seriously unimpressed. I was taken directly to the river and told to clean myself immediately. This I proceeded to do with a very bad grace. But I was laughing on the inside.

A day or two later, while pursuing the same route, I picked up the sweet maiden's scent again. It seemed ripe with messages of attraction and invitation. However, not wishing to appear precipitate with the young damsel, I decided to seek the advice of my girlfriend Candy in the park the next day. I asked Candy a variety of probing questions - "What could the scents mean?", "If the vixen was indeed attracted to me, then why did she run away so?", "Did I stand a chance with her?", "Where might this relationship go?". And so forth. Candy listened for a while, and then pursed her lips and rose to leave. She turned her back on me and began to stalk off.
"Come back!" I called, "What d'you think?"
"Jasper." Candy replied, without looking at me and speaking in a strange, high-pitched, rather strangled voice, "I might not have time to play with you in the park tomorrow. I might be busy." And off she padded - and she hasn't spoken to me since.

Eh? What did I do? I don't understand women.

Oh, for goodness' sake.

Good night.

Tuesday 24 June 2008

Tue, 24 Jun 2008 22:27:08 GMT

For the first time in my short history of blogging, I have had to bow to a more supreme authority. Some members of my partner's family objected to the entry that WAS in place here. So I have removed it, and now leave you with:

JASPER'S HOLIDAY DIARY - DAY THREE

To the town of St. David's today, where there is a most impressive cathedral and ruined Bishop's Palace. My partner and I waited outside while all went into the cathedral and enjoyed the peace of our surroundings. I was very excited, as the Bishop's Palace looked a lot like an old castle and I have always wanted to explore an old castle. Alas, the perennial problem again beset my plans - dogs were not allowed into the Palace. I muttered silent curses, wholly inappropriate to my surroundings. My partner was rather compromised as well, because entry to the Palace site was about £5.00 and spare cash is rather tight with us at present...

Thus it was that my partner and I enjoyed some quiet reflection, sitting on a medieval wall, next to a sparkling medieval ford, in between the cathedral and the medieval palace (having circumnavigated the all-too-modern gift shop) while Ewan (delightful nephew, as opposed to dimwit hound) and the rest of the family explored the Palace.
Ewan and his parents explore the Bishop's Palace...

... while I sit upon my wall with my partner and her father:

As we waited and enjoyed the sunshine, I gradually became aware that a man was carefully walking up to us, snapping away with a professional-looking camera. My partner gave him a rather quizzical look, and he explained that he was "really impressed with the handsome dog you have there." He was an American gentleman, on holiday, and asked my partner's permission to photograph me properly. With the appropriate permissions in place, I am always happy to pose for photographs and obligingly arranged myself into a variety of delightful situations while the chap snapped away. How unexpectedly flattering. After this we enjoyed a fine picnic upon the grass.

We returned to our cottage after a little potter around St. David's, followed by a rather disappointing drive (my partner's boss had recommended a visit to Whitesands Bay. We found it, and it was well worth the recommendation, save for the large "No dogs permitted between May to September" notice. Grrrowl). Suitably rested and refreshed, my partner and I enjoyed yet another delightful cliff-top walk in the evening.
Surely Heaven itself could provide no finer sight?

And the following day, I would finally - FINALLY!! - achieve one of my long-cherished holiday aims, and get one paw closer to achieving a second! Happy days...

Good night.

Tuesday 17 June 2008

Tue, 17 Jun 2008 23:11:12 GMT

Enough is enough. I have endured too long a separation from my blog. Do not seek to blame me, however, dear reader. The blog and I were forced to part when I contracted a severe case of conjunctivitis. I was very poorly, with sore eyes and a fever and my partner and Maisie have been most diligent in bathing my eyes and putting in drops thrice daily. The only light note in this melancholy tune was the leaflet that came with my drops from the vet. It exhorted me not to drive, operate heavy machinery or wear contact lenses when using the drops. So, obviously, the keys to my forklift truck had to be put out of my reach... For goodness' sake.

Happily, I am now almost recovered. My partner, however, has been excessively troubled of late. I am not going into details, as I do not want to depress you, dear reader. I have been an oasis of calm and reliability throughout and she has delighted in my support. I had almost - almost - got out of having to explain myself online following my naughty episode. Less happily, Maisie did me up a salad for my tea last night containing, among other things, hard-boiled egg and cold steamed broccoli.

It kicked in about fifteen minutes after my partner and I had retired to bed. She was too tired to get up again and open the window. Let me just say that she was not happy and leave it at that. Then, this evening, one of our online friends was encouraging my partner to make me repeat my tale of wickedness and what she said was enough to turn my partner's thoughts. I mention no names - but, Angie, you have much to be ashamed of.

Right then - and let me make this clear - this is the first and positively, irrevocably, last time that my partner is allowed anywhere near writing in my blog. And I'm not allowed to delete what she writes, because she's going to check it before I post it. Read without prejudice:

Jasper's Version
After a delightful evening's stroll on Abbotstone, I took a brief lie down to enjoy a light snack. After a moment my partner appeared, somewhat inexplicably distressed, and asked me to escort her back to the car. I dutifully complied. All was well.

Jasper's Partner's Version
After a delightful evening's stroll on Abbotstone, Jasper disappeared off after a rabbit in the usual place (close to the warren). I know that, if he has not reappeared after a few minutes, it's ok to walk back to the car because he will either catch up with me in a bit or cut through the woods and wait for me by the car. This is ALWAYS what happens and I have no fear of him straying or getting lost - he often journeys back to the car by himself if he has had enough on Dartmoor (or elsewhere) and waits quietly and patiently for me next to our vehicle.
On approaching the Abbotstone car park, I could see that he was neither waiting for me there nor coming up the path behind me. I waited for ten minutes, but there was no sign of him. I then started to walk back down towards the rabbit warren (approximately three-quarters of a mile away). No sign of him. Back to the car I walked; again, no sign of Jasper en route or at the car. So I wait in the car park for twenty minutes. Still no dog.
It is now beginning to get dark, and Abbotstone is a fairly isolated spot. I walk again from the car park to the warren, calling and whistling for Jasper, and starting to feel uneasy. No sign of mutt anywhere - so back to the car I go.
I now feel distinctly sick. I have been hollering for my normally well-behaved little Jasper for some time now, with no response. This has never happened before, to this extent. I am now scared and in tears - remember that Jasper has now been missing for nearly forty minutes. On the way back from my third walk to the warren, desperately worried, near-hysterical and almost hoarse from calling Jasper's name, I see a white shape lying on the ground a short distance away. "JASPER! Is that you?!" I cry. No response - not even a movement. "JASPER! Are you alright, sweetie?!!" Nothing. The shape lies motionless, but I have stared enough to know that this can only be Jasper.
At this point, I believe him to be dead or dying. There has been no sign of life whatsoever from the prostrate body. He has either been shot by a poacher, hit his head on something or had a heart attack. I had to get to him, but was terrified of what I would find, and dreading the confirmation of my worst fears.
To reach my beloved Jasper I must negotiate a barbed-wire fence, which I hasten to do, cutting my knee and tearing my favourite comfy jumper in my desperation to reach him. All the while, I am sobbing out loud "Jasper! Are you OK!? JASPER!!??!"
I reach him.
He is pretending to be unaware of my cries. Feigning deafness. Because he has a little prize of a deer-leg, which he is happily gnawing. The look on his face tells me clearer than any words could do that he has deliberately ignored me so that he can have the maximum possible time with his meaty bone. He looks pleased with himself and only just deigns to look a bit guilty. He knows what he has done.
I can just summon the energy to glare at him and say "Car. Now." He does not protest.
To Jasper's credit, I will say that he knew straight away that his actions were terribly wrong and that he caused a great deal of distress. He will probably not admit it, but he was extremely sorry for his deeds. I have forgiven him, but I did send him to bed early that night, to think about what he had done.

She's gone now. She and Dolores went to see the Sex and the City film the other night (which they very much enjoyed), so now my partner is watching the whole series through on DVD. I don't mind it actually, and it keeps her out of my fur.

I meant to put in Day Three of my Holiday Diary with this entry, but my partner took too much time to put down her version of events and I have an urgent need to go into my garden and download some wee-mails, so that must wait for another time.

Do not judge me too harshly, my friend. I was a very naughty boy, but my sweet partner has forgiven me.

And that deer-leg was mighty tasty, heh heh heh.....

Good night.

Monday 2 June 2008

Mon, 02 Jun 2008 21:50:28 GMT

Man alive. It has NOT been an uneventful week. I hardly know where to begin. In the first place, here I am dressed as Sherwood Forest from page 9 of the local newspaper.

In the background, you might be able to see my Little Green Corsa. And, believe me, I was every bit as fed up as I look.

I have had the company of my partner today, as she was not at all well. Yesterday, we did the Cancer Research "Race for Life" with Dolores. I was festooned with a pink scarf and received a medal for completing the race at the finishing line. I drew much praise and admiration from the viewing public, but the efforts proved a little too much for my partner. We love our extra-long walks, but at our own pace and with appropriate rest-stops, and I am sorry to say a migraine ensued in the poor girl, which lingers on even now. She made a valiant attempt to get up and dressed for work, but was ultimately defeated and returned to bed - with trusty Jasper snuggling down selflessly at her side.

Apparently, I have been a particularly naughty boy just recently. Heaven alone knows exactly what I am supposed to have done but my partner says that the world must be told of my apparent crime, that I may think twice before repeating the offence. However, this must be a tale for another time - my partner says that making any reference to my heinous actions (for she will not trust me to relate the tale myself and demands to be allowed access to my blog to commit it to posterity. I have not yet managed to see a way out of this.) may bring about a return of her migraine. Instead, I offer to you:

JASPER'S HOLIDAY DIARY - DAY TWO

My partner and I awoke to a glorious morning in Abercastle. The sun shone and the gentle waves lapping at the beach serenaded us as we broke our fast with a pot of tea on the sun-kissed patio. While I tried to work out a way of scaling the cliffs that descended to our garden (rock-climbing is a particular hobby of mine), my partner sipped her tea and read her holiday book - a biography of Marie Antoinette (a loving woman, innocent of what she was accused of saying and doing. What happened to her was a travesty, but don't even get me started on that subject...).

After I had reluctantly conceded my inability to climb the cliffs without the aid of a crampon, my partner and I quickly and efficiently unpacked our Little Green Corsa and stacked away our goodies (my partner did the work: I supervised). We then pottered the few yards to the little beach and I took a most refreshing dip in the crystal-clear Atlantic waters. At this point, two golden retrievers ambled down the hill to introduce themselves - the first of my holiday friends. Their names were Mali (a chap) and Cadi (an elderly, yet elegant, lady). They lived in a big pink house on the opposite cliff and were allowed to wander at will around the hamlet. They made a tour of all the houses every morning and were most affable.

Cadi (on the beach)

Mali (on his rounds, at my front door)

Their compatriot was a little brown chap of indeterminate origin (but with a truly majestic tail) named Bobby, unfortunately I don't have a picture of him. The three were really quite comical. All very sociable, and at 10.00am sharp every day they would trot off to the end of the hamlet to await the bus. The driver always had a biscuit for them. At 10.30am they moved on a little further to greet the arrival of the postman, who was also armed with a supply of biscuits. How I envy their lifestyle. I also enjoyed meeting a lovely young lady, a whippet named Rowley, who was holidaying with her partners from Henley-on-Thames. She was very sparky and fun to play with on the beach.

Just after lunch-time we were joined in our cottage by my partner's parents, along with her brother, sister-in-law and little Ewan. I was most relieved to see that they had performed their journeys without incident. Following an afternoon of football in the garden and a little bit of sandcastle-construction on the beach with Ewan, my partner and I took a simply delightful walk over the cliffs in the evening. I share with you now some pictures from this. Witness heaven on earth:

Good night.

Monday 26 May 2008

Mon, 26 May 2008 22:54:48 GMT

Ah, how swiftly the paw of Nature works its magic in such a short time. The bluebells are all gone over and sylvan glades that once were light, airy and inviting are now dark and forbidding as the trees stretch their emerald canopies wide to absorb the sun. And all this in the space of one week - Yes: I have returned from my holiday in Wales and have been out to inspect my woodlands.

I am not currently speaking to my partner as, today being a Bank Holiday and the annual fête in a neighbouring village, she had volunteered herself (and me) to assist with a stall for her local Dramatic Society. I wore a vest emblazoned with the name of the society and the fact that this is its sixtieth year. I did not agree to this, but decided to tolerate it. Due to the foulness of the weather, the fête was moved into the village hall, so all was cramped, crowded and distinctly damp. My spirits picked up a little when I was recognised by a family who had seen one of my turns as "Bullseye" in Oliver!, which was hugely flattering. My recovery continued as a gentleman representing two of the local main newspapers asked if I would appear in the photographs to accompany the articles reporting the event. I naturally concurred; this was my first mistake. The next production for the theatre company being a pantomime version of "Robin Hood", a large string of silk and plastic foliage was produced and my partner proceeded to dress me with it - in addition to the vest - to portray me as "Sherwood Forest". The photographs were taken outside, in the car park. In the pouring rain.

AND I had to sit in a pram.

Depending on how the photographs turn out and how they affect my public image, I may have to take steps to deal with my partner. I shall consider the matter privately.

My holiday was hugely enjoyable, however. Far too full to summarise in one blog entry, so I have pleasure in presenting Part 1 of a brief new series:

JASPER'S HOLIDAY DIARY - DAY ONE

My partner and I were travelling a day in advance of everyone else in our party, as the others had been summoned to a celebration elsewhere. Our scheduled time of departure was 11.00am, but customary unpreparedness and procrastination saw us off, following a tearful series of goodbyes for me from Maisie, at 3.30pm.

We made good progress in our Little Green Corsa, stopping only twice for downloading wee-mails. A sight which caused intense irritation arrested me on our first stop. A number of cars containing football supporters had overtaken us at one stage - the day being that of the FA Cup Final between Portsmouth and Cardiff, held at the Welsh stadium. As I passed my golden-amber liquid at the edge of the service station car park, two cars seemingly engaged in some sort of race, squealed into the area, turning every head. The cars sped through the parking area and stopped in the two disabled-only parking bays nearest the doors of the restaurant complex. A number of young chaps poured out of the cars, all drinking some sort of beverage from lurid tins.

Now, as a supporter of Southampton FC (well, it's more toleration than support these days if I'm honest), I naturally would not wish to impugn my Portsmouth brethren - but suffice it to say that these chaps were Pompey fans, and fine upstanding examples of the Fratton Park community they were too. With a disdainful stare, I was ushered into my seat and secured within my seatbelt. It gave us great pleasure, an hour or so later, to see one of these same cars parked up on the M4 hard shoulder, flanked by two lights a-flashing police cars and a group of angry rozzers. With a wry smile, I settled down to sleep.

I woke only to observe our passage over the Severn Bridge (the toll has increased to £5.30!), and slept well again until we reached our destination. Surprisingly, we did not get lost, and the journey took just under 5½ hours, including the two stops.

The cottage, the hamlet (Abercastle) and the beach immediately before us were all an absolute delight. The cottage owners had left two bottles of wine to welcome us, one of which my partner cracked open to toast our successful journey. I was thrilled with the large patio and garden, and its proximity to the shore. We wasted no time in taking a stroll on the sand and I launched myself into the sea with great gusto and a happy yelp.

We decided to round off the evening with a dvd from the selection provided in the cottage. We found a copy of "Ricky Gervais - Animals" and, as my partner is a huge fan of his work, settled on that. We opened the case - to find that someone had nicked the disc. Ah well - we were so pleased with our holiday location that, with a philosophical sigh and a last swig of wine, we retired to bed, the gentle lapping of the waves soothing us off to a happy sleep.

Good night.