An update from the dog about the baby

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We call this the ‘look of extreme reproachfulness’

So, the dog has – to our miserable horror – managed to get hold of a Starwriter from somewhere (1997, I guess) and hammered out another letter. She’s still not fully on board with the baby.

Sorry about the language.

Butler, scullery maid,

What in the shitbarnacled name of almighty holy fuck? It MOVES? It fucking MOVES?

This is beyond a joke now. At first I thought your bizarre naked puppy was defective because it didn’t move, but it turns out that was one of its saving graces. Sure, it was an unrelenting squealing catastrofuck, but at least I knew where it was.

But then you went and taught it to fucking crawl.

Oh, sure, it was all laughs and smiles for you as it woke up crying every hour through the night, trying to inch forwards and possessed by a feverish St Vitus rocking motion. I can only assume they were tears of mirth and joy for all those weeks, because I couldn’t be sure over the puppy’s wailing, and besides, I had my own whimpering to take care of.

Now, a word about that. I’ve taken great pains to develop a new half-whine half-howl in response to the incessant caterwauling. You’re always bleating on about the puppy’s new achievements (I’m still reeling from the fact that you gave it a round of applause yesterday because it managed a sip of fucking water), but what’s my reward for carefully crafting a fresh vocalisation that I can crank out in sync with the puppy’s crying – at high volume – even when I’m to all intents and purposes asleep? Some claps and goofy smiles? Nope. You locked me in the kitchen, you titbiscuits.

Anyway. Now you’re all giddy because it moves and you’re encouraging it to roam all over the place without so much as harness or collar on. Can I just point out that the single biggest investment of time you’ve ever made with me is in insisting that I learn to fucking ‘stay’? Hours, we spent, as I patiently walked back over to you to explain that I’m a hunting terrier and not interested in sitting still, until you finally went out and bought treats of an acceptable level; and now you’re praising that thing for moving?

Where is the consistency? All the training books I got you stress consistency above all else. That’s why I so consistently place my chew toy – you know, the rolling one with the sharp gnawed edges – right under your feet when your back is turned.

Look, a case in point: because you love it when the puppy moves, I figured you didn’t need me to ‘stay’ any more. But when the butler was collapsing the stroller outside the front door in the rain and I didn’t ‘stay’ in the hall like he asked and wandered out onto the main road for a look around, he got all shouty and shaky and had to do that thing where he takes deep breaths, once his hands had stopped quivering. See my problem? Consistency.

So, I’ve tried a few disciplinary actions of late to remind you that the puppy needs to remain still at all times, instead of clambering over the bed to poke me in the eye as it shrieks “BOG!”:

  • First, there was the protest wee on the playmat, but you only went and washed it once you’d both taken your heads out of your hands and stopped making that low moaning sound. On a related note, what does ‘rehoming’ mean?

  • Then I faked that illness where I pretended to be all listless and off my food. I thought taking me to the vet and spending hundreds of pounds on needless blood tests would snap you out of it, but you’re obviously as thick as labradors (and Jesus, those guys are simpletons). You didn’t even twig when I perked up the second the vet had seen me and the nice receptionist gave me the fancy vet treats. I’m doing this for your own good, you know.

  • I’ll admit that the expensive new dog pillow that takes up the entirety of one of the sofas is cosy, but you needn’t think I’m snoozing on that while the puppy crawls. I need to know where it is at all times, and the best vantage point is directly under your feet, which is where I’m going to stay until you make it sit on its own pillow, or at least buy it its own puppy crate. Yes, that includes when you’re frantically sterilising bottles while the puppy wails.

Have any of these done the trick so far? Have they bollocks. So I’ve had to resort to writing again with a simple demand: teach it to stay. It needs to be still, be silent, and get its hellish little hand out of my ear.

However, I’m nothing if not merciful, so there is one thing you can do to make your lives better. If you will agree to keep offering it solid food, I will agree not to chew its fingers the next time it crawls over and pokes me. While it’s strapped into that tall chair thing throwing delicious pasta at me, we can have a truce. No, I don’t care if I get fat. Pasta. Fucking NOW.

Now that I’ve got my Starwriter you can expect more regular updates from me. You clearly need all the help you can get. Up next: how not to fuck up my walks, you utter tossclumps.

Incandescently,

Mistress Dog

ps./ I’ll have some of those rice cakes, too.

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A letter from the dog about the new baby

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A complex being of rage and love, driven solely by the need to eat, sleep and play. Sat next to a baby.

Found this on the mat the other day, along with an invoice from a neighbourhood cat for typing and proofreading. We may not have adequately prepared the dog for Kitty’s arrival.

Caution: strong language ahead. She’s a rescue dog and a Jack Russell so can be, well, a bitch.

The letter in full:

Butler, scullery maid,

First of all: what the actual blistering holy fuck? Are you kidding me?

We have some problems. As no-one has paid attention at my previous staff meetings, despite my sitting and staring at you at the allocated hour, I haven’t been able to debrief you. (Or give you your annual reviews, which, let me assure you, you’re not going to enjoy.) So this is a written warning.

I can only assume that the weird naked puppy is your idea of a joke. But it’s gone on for five titting months now. I’ve had enough. The interruptions to my walk time, game time, snooze time, sitting on you when I want time and scattering infinite hairs over your lives time are unsustainable.

Not only do you disappear for a few days (although that guy who looked after me gave me more treats than you ever have, do you have his number?), you then return with this blotchy hairless puppy that does nothing but croak and squeal and keep me awake all bastard night long. Yet you never bellow “In your bed!” at it like you do when I prowl around growling in the dark – which I do for your listening pleasure, you godless philistines.

I tried to express my dissatisfaction at the start by weeing on the carpet, the bed, and one secret location that you’ve yet to uncover, every day for two weeks, but you just got upset. I still don’t see why you needed to sob as you mopped it up for the tenth time, or why you curled up in a ball and moaned when I knocked all the drinks off the coffee table a few minutes later. You should recognise constructive criticism and accept it with good grace.

So let me spell it out: the puppy is defective. It still can’t move, there’s no sign of a tail and it can’t communicate properly. I’ve tried to help with this by sitting next to you and howling every single time it ‘cries’, to teach it the proper sounds, but you’ve been most ungrateful. I don’t see how you “losing the will to live” is my fault. Go fetch it, as you always tell me. Maybe it’s behind the sofa, like my bone was that time.

Worse, you are not letting the puppy develop properly. If you don’t let me bite it every time it pulls my ears, how will it learn its position in the pack (which is right smack at the fucking bottom, I might add)? And how is it to stay clean or learn to play and fight if you go all high pitched and lose your shit every time I try to jump on it, lick its face or steal its toys?

I’ll admit that getting to sit in the front of the car now is pretty sweet, and you do seem to care less about stopping me sitting on the sofa, eating your yoghurts or getting into bed in the morning and lying with my head on your pillow. This relaxed attitude is a timely innovation and can stay.

HOWEVER. The music. Those songs about teddy bears, quacking ducks and the one about ‘horsey horsey don’t you stop’? The ones you sing all day? What an absolute clusterfuck. Have you been dropped on your heads or something? And how has it suckered you into wiping its bottom? You never, ever let me clean mine by dragging it along the carpet, but do I detect an aloe-vera softened wipe in my future? No I fucking don’t. This kind of inconsistency drives a dog to madness, or at the very least to attacking a pair of Great Danes. I could have taken them, you know, if you hadn’t dragged me away. Pacifist wankers.

Get it together, staff. I don’t sit silently behind you when you’re changing nappies, waiting to trip you up, for the good of my health. It’s to wake you up to reality: the puppy needs to know its place. It needs to be on a lead, not in a sling. It needs biting and sitting on, not rocking gently. Most of all it should share those lovely squeaky Sophie the giraffe toys. No, I don’t care how special or expensive they are.

Don’t make me write again.

Indignantly,

Mistress Dog

ps./ Say ‘Gruffalo’ one more time, motherfuckers. I dare you.