I like to think I have a way with dogs (probably the musty odour I give off or something). Anyway, yesterday Caplin the Yorkie posed no problem to me whilst I was going mano-o-doggo with him in the bath. He had plenty of opportunity to biite me and show me who’s boss, but he didn’t. However, once he was dried and handed over to my mother, the problems began. He became the anti-christ of Yorkies, nipping and biting and growling and generally being a little hairy bastard. Even my mother said to me on the telephone: “At this stage, I prefer Alex the Wonderdog”. Strong words indeed.
So it was late last night and the dog was still giving my mother and her partner grief (he had been bitten four times, she once or twice). After walking Alex, I went over and offered to take the Yorkie for a long walk, the idea being to wear him down physically. If you break them physically, their aggression soon diminishes. So I walked him for about 30 minutes and this dog (for an eight-year-old) goes like a rocket and I was literally running to keep up. It was like having a rat on a string.
Anyway, I took him back and hoped that this was the end of it but ten minutes later my mother called to tell me that he had struck again, biting when they attempted to remove his little leather harness. Oh dear…I gave her some training advice, but I don’t think they are tough or disciplined enough to carry it through. With rescue dogs, you really do have to give them a bit of tough love to whip them into shape. I can’t see anything good coming out of this unless they both get tough with him.
On a separate note, I heard a sad story about a dog that went missing locally. The dog, called Buffy, was a miniature Schnauser and I knew this dog from the early days of getting Alex. It had escaped from its home and followed me and Alex up the road. Eventually, I worked out where it lived and a neighbour took it in. I remarked to The Missus that no good would come of that dog. My bugbear is people who let their dogs roam or don’t take sufficient precautions when leaving their animal alone. If you can’t keep an animal safe or from escaping, you shouldn’t have one, says I.
Anyway a couple of months ago, the local newspaper (or “rag” as I call it) had a story about Buffy going missing again. Homemade posters also appeared in the neighbourhood, precariously sellotaped to lamposts. Initially it was thought that maybe the dog had escaped and got picked up by someone else. It was a very friendly animal and anyone could have easily rehoused it without problem. Alas, the news was worse than that.
It appears that when the dog escaped, it had somehow found its way into a neighbour’s garden several houses away and fell into the swimming pool and drowned. Very sad. Not sure who to feel sorry for: the dog or the person that found a large dead animal in their swimming pool. Very sad indeed.
Category: Diary
Busy day for a Saturday. My eBay auctions ended today and my worldly possessions are off to new homes. While I made losses on some items, I made a healthy profit on two of the guitars. What you lose in chips, you gain in peas, as a wise man once said.
In the afternoon, we collected Caplin the Yorkie from the dog’s home. For an eight-year-old dog he is a lively little fellow, sprinting off down the road with my breathless mother in hot pursuit. I gave him a bath to wash away the filth, muck and detritus collected at the dog sanctuary. The first wash resulted in a healthy dog soup. Again, the dog is so lively, I had to keep one hand on him to prevent him leaping out of the bath. Such energy I have not seen in a dog for a long time.
Alex was curtailed in another part of the complex and was very upset when finally released after Caplin had gone. He sniffed around looking for this phantom menace, but couldn’t locate his new canine rival on the block.Oh well, I hope my mother enjoys her Christmas present. I know someone who is going to need a lot of walkies… 🙂
Do you worry about the length? Does it concern you that you might not be able to satisfy with what you’ve got? Do you want to increase your size?
I’m having a problem with my size at the moment…the size of my novel. (Hey, I know it was a pathetic attempt at sub-Carry On style humour, but what can you do about it?) I just can’t break the 70,000 word barrier and I’m reading all sorts of things about how publishers like novels that are 80,000+ words in length. So understandably, I am feeling a little inadequate. You see my problem is that I like a short story. I like novels that I can pick up and read in an afternoon and so I tend to write stories that I’d want to read. Fast, punchy and to the point. However, now I am paranoid that my little novel won’t measure up. What’s a boy to do?
I’ve expanded as far as I can go. I’ve also added a few more chapters, but I am still scraping the underside of 70,000 words. God dammit. On the plus side, I’ve actually worked out that “Dead Rock Star” is a trilogy with this book just being an introduction of the main character. I’ve some strong ideas for book 2 and some sketchy ideas for the last part. Of course, maybe I should write the WHOLE THING and hand that it. But then I would be submitting something near 220,000 words and I don’t want to be doing that. Oh well, I’ll figure something out.
Got a load of my old guitars on eBay to pay for my recent bout of GAS (Gear Acquisition Syndrome). There’s a link to the right to access those. Hoping it will pay for this guitar and knock some of my credit card bill down. I’ve been incredibly stupid recently with my credit card. I have no head for money and I am always thinking I’m ahead of the game with my Barclaycard when, in fact, I am not. I am a fucking idiot and I need to be punished. If I don’t get a good return on these instruments then I’ll just to have to put some of my record collection up there. The boy needs to learn a lesson, so be it.
The lack of disposable income means that I have five days left to renew this place. Frankly, the decision has been made for me. I cannot afford it. Toying with the idea of just going “free” but like to have my own control. Of course, I am totally full of shit, so I’ll probably just renew at the 11th hour like I always fucking do. What a weak and snivelling sack of shit I am. Be strong. Give up. Admit you are beaten.
The lesson of the day is not to attempt to do anything good. Last month, I discovered that an online acquaintance had committed suicide. The circumstances surrounding this wasn’t pleasant, but I felt the need to show my respects (and the respects of the music fansite I run) to this guy who had been an active member. So I ordered some flowers to be delivered via a Toronto-based florists. The internet order seemed to go OK. When I checked my credit card bill today, I have been charged twice for the floweres. OUCH! Email has been fired off. Hopefully I can claw the money back from the conning bastards.
The website involved is: http://www.afloristintoronto.com/site/index.cfm so until I’ve got a refund, you have been warned.
Remember folks, do nothing. It costs you nothing and no-one gets hurt.
What an eventful day!
I took delivery of my new guitar. OK – I’ve been a naughty boy and purchased one of those snazzy Godin xtSA numbers and I have to say it is magnificent. I will be flogging most of my other guitars on eBay tomorrow to pay for this beautiful instrument.
I got my new glasses today and I must admit that the difference they make is incredible. I can read the side of the loose leaf tea packet from a good stride away now. But seriously, the new glasses have eased my ever-twitchy left eye. I guess I must have been straining it. Anyway, here’s a pic of yours truly modelling his snazzy new shades…
The shades are cool, but you need a shave, you dirty ol’ man…
This afternoon we took my mother to the nearby RSPCA stray dog’s home to view a dog that was there. Even though she denied that she was going to ever get another dog, it was evident she was missing Stevie, the dog who was put to sleep recently. If you have never been to a dog’s home, it is a real assault on the senses. Firstly, there’s the smell…phew…worse than my dirty socks and underpants put together. Then there’s the noise: loads of desperate doggies barking to get your attention. And then there’s the emotional pull as you look at these poor abandoned animals that are giving their all to get your attention.
“Choose me!” they waggle and bark furiously, “Choose me! I’m good!”
The dog we saw was a Yorkshire Terrier. He was eight years old, had been left behind by his previous owner because they were moving to a place where no dogs were allowed (Catford, maybe?) and his name is Caplin, which is Turkish for handsome, apparently. When he was let out, he came right up to me immediately for a sniff and a stroke. People may think that I am an evil-hearted scoundrel, but at least the animals always see me for what I am. We gave him the once over. Good teeth, clean eyes, wet nose, clean rear end, good walker. He appeared perfect. It was obviously my mum was going to take him. She needs to be visited by the RSPCA worker to check that she is suitable for rehousing a dog (we had the check when Alex the Wonderdog was housed with us) and then we can go collect him. Maybe this Saturday if we are lucky. On the drive back, I told my mum that I would pay for the dog for her as an early Christmas present. At least, I don’t have to wrap him!
“Hey, I haven’t given you my permission to take my photo and use it in your blog, you black-hearted ne’er-do-well!”
In the post: a promo copy of The Blue Man Group album “The Complex” which cost me about £7, which is approximately £10 cheaper than the tight little blue bastards were asking for the CD at their shows.
Yesterday was interesting. I had a feeling that my eyesight might have been on the wain and it was interesting to hear about the eye problem that had been dogging me for a while (it seems I have a cyst on my left eye, which makes itself painfully known if I am under stress or in smoky environs, but it can be removed with surgery – oh goody!). The delightfully sounding “eye crystals” left me feeling a little depressed. We don’t have any history of glaucoma in my family (I asked my mother when I got home), so I was a bit alarmed when the optometrist told me about my condition. Of course, it is too early to say whether I will ever develop glaucoma, but it got me a little depressed when I was having lunch in the local pub. Though saying that, I am not sure if it was the news or the fact I’d handed over all that money that made me feel upset. I don’t know – the thought of slowly going blind isn’t something that makes me feel good all over, but the upside is that at least it is non-fatal, it’ll cut down the time I spent wasting on the Internet and I’ll get a guide dog. See, there’s an upside to everything!
Anyway, when choosing my glasses, I basically left it to the assistant to choose what I wanted. I didn’t have any idea what to choose as I had never worn glasses before and I wasn’t going to piss around spending ages choosing spectacles. In the end, there was a choice between “ageing geek” and “paedophile teacher” – the choice was simple, “ageing geek” won by a country mile. Oh how snazzy I’ll look walking Alex the Wonderdog in my new glasses. People will point and stare and say: “He’s an ageing geek”. Oh yes. Just got to wait for them to be made now.
Caught the teaser clip from the new Doctor Who episode to be shown at Christmas. It was OK. Not sure how long it will take me to warm to David Tennant as I thought Eccleston nailed that role and was easily my third favourite Doctor (after Baker and Davison). Yup – I’m an ageing geek.
In the post: something returned from one of my eBay sales. The little scrote said the item didn’t work, but it did when I sent it out as I had tested it. Every year I get one negative mark from some eBay wanker and I think that this is my eBay wanker for the year. Ho hum!
Had a dream in which Alex the Wonderdog appeared to be having puppies. Of course this is nonsense because he is a piss-licking, shit-rolling, boy dog…nay, a MAN’s dog. In the dream, somehow a Westie bitch had secreted herself inside Chez Lock and was pumping out little white puppies at the rate of knots, turning the house into something like 101 Dalmations (except they were Westies). Alex was none too pleased. Can’t remember what really happened, but after much hunting and pup-wrangling, I found the bitch living in our swimming pool (hey, told you it was a dream) giving birth to more puppies whilst being pleasured by a large brown dog, possibly a Staff or something else. Weirdness, pure weirdness. I am sure it means something to someone.
Today I went to the opticians for an eye-check. It was all the idea of The Missus. It had been three years since my last eye check so I reckoned it was a good time to find out just how badly my eyesight had failed. Despite impressing Mr Hui (the optometrist) with my recognition of the bottom line on the chart, my eyes required some glasses for when I am out walking the dog.
“Despite your long vision being impaired slightly” said Mr Hui, “Your close vision is excellent.”
Great.
“However, I noticed that there were crystals growing in your eyes,” he began.
“Crystals, eh?” thought me, “That sounds exotic.”
“Yes, these crystals are caused by calcium deposits,” he continued, “Nothing to worry about really.”
“That’s good,” thought I, “I like not worrying.”
“However,” he began again, “These crystals are a precursor to glaucoma.”
“Oh boy,” thinks me, “This is is bad.”
“But this is nothing to worry about,” he says, before pausing, then adds, “Mind you, for someone as young as you to develop crystals in your eyes is very unusual. You had better return in 12 months for another checkup.”
This did not make me feel very good at all. The worst of it was that the combined cost of my and The Missus new glasses (because we are both speccy gits from this day on) was £261. OUCH! That hurt. Handing over that kind of cash was very upsetting. I almost wanted to cry.
Oh well, I collect my new glasses in 5 days time. Who knows when the glaucoma will take hold and render me completely blind, eh? Mustn’t grumble…
Afterwards, we went to the pub and had a few drinks. As I said to The Missus, the only kind of blind I want to be is blind drunk. The pub had no baguettes (a good thing) and so they actually had to make us a sausage sandwich. Hurrah!