Pippadog does not have a promising new career ahead of him as Dr PippaFreud the pyschoanalyst dog.

In fact I would go as far as to say that I have screwed up totally. Just as I had put mistress down for an idle toe-rag who drifts from this to that she completely wrong paws me. Big time.

We went out this morning. She didn’t play any games at getting-up time. I went in nice and early to try and get her out of bed because, remember, I can see the kitchen clock, and she can’t.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t pretend to be asleep, just lay there, and then – chung – out of bed. Exactly the same time as yesterday. Is this woman spooky or what?

I took her for our walk and we met a couple of nice small new amigos. I decided it wasn’t the day to be difficult, so I did waggy tails with them. In fact I even missed – oops I mean I chose to ignore – the two marmalade cats on the wall just up from my corral.

When we got back she made a coffee and had a cursory glance at emails and Land Rover forums (this is a morning ritual for both of them). Then I got my yummy breakfast. Immediately.

I was so surprised I only had time for one tiny bark. And mistress has got something called tins in its ear. I think. Anyway, it means she can’t hear properly out of one ear which must be difficult.

Us dogs with super hearing, super smell, and super eyesight know that must be very hard. Mistress has rubbish eyesight, so if her hearing is down to 50% life must be difficult. And barking doesn’t help.

And after my breakfast, she vacuumed up my dogs fur (and emptied the vacuum cleaner – seriously rare), washed the dishes and pans (uh??), watered the garden, stripped the bed, put a wash on – I cleared off outside for a lie-down as I was getting pretty tired watching all this, I tell you.

But just as I came to check on what she was up to next, she shut the door and picked up her keys. “Goody,” I thought, “We’re off for a walk.” No, wrong again. She was off to the shops. She never goes shopping. But she came back with butter. Mmmmmmm. And we had buttered toast and grilled tomatoes. Serious yum.

In fact, in all the flurry of activity, I had forgotten I had not had a second breakfast. Mistress doesn’t always have breakfast so then I miss out. And I have to say she was so busy today that she put the bread under the grill but then realised she had forgotten the tomato. But, all was grilled in the end and we happily ate our tomato on toast.

And then, she tied up her hair. (She had already put on her smart trousers and boots) and sat down at the table. With piles of papers. She did not move for hours. I thought she was poorly so I left the gate to come in and lie next to her and support her. I don’t know if I helped.

At lunchtime, she beamed at me and we went for our walk. I was very well-behaved. This was not a mistress to argue with.

She came back and sat at the table again. Master rang to distract her. She sorted him and made a few more ‘phone calls too. Back to papers. Meantime she made some lunch and ate it at the desk and table.

After 12 hours of this, she said: “I’m tired now Pippa. I’m going to have a rest before I start again.” Fine by me mistress, I’m totally stunned. I have not seen a mistress like this before. (Note to self – have a dog to master chat when he returns.)

Then she gets up, we have a super long walk, up and down the hill, up and down the river bed, mistress cool and chilled, and me not putting a paw wrong. Oh no. I might not be Dr PippaFreud, but I am not totally stupid.

I wonder what will happen tomorrow? Oh, and I sneaked a look at some of the papers she was messing with. Legal complaints or something. Nothing of importance to us dogs though.

The psychological approach

I decided I would try a different tack with mistress. Instead of despairing at her incompetence and going off to sulk, I thought I would try and understand her.

That’s a bit deep isn’t it everydog? But I think it’s working.

For example, yesterday morning I went in a few times and got no response from her. I couldn’t work out if she was playing the game or whether she was really asleep.

Then a bit later I ran in and stood by her side of the bed. She opened her little green eyes sleepily and said: “Hello Pippa darling. Oh, it’s daylight, it must be time to get up and take you out.” And she did – there and then. I was lost for barks.

So I thought about it for a bit and then realised she always goes to bed a bit later than master. We can’t watch our Spanish soap together any more because the TV bit the dust and master threw it out, so she looks at the internet for a little while. And then master tells her to go and curl up in bed with him.

Now because master is not here, she doesn’t have anyone to curl up with. I think I might ask her if she wants to curl up with me on my sofa. There is always plenty of room because at night I always curl up very small. This is important because then you are safe and protected and people can’t see you. Perhaps it doesn’t matter too much in the house, but I learned to do that on the streets.

Or I could ask her if she wants me to jump on the bed with her. But she seems to take up most of the bed on her own, although I am sure I could find a little Pippaspace.

So basically her day runs an hour later than master’s. Including taking me out at lunchtime and in the evening. And she doesn’t fall for the old “I want a peepee” routine when all I really want to do is run out on the street and investigate all the smells from the cats and dogs that have just wandered past. Master always falls for that one, so she’s a bit too cute there.

She’s a mustard addict. Master normally does the washing up so I haven’t particularly noticed this strange trait before. But when she eventually gets round to swilling a few dishes and things, she always sticks her finger in any left-over dressing that she’s made.

They both like mustard, and she’s always used it when she’s made French dressing (hey, everydog I’m learning about cooking!). Last year though, she discovered a recipe for mustard dressing which involves vast quantities of Dijon mustard – we’re talking tablespoons here not teaspoons – and she makes the stuff nearly every day and then gloops it over fresh artichokes.

In the morning when she tidies up, she sticks her finger in it and goes Yum. Before breakfast! Ugh. With her black coffee. About the only thing I can say to that is at least she doesn’t give me artichokes and dressing for breakfast because I WOULD NOT EAT IT. Oh no. Pippadog is not a mustard addict.

Now the next one I haven’t quite sussed. When master said he was going to go and do some work on the kennelflat, she said: “Oh, that’s good. It will give me chance to get on with the paperwork, cleaning, ironing, dusting, gardening, and spend a bit of time with Pippa, because you won’t be around to distract me.”

What does she do instead? Spends most of her time doing that tiring Internet stuff that leaves her baggy-eyed. Why does she say she’s going to do the other things? I don’t understand this one. If she doesn’t want to do the other things, why not say: “Oh that’s good darling, I can spend even more time messing around on the computer than normal.”

Anyway so long as she keeps the strawberries watered – do I care? We get along pretty well together. And she never tells me off for eating strawberries, and they are hers. She just laughs and walks off. To do…well, something.

Who chose who?

What sort of a question is that I ask? It’s quite clear that I found master and mistress on the streets in Spain, and they are now very LUCKY.

There aren’t many stray Brits wandering around here that get picked up by a fine (Spanish speaking) dog like me. Oh no.

Mistress still wants to ask. She doesn’t really mean “Who chose who?” or if she does, she also means, if you didn’t get to choose your humans – why did they choose you?

Simple really, she says.

So here are her examples. (Yawn, it’s my blog, it’s not fair, off to sulk. I would rather write about lying in the sun, or on the sofa, or under the table. Or…..CATS!!)

Dog number one. Ben. Adopted/rescued so many years ago that mistress is not prepared to confess. A black Labrador puppy from a Blue Cross Home in the UK.

Mistress had come from a doggy home (Boxers and a Rhodesian Ridgeback). Not a cat home though. Master came from a doggy home too. Small mongrels. And some cats. Hmmmm. Yummmmmm. I don’t mean they lived in dog rescue homes, I mean they grew up with dogs.

Apparently this Ben actually had pedigree papers. He and his sister were the runts of the litter, so they got discarded – that’s what master and mistress were told. But they could get the pedigree papers if they gave a larger donation to the shelter.

I don’t think they knew what they were looking for. A dog, preferably a puppy to give a home to. They weren’t into showing dogs so the papers didn’t matter. There were some nice tiny puppy Dobermans or Rottweilers at the kennels too but they were too young to leave, and master and mistress wanted to take a dog home with them.

So they took Ben. The kennels people wanted them to take his sister. These days they would have done, but it was their first dog together and they thought best to start with one. (Not necessarily true…..) And master thought the dog was a nice assertive puppy. In fact these days they would actually go for older dogs because no-one ever wants them. They just don’t look so cute…..

I guess they were part-way down the rescue road. Mistress so wanted a rescue dog, but had been used to big pedigree dogs. So in the end getting a pedigree albeit without papers was probably similar to going to a breed-specific rescue society.

Next dog. Paddy. The one dog who always listened to mistress and not master. Not that mistress was going to take him. For some reason they had decided another companion was in order, so they went up to the local rescue shelter (master and mistress had moved house and area by then) which was pretty grotty.

Mistress saw this cute little puppy lying at the back of one of the kennels with big eyes. “No, we’re not having that one,” said master. “We’ll have this nice barky one here. He so wants to leave these horrid kennels.”

Mistress looked at him. He was pretty mis-shapen. (The dog, not master, although…..) He was barking a lot. Anyway – she was still being a bit pretentious – he was black like the labrador. So they would look cool together. And he looked slightly like a labrador. In fact on his papers he was a labrador cross. Either crossed with a setter, or possibly a cocker spaniel. He was six months old or so, and he was apparently an ok dog, but his owners didn’t want him. They never do.

He was called Ludo. Mistress didn’t think that suited him. She was convinced he was part Irish setter cross because he had beautiful feathers on the back of his legs (she had always wanted a setter, along with every other dog in the world). He had red bits on his chest (they went very white many years later). So they called him Paddy (Irish setter – yes?). Although she did think later they should have called him Rags, or Ragamuffin, or Bag of Rags. The right names always come later.

And then there was Prince. Another house move, another rescue centre – this time in a city. There were at least two in the same city in fact, and master and mistress went to both of them. Absolutely full of unwanted dogs – bursting at the seams. Big dogs, little dogs, puppies. You name it. And people going there on a Sunday afternoon for a wander round with their children to look at the nice doggies (not to home them – just to look at the nice doggies in cages). Mistress came away from the second one in tears.

They went back to the first one. Master had always fancied a German Shepherd, (and there were lots), but they obviously needed one who was able to get on with other dogs. They still had Ben and Paddy, who were ageing happily and not barking quite as much.

When they walked into the kennels, Prince barked LOUDLY. They walked all the way round and he barked again. And then they left. But they ended up with him – because he was another barky dog who said “PICK ME – please?“. I think there was a bit of desperation in that bark and I will write Prince’s story later ‘cos we were good pals.

Oh, for the record – Ben reached nine or ten, Paddy was 15 or 16, and Prince died last year aged around 13. I think.

So. Mistress is trying to make my blog serious, and it is meant to be about sunshine, and Spain, and strawberries (and a little bit about cats).

To those of you humans who have not been found by your dogs (like I found mine!!), what made you choose your dogs? Did they bark a lot (like Paddy and Prince)? Did you go for a breed within a rescue home (like Ben and Prince) or just a funny dog like Paddy?

Or did you get your dogs from a breed-specific rescue centre?

If you buy from a breeder, and you have read all the way down this rescued dog saga (which I would be surprised about) – what do you choose and why?

And finally – if you have ever rescued a dog and then decide to buy one – why do you do that?

I think mistress needs to lighten up and go grab a glass of wine on pawty weekend. But hey, we’d both be interested in any responses. Ruff, Pipps and Serious Mistress. (Master definitely needs to come back soon!!!!)

Come back, master

Well, I’ve changed my mind.

Master needs to come back veeeeery quickly.

I could not believe what happened this morning. I went in to wake mistress up as usual. I take this role very seriously as waker-upper of the house.

It is important to wake everyone up, particularly at a time when I am feeling active and lively and want to go out.

Now usually I run in and three things happen.

Master and mistress play dead.
then a bit later
They say “go away – come back in five or ten minutes”.
and then
Master says, in his special kind voice “hello Pippa, what a good dog you are, of course I’ll get up now and we’ll go out”.

Then I run in and out holding my tail high, and sometimes I will make a few hrrrrmph noises. Then I go back in to check on master’s getting dressed progress (he’s a bit slow these days), and sometimes I will have a nice big stretch and lie down next to him. And he says more nice things to me.

Mistress says “ug” and “turn the light off”. This should have given me the clue.

So I ran in and out. First she played dead. That’s ok, I don’t mind playing the game – once or twice. Then she yawned and stretched. And then nothing. Nothing at all.

In and out I went again. I went to both sides of the bed. She looked at me and said “Hello, Pippa. I’ve no intention of getting up yet.” And WENT BACK TO SLEEP.

The only good thing to be said is that when she finally started moving her lazy body out of the bed, she gets dressed faster than master. Just as well isn’t it?

So I walked her further than normal. I thought it was the least I could do for her. Then when we turned round I put on my best cat-hunting look. Pippaontheprowl. Nose sniffing, ears back, face down and looking under cars, in bushes, on walls.

That gave her a bit of a shock. And as luck would have it, we saw one of the horrid marmalade neighbours that go in my corral and make it smell nasty.

It was walking down the back street just as we were coming down the track. Misery Mistress made me stop and wait for it to get well out of the way, and then made sure we went in the opposite direction.

Could things get any worse? Yes. She went back to bed then. The only reason she was tired was because she had spent half the night reading my pals doggyblogs. Why she tries to read over a year’s worth of blogging in a couple of hours is beyond me. Poco a poco mistress.

Needless to state I’ve only just had my breakfast. No sign of cheese and wine with it either.

I am resigned to a gloomy weekend where I am clearly not going to be in charge at all. Disappointed Pippadog.

I shall have to eat all the strawberries so there are none left for her. Hehehe.

Party weekend?

Hehe I’m in for a good weekend.

Master has gone off to decorate the kennelflat and get rid of the horrible colours, and suffer the fleabites (note to mistress, she must print off the advice on fleabites from Butchy and Snickers mum).

Mistress has started advertising the current furniture on the Internet and was a bit surprised to get a ‘phone call for some chairs an hour or so after she had put the ad up.

Anyway master is dealing with all the hands-on side of that down at the kennelflat, we are the thinking-side back here at HQ.

When mistress first started using Internet thing many dogyearsago it was mainly for research at work, so she is a bit naive on this whole idea of selling stuff and getting money.

Still she can’t be that stupid so she needs to pull her finger out and learn.

So back to the good weekend. I just get to idle around really, manipulate mistress a bit, eat lots of strawberries, try and pull her over on cat hunts, and lie on the sofa.

She says there is some TOPDOG party going on involving cheese – mmmmmm – for me, but I’ve not had any since breakfast time when I ate most of their cheese sandwiches, and the party should involve some wine for her.

I don’t care about wine or beer. According to mistress their labrador used to like sherry, their Xsetter/lab wasn’t interested in anything to drink, and their German Shepherd would have the odd beer – well, he was German – when he was young.

But mistress says alcohol is not good for doggies so best for her to drink my share at this cheese and wine party. Fine by me – so long as I get her share of cheese. Drooool. Big time droooooooool.

And as master isn’t around to distract her this weekend, she can write lots of doggyblog posts for me. Although she has hardly done very well so far. It’s taken until now to write anything. Too busy reading my pals’ blogs. She’s only jealous ‘cos I have lots more Internet pals than she does.

Anyway hope to see some of you at this party if mistress can ever find it. If not it will be cava and cheese here in the house. On the sofa. Ruff. Idle Pipps.

Mistress wants to edit my post. Pooh. And it’s nothing to do with party weekend. It’s a bleat about the woman who was in the flat. Mistress has looked at the photos on my blog and realised the woman nicked off with the taps on the bathroom sink and changed them for bog-standard chrome. And she’s only just noticed? I mean, do I care??

More about the kennelflat

Hello everydog

Well, I’m between two of my favourite dens today – guarding the gate (and looking for the odd strawberry….) and under the kitchen table here in the campohouse as we came back from the kennelflat the other day.

Mistress doesn’t have internet access there so if we’re offline for a few days you’ll know where we are.

The kennelflat is for a mix of things apparently.

First as you all know, it is for me to go and chase different cats. (Thanks for the advice beautiful Bella – I know they are nasty – but I can’t resist chasing them. And although I am very big and look like a furry sleepy thing – I am very fast – and sometimes I catch them!)

Secondly (I would have thought the first reason was good enough) it is for an investment whatever one of those is. I don’t think an investment runs away so I am not interested. Master and mistress certainly hope it doesn’t run away. Asset spreading – perhaps that might be like spreading butter on toast? I like buttered toast. Yum.

Thirdly – it is partly a holiday home. Quiet weekends in the flat ‘cos the city is empty at weekends, and quiet weeks here in the country village. Mmmmmm.

And apparently it is also to give master and mistress something new to focus on. No idea what that means. Mistress has obviously been remembering her office jargon.

Anyway I’ll say a bit more about it. It’s small pokey and scruffy. Having spent a few days there master and mistress discovered the toilet was leaking. In fact it’s leaking that badly they need to use the bucket to flush it, and when mistress lifted up the seat to pour in the water the seat fell off. Master has decided a new toilet is in order. Muy pronto.

It’s painted in grotty colours. Master has already got through ten litres of paint doing the sitting room area. And that was only painted cream or lemon or something.

The kitchen bit is ORANGE, the bedroom and bathroom are SWIMMING POOL BLUE. Mistress says we have to use capitals because these colours are in our face. (They aren’t in mine, I don’t care).

But the block is quiet. It is first floor (mistress doesn’t like heights). You can look up the street and see the Rock of Gibraltar,
or down the street and see a nice old building in the main street (mistress likes history – yawn – she wants to join the history society).

The flat was not expensive. Master and mistress (mainly master) are prepared to make it nice.

And there are cats. Oh, I’ve mentioned that.

CATS….and sofas

Free to a good home. No of course it’s not me, everydog – but this dirty scruffy sofa.

Free in fact to any home. Even though I think I look pretty cool on it.

So why have I got a new sofa? Well, dogpals because master and mistress have bought me a new kennel. Well, actually it’s called a flat or an apartment or something, but it’s not much bigger than a kennel.

They really want some nice ground like Dachsies Rule, but for some strange reason they have bought this kennelflat thing.

Off we went from our camping trip to Gibraltar where, as you all know, I have been before. As usual everyone at the frontier was interested in ME and MY passport not boring old master and mistress. Some of the nice Spanish police officers tapped on the window and smiled at me.

We went to the nice quiet beach for a little walk, and then master and mistress got dressed up. Well, master did, couldn’t see much difference in mistress to be honest. But master looked very smart.

And then they went to see a lawyer. They signed some bits of paper, handed over a cleared cheque, and waited for the keys to my kennelflat. But the woman they were buying from didn’t hand them over.

“I don’t have to move out yet, do I?” she said, smiling nicely at everyone – three lawyers, master and mistress all sitting there with their mouths wide open.

“Well, er, when were you thinking of moving?” said her lawyer when he got his breath back.

“Oh, some date to be arranged in the future,” she said airily.

“Well, it is normal practice to hand over the keys now,” he said. “How long will it take you to get packed and move?”

So she sighed heavily, and then said grudgingly “Perhaps a few days.”

“OK” he said. “We’ll all come back in a few days.”

At this point mistress fell off her chair. But before she did she managed to say VERY assertively “Oh, no no no. We have driven down here to pick up these keys, and we are not going anywhere else today.”

I have to hand it to mistress. I don’t usually pay much attention to her, but if she wants something done or tells me to behave, best not to ignore her. Like this morning when I went in to get master up at 5.50am, they decided it was too early. “Come back in 20 minutes Pippa. Not five or ten. Twenty,” she said. So I waited.

Anyway, back to the office with the strange woman who thought she would sell her kennelflat and continue to live in it. Master lightened the atmosphere and added that if the woman was still in the kennelflat that night, she would be sleeping with him. So everyone had a laugh, and then her lawyer told her she had the afternoon to get packed and get out, and to bring the keys back in the evening.

So instead of taking me to see my nice new kennelflat, master and mistress came back to tell me all about it. Then he opened a can of beer, she had a glass of wine, and we sat in my Landy for the next five hours until they walked off to get the keys.

But as you can see we eventually got in, and found this grotty sofa and a few other bits of naff furniture which master and mistress now need to get rid of as they have their own.

The really really good news, the best in fact, is that – and this is what I have been dying to tell you all – the place is full of CATS!!! Yes. Yum. There are cats all around. They hide under cars, they sit on window ledges, and one even sits on the steps of the block.

I have already made three special friends. A ginger one, a black and white one, and a black one. When I say friends I mean cats that like to tease me, that I really have to, need to, and absolutely must chase when they run away.

And I have made my action plans:
Plan a) dive out of block, pull master or mistress on their face before they are even down the steps and then try and get under the car after the cat.
Plan b) pull master and mistress towards every car in the street and try and get my nose under each car, even if there isn’t actually a cat there.
Plan c) wander down the street nonchalantly waiting for a cat to do a sudden shoot across the road and then try and pull master and mistress into the street after the cat.

Yes, Pippa likes Gib. PippathecathuntingGibdog.
Or PippatheGibcathuntingdog. Who cares?

PS Almost forgot to say – we are all full of fleas now too. Perhaps the funny woman who had the kennelflat had a cat and the scruffy sofa is flea-ridden. A small price for lots of cats to chase in my opinion.