Christmas Eve

There is a full moon over Menerbes tonight. My mum and dad say it's watching over us. I hope that you can also see a full moon from your window, and that it keeps you safe. Have a wonderful and peaceful tomorrow.

Well, it's that time of the year again

(click on the card to enlarge)

Sorry I've been quiet for a while: I've been working on my book, which is supposed to be finished in January (gulp!). And my dad's been working on his book (yawn!), so I don't get all the computer time I need or deserve. So, I said to my dad, the answer is obvious: buy me my own computer! I mean, it doesn't take a brain surgeon to work that out, right? No answer from my dad so far, but I keep checking under the Christmas tree for a very large box addressed to 'Josie'.

Anyway, me and the kittens (or, should that be 'the kittens and I'?) just wanted to wish all of you a really wonderful, happy and peaceful holiday.

Roast turkey for everyone, I think!

My dad's wake-up call

I think this is really funny, and it's pretty close to what Sooty does to my dad every morning! Make sure your speakers are turned on and double click the little right-pointing arrow to enjoy the fun.

Goodbye to a Good Man

My mum and dad are very, very sad because John Bastable, one of their very best friends, has died. They had known John—and his wife, Sue—since they first arrived in Provence more than 15 years ago, which seems to a puppy like a very long time. I liked John, and I think that he liked me, and I know my dad is right when he says that John was, in every way, ‘a good man’.

So, I’m sad, too. And, I don’t know how to make things better. All I can do is keep a very close eye on my mum and dad—which, believe me, I’m doing—and hope that their many fond memories of John will help them overcome their sadness.

Poor Sue. I hope she knows how much we love her.

John with his wife and stepdaughters

Time flies

So, my dad tells me, it's almost a year since he first set eyes on me, in Laura's house in Barbados, and decided that I was the puppy for him (and mum, of course).

Which is why, I suppose, they decided to throw their very first party of the year - to celebrate the anniversary. Now, they pretended there was another reasons for the party: the fact that Grizzle's mum and dad, Victoria and Simon, finally got married and came to Provence for their honeymoon. But since Simon and Victoria didn't bring Grizzle with them (can you believe that?) I knew the party couldn't possibly be for them. Sigh, it was for moi, and didn't we have fun!

There was lots of food - of which I managed to secure my reasonable share - and then an impromptu concert. Wonderful!

And, best of all, I met Jay and Jecca, who live in Paris, and who really really liked me, and if ever I need another home in France I know where to go!


Oh, yes! Anyway, I thought I'd share with you some moments from my party. (Click on the loudspeaker icon if you want to hear the cool music.)

My dad thinks this is funny

So, what have I been up to since I last posted to my blog?

In a word, bonding. You see, my mum and dad said that if I wanted my life to go back to the way it was BS (Before Sooty)—when the upstairs of the house was mine—I would have to learn to be on my very best behaviour with all the kittens all of the time. Meaning, I was never to chase the kittens, even when they hissed at me, and, most specifically, ‘You are not to eat Sooty.’ As if I would!

I thought about that for a while and then I decided I’d give it a try. Perhaps Sooty could become my friend, I hoped. Perhaps we would become inseparable?

Well, be careful what you wish for, folks. We did become inseparable—because Sooty spent her entire day chewing my tail or my legs or even my nose! She never left me alone, especially when I was trying to sleep. There I was, lying on my sofa—oh, excuse me, it’s our sofa now, apparently—dreaming of chicken suppers, or long walks with my best friend, Basta, when suddenly I would feel her needle sharp teeth. And though she was very tiny (when my mum and dad took her to the vet for her first check-up she weighed just 1.1 kilos) boy, could she bite! The only way to stop her was to put her head in my mouth and keep it there—which, if my dad caught me in the act, meant I got shouted at. How unfair is that?

Anyway, I’ve persevered with ‘bonding’ and I have to tell you that something remarkable has happened: Sooty now seems to regard me as her ‘mum’, and I feel much the same way, and I’m the one who takes care of her (I like to wash her fur with my tongue) and gets her out of trouble whenever she fights with one of the other kittens. Which, let me tell you, is often. That’s because Sooty’s favourite trick is to sneak up on Savannah or Georgia or Rabbit in the garden—when they’re minding their own business, asleep in the sun—and attack them like a terrorist. She does it so often, my mum and dad have taken to calling her Sooty bin Laden, and I’m the one who has to break up the fights. My mum says I’m ‘the playground monitor’—whatever that might mean!

But, honestly, I’m loving it. I’m getting on much better with all of the kittens, and almost never chase them, and because of my ‘good behaviour’ I now have the run of the entire house and garden, and can sleep where I want at night (usually under the bed). So, thank-you Sooty for coming into my life. Now, let go of my tail!

Talking of sleep, young Jack Eddy doesn’t, apparently—at least not at night.

So, as you can imagine, his mum and dad are feeling pretty exhausted. This second picture, I’m guessing, was taken in the daytime…

Isn’t he cute?

HUGE news

I’m sorry my blog’s been silent for such a long time. I’ll tell you why in my next post (essentially, blame my dad). But, meanwhile, I just can’t wait to tell you what’s happened today: Jack Charles Paul EDDY arrived safely in Melbourne, at 12:09 local time, weighing in at a very respectable 6lbs 13ozs. And, as you can see, mother and son are doing fine:

I can’t tell you how excited—and relieved—my mum and dad are. It’s like a new puppy has arrived in their lives. Actually, come to think of it, if Jack Charles Paul was a new puppy then there would be several of him because puppies (and kittens, I suppose) come in clusters—which is much more efficient, don’t you think?

Still, for my mum and dad’s sake, I’m absolutely thrilled that Jack has arrived, ahead of schedule but none the worse for that. I guess this means we’ll be getting on a plane to Australia—which is a very long way away, apparently. I just hope that the airline has a crate big enough for three! (We will not be taking the kittens, especially Sooty, of whom more later…)

Welcome to the world, Jack!

My new kitten, Sooty

So, what's all the fuss about?

I'm in print!

That's right! Seriously! My dad has helped me turn my blog into a book and, if you buy it, all the profits will go to support the HOPE SANCTUARY in Barbados, those wonderful folks who saved my life. It's a very small book but it could make a big difference for lots and lots of puppies and kittens. Please, click on the link below and check it out at Blurb.

Josie : A dog'...

By Moi

Book Preview

Oh, terrific!

We’ve got a new kitten! Seriously! As if three kittens weren’t enough for anyone, my mum and dad have now rescued a fourth. Her name is Sooty, apparently, and guess where she gets to live? That’s right, in my mum and dad’s bedroom! And where does she sleep? You guessed it: on the bed!

Why? you may well ask. Well, this is what my mum and dad told me:

You see, Josie, Sooty is not yet two month’s old, and she doesn’t have a mum or a home, and if she hadn’t come to live with us then she would have gone to a place where…well, never mind what might have happened. Now she’s safe, just as you’re safe, and the reason she’s going to live in our bedroom for a while is that she’s too small to be with the other kittens, at least for now. And, we’re sorry that means you can’t be in the bedroom at the moment but you might frighten or even hurt her, even though you wouldn’t mean to…

Moi hurt her? Even if she does look like a tasty one-bite snack?

Oh, well. I’ll just have to grin and bear it and hope that Sooty will grow up to be my friend.

This is the view from my mum and dad’s bedroom window that I no longer get to see. Sigh!

News from Basta

Received this email from my best friend, Basta:

From: Basta [Basta@chine-europe.com]
To: josie@menerbes.net
Subject: Traveling

Gutentag Josie!
Finally made it to Frankfurt, and having endured the 9+ hours in the car I needed some R+R (see photo). I am simply dog tired, but wanted to get this off to you while we had an internet connection.

We didn't make it out of Menerbes as planned, always too many last minute details. And as you might imagine I was on pins and needles all day, just wondering what was going on!

We're now safely, calmly, installed at the hotel for the evening. If you think driving on Route Nationale is rough, take my word for it, you don't want to watch the German Autobahn go flying by (through the back window) all day!

Off to the U.S. tomorrow morning (another long, boring day for me) and then a lot of visiting with the stateside relatives. Wish you'd be there, we'd all have a great time!

I'll send more news when I can, getting the typing done is so tedious. Have a great time while I'm gone, see you soon, and don't eat too many cherries along the trail.

Gros Bisous, Basta

I hope you've noticed something important: Basta's been allowed to lie on the bed!

Bon Voyage

So, Basta—my very best friend—is heading home tomorrow, back to the United States. She’ll be gone a whole month, apparently, and I’m really going to miss our walks. But, it’s all in a good cause: Whitney, who is the daughter of Basta’s mum and dad, is getting married in somewhere called Colorado and, obviously, Basta has to be there. I wonder if she’ll bring me back some wedding cake?

Anyway, we had a great farewell walk today and, halfway round, I asked my dad to take a picture of me and Basta—and Susan and Mark—to make sure I won’t forget them, because a whole month seems like an awfully long time. I’m missing them already…

This is so, sooooooooo exciting!

I knew something was up when my dad began tidying his office, and my mum made up the spare room, and Isabel, our femme de ménage—who I really, really like—said she would work an extra hour.

‘Guess who’s coming to see you?’ my dad kept asking, which I thought was a pretty irritating question; how was I supposed to know? Anyway, by last Friday evening I just knew the ‘mystery guest’ was about to arrive and I was so excited I couldn’t eat my supper (which, as my dad remarked—unnecessarily, I thought—‘Well, that’s a first, Josie.’) At 6:30PM my mum said, very casually, ‘Let’s go to the village and see who we might see’—and by now I was fit to burst. So the three of us walked down to the pharmacy, and waited and waited, and guess who we saw?

Nobody, that’s who!

And then my dad said, ‘Well, perhaps they’re not coming after all,’ and insisted we all went home, and I was planning to start a major sulk—when the doorbell rang. ‘Josie, I think that’s for you,’ said my mum, and the front door opened, and I saw a woman, and at first I didn’t recognise her—for about a millionth of a second—and then I did: MUM LAURA!

That’s right! Mum Laura, the wonderful woman who saved my life, had flown all the way from Barbados to see me. Was I excited? Well, you be the judge:

Wow! Can you believe that? What an incredible thing to do! I mean, as I know only too well, Barbados is a very long way away, and you have to travel in a carrier that’s a bit like a cage, and the only sustenance they give you is a bowl of water, and it’s dark and bumpy and very scary. Still, Laura came all that way for me—and she brought her mum (my Grandma Hilary)—and what a time we had for the next two days: cuddles and walks, and more cuddles—lots and lots of them—and, when my dad wasn’t looking, Laura even sneaked me some tasty roast duck to supplement my meagre diet.

Naturally, I took the opportunity to tell Laura what a terrible time I’m having in Provence and to list all of my deprivations: no more biscuit snacks during the day (because, I’m getting a little plump, allegedly); no more roast chicken suppers on a nightly basis (ditto); not allowed on the bed; not allowed to chase kittens, etc, etc.

But Laura just lay down with me and said I was the luckiest puppy in the world. Perhaps I am?

As you can see, I love my friends....

How embarrassing!

Why is it that parents think it’s ‘cute’ to dredge up baby pictures? I mean, who on earth wants to know what I looked like when I was a very young puppy, and very small?

Well, you do, apparently. Or that’s what my dad thinks, and he absolutely insists that I post this picture of me and Laura, taken in Barbados, shortly after I was rescued. He also insists I point out that while I was not much bigger than Alf is today, my paws were ‘absolutely huge’.

So, now you know. Please don’t feel the need to post any comments!

Napoleon was also very short, I understand

So, while I get sent to prison for a crime I did not commit (see my previous post), my small friend, Alf, gets sent on a sleepover. To where? To my house! And guess where Alf gets to sleep? On my mum and dad's bed! Now, how unfair is that? What is it about France that allows the 'vertically challenged'...

...(see what I mean?) to rise to the top—or, in this case, my mum and dad's bed—while we grander creatures are kept on the floor? Now, I want to make it absolutely clear that I intend no aspersion whatsoever against our new Monsieur Le President, who is undoubtedly a towering figure in many ways. But, I have to say, it seems to me that Alf and Monsieur Le President share certain characteristics that may reflect the altitude from which they view the world. Who knows?

Oh, I've just been told—told, mind you, not consulted—that Alf is coming for another sleepover this weekend. Terrific!

This is a picture of Alf trying to look 'appealing'. I'm not sure he succeeds. Are you?

Free Josie!

Okay, I’ve been thinking about how best to explain the reason for the long silence on my blog. I thought of telling you that I’ve been unwell, or finally overcome by the cultural differences between France and Barbados. Or, that my dad broke the computer—which, knowing my dad, might have been a pretty convincing explanation.

But, no, I have to tell the truth: I’ve been in jail!

Hold on, let me rephrase that: I’ve been in jail FOR A CRIME I DID NOT COMMIT!

Seriously. One day my dad said, in a scary kind of voice, ‘Josie, get in the car.’ Well, I like getting in the car, so no problem there, but my mum had a look on her face that warned me this was going to be no ordinary ride. We drove for miles and miles and miles until we reached this place that has tall, locked gates and wire fences; a prison, no less. As we arrived, I could hear the distressing baying of captive convicts, the jangle of the warden’s keys, and the slap of the baton against her thigh. Without pity, my dad removed my collar—and, therefore, my identity—and forced me inside the gulag. Then they, my mum and dad, left me to my fate without so much as a backward glance.

Well, I don’t mind admitting I was pretty scared. Some of my fellow inmates looked really mean, in a hassling, pushy kind of way. They kept demanding to know what I’d done: ‘For what crime are you doing the time, dude?’—and since I didn’t know, I couldn’t tell them. That first night, I found a corner to lie down and hide in, and I don’t think I slept a single wink.

All right, the next day wasn’t so bad. Some of my fellow prisoners turned out to be pretty nice puppies, and there was this huge exercise yard where we were allowed to run and play to our heart’s content. And the warden—whose name is Anne—didn’t really have a baton, and she said I was adorable, and I got regular meals and my own safe space to sleep in. And my friend, Charlie, was there, doing his own time, so we kept each other company. After a little while I thought, ‘Well, there are far worse places to be.’

But, jail is jail, so what I had I done? Absolutely Nothing, is the answer. I was fitted up, convicted on the basis of false evidence. Above all, this a cautionary tale.

The Bunny Murder
Okay, this is the prosecution’s Exhibit A:


Now, I want you to note several important things: 1) Whilst it is clear from the photograph that a bunny is deceased, it is NOT me who is holding the evidence in his/her jaws. Right? 2) Nowhere in the photograph do I appear. 3) While it is true that the photograph was found on my computer, there is NO evidence that I had prior knowledge of this crime. 4) Okay, the fact I had the photograph in my possession does suggest ‘knowledge after the fact’—but, so what? Just because you have a picture of a crime scene doesn’t mean you know anything about the crime. Does it? 5) The fact that I claimed not to know the identity of the perpetrator—‘All labs look alike to me,’ I said—merely tells you that, by instinct, I’m not a snitch.

A couple of days ago—after who knows how long—my mum and dad came and got me out of prison and took me home (where, as you can imagine, the kittens were overjoyed to see me—not!) But I’m only on parole, apparently, and might be returned to prison at any time. This is so unfair!

What a riot!

No, I’m not talking about what may happen if the rather stern Monsieur Sarkozy becomes the next president of France. I’m talking about what’s happening in our garden where, as you can see, the pansies are proliferating, the roses are blooming and we have a feast of figs. And it’s still only April!

But, talking about the election—which I wasn’t, but I will now—I thought you might like to know how my village voted in the first round, compared to the rest of France. Well, Monsieur Sarkozy did even better here than he did nationally, winning 38.61% of the votes (compared to 31.09% overall), while that nice Madame Royal did slightly worse (22.38% here, compared to 25.78% nationally). As for the scary Monsieur Le Pen, he didn’t even achieve 10% of the vote in my village—and since, presumably, I’m one of the immigrants he would like to send home, I’m rather pleased about that. The turnout of voters was very high—almost 85%—and I was able to say ‘hello’ to lots of them. I’m really looking forward to the second round.

Meanwhile, if you are wondering how I felt when my dad sent me to The Dog House for my alleged crimes (see my previous post) this is how:

Don’t you think that’s cruel?

I’ve been in disgrace

Sometimes when I’m on one of my long walks, and off the leash, I find things that are so delicious I just have to roll in them. Well, I think they’re delicious, but mum and dad say that what I roll in is ‘unspeakably disgusting’, whatever that might mean. And, believe it or not, when I get home they make me take a shower, literally! They put me in their shower room and turn on the hose until I’m absolutely soaking wet—I’m not making this up—and then they wash my coat with some kind of liquid that smells like… Well, I don’t know what it smells like but it’s certainly nothing a puppy would want to roll in! Anyway, after I’d had three showers in less than a week, my dad said, ‘Josie, that’s it. Three strikes and you’re grounded!’ Meaning, as it turned out, total withdrawal of my computer privileges; hence, no blog. Frankly, I think this was a total over-reaction by my dad, but I have been ‘good’ for the past ten days—no rolling—and now I’m allowed to use the computer again, ‘on a probationary basis’. I think that means I’m on parole for the indefinite future. Talk about Give A Dog A Bad Name…

So, while I can, I better bring you up to date on my news:

First, and most exciting, IT’S OFFICIAL!: Simon and Becca (see my post of 22 February 2007) are having a boy. His name is going to be Jack Charles Paul Eddy and this is a picture of his proud mum, known to my dad as ‘FDiL’ (Favourite Daughter-in-Law).

Though Simon and FDiL live in Melbourne, Australia, they actually met in the village which is now my home, which only goes to prove that it’s a very small world. Doesn’t she look great?

Meanwhile, my very best friend, Basta—who went on a trip to the United States with her mum and dad weeks and weeks ago—still hasn’t come back, which is very worrying. No emails from Basta, either. Do you think she’s also been grounded? Anyway, I do have a new friend called Alf, who’s the smallest puppy I’ve ever seen, and we sometimes go on walks together. I’ll try and get you a picture of Alf but dad says we’ll have to use the macro lens, whatever that means.

Finally, before my time on the computer is up (a condition of my parole, apparently), I wanted to tell you about Jackson, who lives in Washington DC and who sent me the following email:

Dear Josie,
I understand your people are really quite with the program. However, might I suggest one mechanical addition to their life which will have positive effect on yours? A motorcycle with sidecar is the ticket. Its maximum speed, at least in the country, on grass, is slower than a galloping horse. So you can chase it, it won't kick you and the people on board think you're funny and laugh at you instead of yelling ‘No, Jackson, NO!’ Then, when you're tired of barking at the machine, the people pick you up and drive you home.
Love, Jackson

Looks like a plan to me.

Kittens to go

If you've been reading my blog on a regular basis then you will know that I live with three kittens, sort of. That means, while they're allowed to do whatever they want—totally ignore me like I don’t exist; alternatively, hiss at me whenever I even suggest we might play together—I’m expected to be on my best behaviour at all times.

That’s because my kittens (like Georgia, for example) are sweet, fluffy, non-scary things who wouldn’t hurt a mouse.

Yeah, right!

What?

My dad thinks this photograph of me on my sofa is funny. But, before you laugh, you should know that the reason I look somewhat startled is that dad had just woken me up to tell me that, as of today, pets in the UK now have a ‘Bill of Rights’. That means that all puppies and kittens (and hamsters and goldfish, I suppose) are now legally entitled to ‘a proper diet and a suitable environment and housing to ensure they can behave normally and without pain or disease’. So there!

Of course, I don’t live in the UK but we’re all part of Europe, and I’m a European citizen with my very own passport, so I’m sure the new rules apply to me.

And what’s a ‘proper diet’, I hear you ask? You get one guess!

Now, I admit that if you’ve been reading the Newsreel feature that I’ve added to my blog (look to the right—and my thanks to those very clever folks at Google for providing it) you may have seen articles claiming that pets should not be fed ‘human food’ because it can be dangerous for us. So I went to the source (the American Veterinary Medical Association) and checked out the list of things you should never, ever feed us, and here it is:

- Alcoholic beverages - Chocolate (bakers, semi-sweet, milk chocolate) - Coffee (ground, beans, chocolate-covered espresso beans) - Moldy or spoiled foods - Onions and onion powder - Garlic and garlic powder - Salt - Yeast dough - Macadamia nuts - Raisins and grapes - Avocado - Hops (used in home brewing) - Fatty foods - Bones - Milk - Raw eggs - Raw or undercooked meat - Products containing the sweetener xylitol

Do you see any mention of cooked chicken on that list? I think not…

Have I made my point?

This is so unfair!

Okay, these are two kittens called Dude—the big black one—and Holly and they live with my Very Important Friend, Commissar Pete Hendy (see my post of March 19), and I don’t really mind if the Commissar and his good wife, Sue, prefer kittens to puppies. It takes all sorts, etc., etc.; live and let live, I say.

But, have you noticed something? What these kitten are lying on is a bed, and Commissar Pete confirms in his email that sleeping on the bed is totally permissible behaviour—except when Dude becomes disorderly; unpacks the contents of the wastepaper basket, eats earplugs, fights with Holly, and so on and so forth.

So why, I’m sure you’re asking, is this totally permissible behaviour for Dude and Holly and totally forbidden for Moi, who has never eaten an earplug in her entire life? (Well, not so far as I know. What is an earplug, anyway?)

Meanwhile, my dad got a very nice email from Maryann Chernovsky, who is president of the Little Shelter Animal Adoption Center. She said: ‘Please extend our gratitude to Josie for spreading the One Call word via her blog. Our poster looks amazing, and we are delighted she was able to use it. It is one thing for people to share the idea with their friends, but it is certainly more impressive when a dog makes the appeal!’

Exactly!

Hope

So, reading Hints From Heloise in the Washington Post today, I came across this great idea: if you’re not able to adopt one of the millions of puppies and kittens who desperately need a home—puppies and kittens who have been abandoned, abused or are simply without a home—then make one phone call to somebody who maybe can help: a friend, a relative; as Heloise says, anyone who wants to ‘brighten their heart’.

The One Call Saves One Life campaign has been developed by the Little Shelter Animal Rescue & Adoption Center in Huntington, New York, and I went to their web site [Little Shelter] to check them out.

Brilliant!

Little Shelter rescues puppies and kittens, houses them, provides first-rate medical care, finds nice folks to adopt them, and foster homes while they wait. And, failing all else, Little Shelter has a one-hundred acre sanctuary in upstate New York where they provide lifetime care for those puppies and kittens that are too damaged by their experiences to ever find new homes. Because the Little Shelter never, ever kills a puppy or a kitten that comes into their care.

Check the site to discover all of the many different ways you can help. And, meanwhile, you don’t have to live in America to make that One Call that can Save a Life. There are shelters almost everywhere in the world simply bulging with puppies and kittens that need loving homes.

Brighten your heart!

It only gets scarier!

Officially, the number of puppies and kittens who have died after eating contaminated pet food in North America stands at 15. But, as you can see, some vets in the US are worried that thousands may have been hurt or killed.

The ABC News report (which you can read by clicking here, ABC's scary story) says that on the Veterinary Information Network web site, 104 deaths have already been reported. And, get this: In Canada, a woman who tried to encourage her puppy to eat by nibbling some of the food herself became violently ill!

PS: I got chicken for my supper last night…

Why puppies should always be fed cooked chicken

Have you been reading about the pet food scare in North America? Turns out that a kind of rat poison—something very nasty called aminopterin—has been found in stuff made by Menu Foods, a company in Ontario, and sold throughout Canada and United States under more than 90 brandnames, including some of the posh ones like Hill’s Science Diet, Natural Choice and Eukanuba. Menu Foods has so far recalled at least 60 million cans and sachets of wet food—you know the sort of thing, ‘prime meaty chunks in thick gravy’; yeah, sure!—and that’s because 14 puppies and kittens who ate this junk have died of kidney failure, and many, many more got really sick.

I’m not making this up. If you don’t believe me, check out the latest information from the New York Times, no less, at Scary story in the NYT

Now, this grim news happens to coincide with my campaign to get my mum and dad to feed me cooked chicken for my supper—because I really love chicken, even if it’s not gumbo fried. As my dad has pointed out, I have some obstacles to overcome, obviously:

My Dad: You don’t live in North America, Josie.
Moi: Okay, but the threat could spread to Europe, couldn’t it? Like bird flu?

My Dad: You’re not fed wet food, Josie, you get kibble.
Moi: So? If they put rat poison in wet food by mistake, why couldn’t they put it in kibble?

My Dad: Josie, you eat your kibble very quickly, which suggests that you may actually like it.
Moi: The allegation that I eat my kibble very quickly only tells you that I’m hungry; doesn’t mean I really like it, does it?

My Dad: A kibble diet is nutritionally balanced, and good for your teeth.
Moi: So kibble is good for me? Fine, give me chicken and kibble. I’m prepared to make the sacrifice.

My Dad: Cooking chicken for a puppy is a chore.
Moi: A chore? Surely, you mean an act of love? What are puppies for?

How’s my campaign going? Well, so far, I only get kibble for my breakfast and, for my supper, I get a little bit of chicken with lots of kibble (sigh!) every other evening. So, so-so.

Early days…

R.I.P. Lucille

Very sad news, I’m afraid.

For years and years, my mum and dad have helped support a puppy called Lucille, who was looked after by the Dogs Trust, the largest puppy welfare charity in the UK. The Dogs Trust finds new homes for thousands of puppies that have been abused or abandoned—but there are some ‘difficult’ puppies that can’t be found new homes, apparently. Like Lucille. And that’s where my mum and dad came in, by helping to pay for her upkeep and her loving care.

Today my mum and dad got news from the Dogs Trust that Lucille has passed away. A lump on her side turned out to be a tumour on her spleen which had spread to her small intestine. She went to sleep for the last time peacefully, with her carers by her side. My mum and dad are very, very sad.

But now they have a new puppy to sponsor, and doesn’t he look great?

His name is Shane, apparently, and he’s four years old, and he likes walks and food—and I can certainly emphasise with that. He’s now living at the Dogs Trust shelter in West London, and my mum and dad can visit him. Maybe I can, too? Maybe, one day, he can come and live with me?

If you want to help the amazing Dogs Trust—which never, ever condemns a healthy puppy to death—and/or adopt or sponsor a needy puppy that will be your friend for life, then check out their great web site at Dogs Trust.

I think you should, don’t you?

On the bed at last!

The only problem is, that’s not me—and nor is it ‘my’ bed! No, this is Molly, who lives with her mum and dad—June and Alan—in Tennessee, which is in America, apparently. My mum and dad have known J&A ‘forever’, as my dad says, when they were all living in Florida where J&A were cops chasing bad guys, and my mum and dad were writing about them for one of their books. In fact, Alan—Al for short—still appears as a real-life character in the thrillers my dad now writes when he’s not taking me for walks. Here’s a sample:

Al Singleton was indelibly labelled ‘Blade’ by the more irreverent members of the Metro-Dade Homicide unit he ran for twenty years because, they said, he was so skinny he could dress up in green and go to a fancy-dress party as a blade of grass…

I think that’s pretty funny, don’t you? Anyway, the reason I’m telling you all this is that Molly, like me, is a ‘rescued puppy’. There she was, abandoned, homeless, skinny and starving, walking down the road, when Alan came along in his car, opened the door—and she hopped right in. Since then, they’ve been inseparable and June says that Molly is now ‘his baby girl’. Quite right, too!

But the story doesn’t end there. Alan and June have rescued two more puppies, AJ (guess where that name came from?) and Truman, and a rescued kitten called Smokey (who looks quite a bit like two of my kittens). They used to have another rescued puppy called Dot, but she got really sick and Alan put her to sleep himself because he couldn’t bear for anyone else to do it—and then he and June cried for three days. And, believe it or not, a few weeks ago Alan found a seagull with a broken wing, and he rescued that as well! Makes you think, doesn’t it? A tough old Homicide cop with a great big, soppy heart!

This is another picture of Molly on the bed with her dad, and a picture of AJ and Truman (AJ’s the one with the brown patches on his face):

By the way, my mum says the reason why AJ and Truman seem to be sitting at attention is that their dad was a Marine: 'Sir! Yessir!'

Now, mum and dad, about this ridiculous business of me not being allowed on your bed…

Give Pete a break!

So, if you’re a regular reader of my blog (and if not, why not?) you already know that I have some Very Important Friends. Well, here’s another of them: Commissioner Peter Hendy, Commander of the British Empire, no less—or ‘Uncle Pete’ to Moi. And today’s his birthday, so I hope you’ll send him your very best wishes.

Now, ‘Commissioner of What?’ you might ask—and, if you live or drive in London, the answer might make you just a teeny bit reluctant to open the champagne on Uncle Pete’s behalf. That’s because he’s Top Dog of Transport for London and, my dad says, that means he’s responsible for all the things you hate: over-crowded tube trains; ‘bendy buses’ (whatever they may be); black cabs that are never available when you want one; bus lanes, cycle lanes; and, yes, you’ve guessed it—the dreaded congestion charge. That’s why, my dad says, some people call Uncle Pete ‘Stalin’.

Well, if that’s the way you feel, I think you’re being horribly unfair. I happen to know that Commissar Hendy is a very nice man, who is very kind to his two kittens and who sends Moi very nice emails—and, anyway, who wants congestion? I mean, what we need to do, surely, is close all the roads in London and replace them with…puppy lanes! Don’t you think?

So, get over it, and join me in wishing Uncle Pete A VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Fame

I think I’ve already mentioned that my blog is now famous, because The Nation newspaper in Barbados wrote about it. Well, Laura, my Barbados mum, has sent me the clipping to prove it, and here it is:

So, my dad says, I’ve got to start a ‘clippings book’, whatever that might be. My dad also thinks I should volunteer to become The Nation’s canine correspondent in France and that maybe I could get off to a flying start by reporting on the French presidential elections. I think this is a ridiculous suggestion. I’ve checked, and there are no canines running for president!

What does ‘Sorry’ look like?

Isn’t that just amazingly cute? I don’t know the puppy’s name, or who the photograph belongs to—and by publishing it on my blog without permission, I’m probably contravening the Geneva Convention, or something—but I just couldn’t resist. [Please note this very boring disclaimer from my dad (Sigh!): ‘If you own the copyright to this photograph, and object to it being used on Josie’s blog, please post a comment and I’ll remove it. Alternatively, let us know your name, and the puppy’s name, and Josie will give you all due credit.']

Well, if I’m going to go to jail for copyright infringement, whatever that may be, I may as well make it worthwhile. Reading The Times of London this morning—as one does, of course—I came across this review of the latest book of poems from the wonderful Ian McMillan, who never fails to make a puppy laugh.

In this book (I Found This Shirt, published in the UK by Carcanet) one of Ian’s poems is called My Dog and this is how it goes:

April is the Cruellest Month
might seem like a strange name for a dog,
and sometimes I think it is
when I’m shouting her name
on the high moors
in the driving wind.

‘April is the Cruellest Month!’
I shout,
‘April is the Cruellest Month!’
and my dog runs up to me,
barking, wagging her tail,
and I feel slightly, ever so slightly
embarrassed.

But then when people say
as they walk by me
on the high moors
in the driving wind,
‘Can a month bark?’
‘Can April wag its tail?’
I swell with pride
because my dog’s name
is image, and metaphor, and poetry.

So,
'April is the Cruellest Month’
I shout, and
‘April is the Cruellest Month’
and the words roll round in my mouth
like Easter Eggs in a Shopping Basket,
which is the name of my cat.

A cat named Easter Eggs in a Shopping Basket! Don’t you think that’s wonderful? Inspired by Ian, I’m looking for new names for my three cats. Any ideas?

BUY IAN’S BOOK—and, then, maybe he won’t sue me. At this point my dad wants me to add another boring disclaimer, but I’m simply too tired. I think I’ll go to sleep, and dream a poem…

Excellent news!

This is complicated so please pay attention. Turns out that I have two cousins called Hooch and Finn who live in Hull, England, and they have two friends who are Vizslas—and who are therefore, technically, also my cousins—who live in Melbourne, Australia, where, you might remember, I have two other cousins called Poppy and Millie. All clear, so far?

Well, Hooch and Finn sent me an email to say my first cousins in Melbourne (the Vizslas) sometimes get to go to The Dog Café where their mum and dad buy them each a ‘puppachino’, which is warmed lactose-free milk sprinkled with shavings of liver!

Now, I have to admit that I thought Hoch and Finn might be pulling my paw: a café for dogs? Yeah, right! But since I’m a trusting soul—and one has to live in hope—I passed the email on to Poppy and Millie and asked them to check it out. And guess what? There is a place called The Dog Café in Melbourne where dogs can take their owners for what the chef, Andrew Blake, calls ‘a unique dining experience’. Really! I’m not making this up. Check it out for yourself at the following link: The Dog Cafe

How cool is that? Now, of course, being ‘green’ as I am, I can’t very well go flying off to Melbourne for a ‘puppachno’ and pollute the atmosphere with all that nasty carbon, can I? So, here’s the plan: Just as soon as possible, Poppy and Millie are going to take their mum and dad down to Port Melbourne’s Station Pier—where the café is located—and take lots of pictures of their ‘unique dining experience’ and send them to me, and I’ll spread the word on my blog and, before you know it, there could Dog Cafés all over the world, even in Provence!

My dad said maybe we could open a franchise, whatever that might be!

Things are not always what they seem

Yesterday my mum sent my dad an email—well, one of about 50 emails she sends him every day!—but, for a change, this one seemed really interesting because the subject heading was: ‘Dog Pack Kills Alligator in Florida’. An alligator? Cripes!

I could see there was a picture file attached to the email, but there was also a warning not to open it immediately: ‘Read this first.’ So I did, and this is what it said: ‘At times nature can be cruel, but there is also a raw beauty, and even a certain justice manifested within that cruelty. The alligator, one of the oldest and ultimate predators, normally considered the apex predator in its natural eco-system, can still fall victim to implemented teamwork strategy, made possible by the tight-knit social structure and survival-of-the-fittest pack-mentality bred into canines over thousands of years by natural selection. Note that the Alpha dog has a muzzle hold on the gator preventing it from breathing, while the remainder of the pack prevents the beast from rolling. Beware! This is not for the squeamish!’

‘Cripes, again!’ I thought. ‘This I’ve gotta see!’

But do you know what? Instead of opening the file, my dad deleted it, and then sent this snotty note to my mum: ‘I don’t want to look at pictures of things killing things—even if the thing being killed is a gator. Please don’t send me any more.’ Can you believe that?

Anyway, didn’t matter. You see, my dad and I share the same computer, and I know his password (Yes, you’ve guessed: Josie—how smart is that?) So, I just waited for him to go and take his nap, and then I logged on as him and got the file out of his trash folder, and—steel yourselves—here it is:

Ha! Ha!

Spring has sprung!

So, the daffodils are blooming in my garden—and the pansies—and me and the kittens spent the morning in the sun. (Yes, we’re getting on very well. They ignore me and I ignore them, mostly—though sometimes my mum has to say, ‘Josie!’ in that rather sharp voice of hers.)It’s not yet as warm as it is in Barbados, but we’re getting there. Savannah, who’s the ‘main cat’, apparently, sat under a rosemary bush while Rabbit lay sunning herself on the garden wall. I’m not sure where Georgia was but I could hear her complaining , which she does a lot. I don’t know why because how can you complain on a beautiful day like this?

Oh, and last night, when it was very late, me and my dad sat out in the garden for ages watching the total eclipse of the moon, which was amazing. And, no, I didn’t howl. Why would a dog howl at the moon?

Anyway, I thought you’d like to see the daffodils and the pansies—and me, looking at my mum:

Got to go now, because it’s time for my walk.

But, before I do, one more by the way: In the Washington Post my mum read another handy tip from Heloise about how to avoid losing your puppy in the dark when you take them out for their bedtime walk: you put a flashing cycle lamp on their collar. My dad doesn’t have a cycle lamp—because he doesn’t have a cycle, duh!—but he does have this badge that looks like a Heineken beer bottle cap and has a flashing red light, and last night he put it on my collar so he could always see where I was. Neat, eh?