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Posts tagged ‘dog’

Rhubarb: deadly

Husband> How do you feel about your dog?

Me> Who- Jed?

Me> Well I- I love him.

Me> He’s my dog.

Husband> What if he did something?

Me> Look, a dog’s a dog. Every now and then he’s got to express his furry inner nature – you know, unleash the wolf . You can’t blame him for that.

Husband> I’m glad you feel that way.

Me> Huh really? Why?

Husband> He lay on your rhubarb.

Me> HE DID WHAT?

Husband> In fact, he didn’t just lie on it. He rolled around in it, wriggled a bit. Looked to be having a whale of a time.

Me> I put that rhubarb in last summer- it doesn’t produce for a whole year- I’ve weeded it, nurtured it-

Husband> Yeah, it’s a bit flat. And see, this leaf here is munched. Also that one.

Me: That <multiple expletives deleted> <and some more> mongrel!

Husband: What happened to ‘a dog’s a dog’?

Me: I’ll make a <expletive deleted> rug out of his pelt.

And I’m going to embroider it:

In loving memory of Jed
Beloved family pet
Lay on rhubarb
RIP

Invincible canine spirit

Mm, pikelets with jam.

Sorry, got distracted there for a moment.

So recently it’s been all about The Rise of the Asset: gestation, eating, food, mealtimes, and how about some cream with that? WHY, DON’T MIND IF I DO.

I’m sure many of you have wondered what’s happened to The Jedster, that invincible canine spirit who once dominated this blog, striding across the posts like a colossus.

I’ve been literarily neglecting my dog, and I feel bad. After all, Jed has been a part of this family for nearly three years – and we have no idea whether we’ll even LIKE The Asset. After all, how do we know The Asset will be able to lick his own arse or retrieve tennis balls from dense undergrowth? And I can’t imagine The Asset lying under my desk contentedly nibbling my toes.

We’ll see.

This post is an attempt to redress the oversight.

One of our preferred walks used to be a forest track circling Jeep and Meep’s property. It’s a short walk, but afforded something of a workout if we negotiated The Hen’s Beak: a savage one-way 2:1 incline descending almost completely to the Hauraki Valley.

We haven’t walked the track for some time mainly because, at five months pregnant, there’s no way I could negotiate The Hen’s Beak. At least, I could probably make my way down it in the same happy manner as a beach ball; but Andrew would need a system of ropes and pulleys – or a rescue helicopter – to get me back up. The track has also suffered some erosion over the winter.

“How agile are you feeling?” asked Husband eyeing a tree fallen across the path.

The correct response would be: demonstrating all the lithe grace and elegance of a constipated rhino charging across wet sand, but,

“Like a gazelle. Watch!” I said, stepping ponderously over a knee-high twig with some dangerous-looking leaves. “Huh? Huh?”

“Impressive.”

I’d forgotten the track features little in the way of water for Jed. Charging after his tennis ball he covers at least ten times more ground than us, at about twenty times the speed, so he falls into any available creek for a big slurp and wallow. During the winter months, there’s a large puddle at the end of Jeep and Meep’s forest track, but we’ve had over a week of sunshine and presumed it would be dry.

It wasn’t:-

Jed after executing a triple-roll pike turn.

If you’re wondering whether that mud smelled much, OH MY POOR SWOLLEN THROBBING NOSTRILS IT STANK.

Where did you think that sentence was going?

Shame on you.

Cowardy custard

Some recent photos of Jed, along with  incontrovertible proof that the dog is the most photogenic of the two of us.

Jed performs his voice exercises.

 

Jed counts his legs

 

This is me and my dog, taken after a soggy walk with rain and projectile mud. I'm wearing my favourite t-shirt that says 'Starving Writ*splotch*' after I ironed off the 'er' at the end. The muddy paw-prints were left by the culprit on my left. I don't usually look this gnarly, I swear; but Husband is a shocking photographer. ('Not much to work with' my arse.)

 

Photo by Husband.

 

This photo was taken recently. Every morning when I put Jed out, he hops straight onto the table and inscrutably surveys his domain like a Sphinx.

 

Another photo by Husband. Obviously Jed gives him 'more to work with'.

The horse’s mouth: more than just a mantelpiece ornament

The inspiration for the following conversation came from a ball I’d thrown for the dog, which hit a tree about four feet away and rebounded back onto the path. 

Husband: Well, you’ve got more strength in your throwing, but your accuracy hasn’t improved much.

Me: It has too! My accuracy HAS improved.

Husband: Ok.

Me: Don’t say, ‘Ok’, as in: ‘Ok, I’ll magnanimously let her cling onto her pathetic little dreams’.

Me: I will not be patronised!

Husband: Ok: that’s shit! You sling the ball all over the place; most of the time you have NO idea where it’s going to go-

Me: Have I hit you in the head recently?

Husband: Well. No.

Thus Husband grudgingly agreed my throwing might have improved.

However, I’m now wondering how many times I aimed for his head and missed.

The subtle art of communicating with your partner via your dog

(NB I’ve had no subject on which to test the theory, but I’m sure this technique would work just as well with a small child.)

(NB For optimal results, it helps if you throw your voice.)

Me: Aw, poor puppy. Will ANDREW NOT PLAY WITH YOU? Aw, HE’S NO FUN SOMETIMES. What’s that- he says he’s WORKING? I agree, it SEEMS LIKE A HANDY ALL-PURPOSE EXCUSE, although he is busy. Oh my goodness, that’s amazing; I was thinking the exact same thing, that HE COULD DO WITH A SHAVE. It’s like Stubble City around here. Does he give you beard rash too? That’s terrible. Stings- I KNOW! What’s that? He should PUT OUT THE FUCKING RUBBISH WHEN HE SAYS HE WILL? Ah, now. That’s a bit harsh. Although it’s hard to disagree with you.

Weeding canine style

Jed loves gardening. It is one of his favourite activities, almost on the same level as trying to smuggle rancid bones into the house.

Now, he’s no longer allowed into the vegetable garden after he nibbled the top off all my beetroot seedlings. Instead he hovers beyond the perimeter of the fence, alert and quivering. He watches intently until I throw a weed over the fence, whereupon he pounces on it and worries it.

The other morning Husband and I decided to reclaim some land in the small area at the bottom of the drive where, if you sit and watch, you can actually SEE the weeds advancing across the flowerbed in a strategic military formation I like to call Operation Choke.

Naturally Jed was at the front line of defence in the thick of the action. I think this is his idea of ‘helping out’. You can’t say our dog doesn’t pull his weight.

In addition to indiscriminate digging, Jed also functions as a Weed Disposal Unit (WDU)™.

As you can see, Jed takes weeds PERSONALLY. Unfortunately, he has trouble differentiating between flowers/herbiage/vegetables and weeds. (That said, I’m not sure Husband can tell the difference either.)

Jed likes to ensure the weed is extremely dead before moving on.

Jed and the wombat

I used up most of my weekly quotient of words yesterday on Angelina Jolie. However, a picture allegedly speaks a thousand words, so here are 4000 of them.

These photos are of Jed, Wombat – one of the few toys he hasn’t gnawed the face off – and bits of Husband. They were taken in the living room on a beautiful morning recently when Andrew and Jed were in playful mood after breakfast.

Jed and Wombat

 

Pats

 

Wombat gets the upper hand

 

The wombat-rustler strikes again

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