Bruno's Blog – a complete animal at work

Did I tell you about the other stunt the old man pulled a couple of weeks back?

It was a normal day at the clinic: dogs all over the shop, cats yowling, me getting under people’s feet and trying to sneak out of the front door for a leak, when Kate mentions to him in passing

‘Did you see the note I left you about the BBC?’

Turns out there’s some new wonder drug just come out, to make fat dogs lose weight. I know, I know, you’re thinking ‘where can this be going, when you, Bruno, suave king of style, are such an example of radiant physical perfection?’

And of course you’re right. I am. But that is not the point. Chip and Oscar need to sign up for the course STRAIGHT AWAY before they explode like Mr Creosote.

The point is that the old man found himself being interviewed by Radio One that very afternoon, in the comfort of his own home, no less.

There was I, ready and waiting for the Radio One roadshow to turn up, with hundreds of screaming schoolchildren, unemployable teenagers, no-gooders, hangers-on and suchlike. We cleared the street, ready for the vast pantechnicon with disco lights, pumping stereo sound, free gifts, the works. What did we get? Some scruffy git with a small tape recorder and a duffle bag. I personally think they must have made a small miscalculation on the outside broadcast budget on this one. Failed to spot the news opportunity of the decade. Missed a scoop. But at least they turned up.

More than you can say for Sky Radio, who interviewed him on the phone.

Cheapskates.

 

Went to Cambridge at the weekend. Went in a boat. Not all the way to Cambridge, you fool, just when we got there. I still don’t like the car much, but the boat was OK. And the swans, they were OK but they’re a bit big and flappy.

Now this tail docking lark – what on earth is going on? One moment it’s going to be illegal unless the vet says it’s OK, in which case it suddenly stops being a mutilation and starts being a what?

Next moment some crusty old bag in the House of Lords says the law’s been badly written and so shouldn’t be a law at all until someone learns how to write it properly (or was it spellin properly. I mean what had they written? Tale Docking? Sounds more like the sort of things editors do) (That’s enough about editors – Ed.).

So then it looks as if it’s not going to be illegal at all.

What about my tail? Am I going to be able to keep it or not? Will someone tell me either way so that I can make suitable plans?

Talking of suitable plans, the old man has had a few madcap ones recently. He’s going to be on telly in a few weeks, but on a cooking programme of all daft ideas. Ready Steady Cook. For someone who’s pretty committed to raw food, it sounds a bit twatty. Turns out he took the stitches out of Aynsley Harriet’s dog Oscar about 10 years ago, so they gabbled on about that for far too long. Bottom line is, I wasn’t on the programme, so it’s bound to be crap. 4.30pm on April 16th, apparently. Don’t watch it, it’ll be embarrassing.

When I was little, OK, no need to state the obvious, I know I only weigh 6.8 kilos, but its all heart. And brain. And muscle. Mostly brain, actually.

As I was saying, when I was little, people used to go up to the old man and say – as if I didn’t exist – what is she? I’m a dog, you idiot, I’d think. And a bloke. I’m a bloke, thank you very much, not a ’she’. A bit of respect would be fine, if you don’t mind.

“Oh he’s a Jack Russell” the old man’d say.

“Really?”

Yes, really. And I’d go (in my head) ‘Want to see my birth certificate?’ As if I had one.

“Yes”

“But he’s got a tail”

Yes, its that funny useful wavy thing on the end of my back. It was weird tryng to carry on these disjointed 3 way conversations when no one takes any notice of your bit of it. Grrr

Just lately I’ve noticed they’ve been talking about tails again. People in the old man’s consulting room look at me and just mention it as if there’s this whole thing going on about us being allowed to keep our tails. Oh yippee, we all cry, so we won’t have to have them chopped off at birth like granny and grandpa did.

Pah. Mind you I have seen them trying to fix some tails that appear to be leaking. Oscar was one. Silly bugger wagged his great long tail so much when he was in kennels he mashed the tip of it and it wouldn’t heal up and kept bleeding. He didn’t seem to care but it did get a bit messy. LUCKILY the old man is good with tails, so he got it all fixed up fairly quickly.

And then that Retriever whose owner managed to shut his tail in the front door of the clinic as he was being dropped off for the kennels. My god, THAT was messy. Blood everywhere, I mean everywhere. Up the walls, all over the floor. Daft twit (did I say he was a Retriever? Any dog that brings something back all the time when the boss has obviously thrown it away can’t be that bright. Help out by picking it up and taking it further away, I say) couldn’t help wagging his tail and everytime he did, whoosh it went, spraying the old ketchup all over the shop. Literally.

Scout was another, but he was a cat, so I suppose it doesn’t really count. He got bitten on the tail, which was obviously very sore and then he kept licking at it so it wouldn’t heal. Took ages to sort him out – seemed like they were in with him every week for months. Very patient. I would have taken it as a good excuse to have one less cat around the place but his people and the old man seemed to disagree. Oh his poor tail, they’d say. What a pity. Poor little Scout. His fault, the twat for fighting.

But don’t start me on cats. I bumped into two the other night on my late night stroll. I realise now that the old man, who had gone on ahead a bit, had seen them and come back to put me on my lead so that when I came storming around the corner, all rippling muscle, steaming canine masculinity and heroism, I could be restrained from chasing them and imposing a dog’s natural physical prowess and intellectual superiority on them.

(Editor’s note: Bruno is actually frightened of cats because a) most of them are bigger than he is, b) they hiss at him and c) they stare at him without moving, in a threatening and psychologically disturbing manner)

And there they were, round that corner, the original Mexican standoff, but frozen in slightly weird positions, tails pumped up, ‘I’m going to kill you if you so much as make a move you slimy little toad’ and/or ‘one step and I’m under the next parked car’ but I’m not at all frightened, just hold me back boys.

“Oops!” I said “Hope I’m not disturbing anything!” As the bigger one saw his chance to leg it without succumbing to a Scout style tail chomp. Coward, I reckoned, as I trotted briskly up the street, my own tail tucked neatly in out of harms way just in case.

Any day, any day, you just try me, I thought as we turned into our front garden and the saw the safety of the front door. Any day, matey boys.