Tales Of A Ten Pound Pom!

One of my master’s more intelligent friends advised him he should try writing in the third person singular when next he decided to compose his blog. Of course, being blonde, well, almost, he didn’t quite understand what was being suggested to him.  I say ‘almost’, only because I am party to all of my owner’s folicular secrets, and have been made to accompany him to his local Poodle-Parlour, on more than one occasion, often being enforced to wait, impatiently lap-bound, whilst witnessing his tousled coat being painted various shades of caramel!

So, that said, him being nearly blonde, it falls to me, the four-legged member of the family, to attempt to make head or tail of the aforementioned erudite advise and set down this particular tale in the said manner.

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Whilst he, my master, the ‘blonde’ with the natural curls, and he, my other master, the dark, fun one, with the natural looks, are out shopping for my next meal – I am attempting to put paw to paper in order to demonstrate this technique.

Being Pomeranian, you must forgive me if not all of my written English is up to the scratching post – I am, after all, also Gibraltarian by birth, so my language skills are, shall we say, a touch mongrel!

My masters should be absent for some hours. I am fairly confident of this after having, on more than one occasion, accompanied them on their frequent trips to various purveyors of comestibles. I am often astounded by the considerable amount of time it takes them to fill their trolley with consumables, even though I am well aware of their inordinate ability to consume.

If only they would let me take the lead — we could be in and out of ‘Mercadona’ quicker than one could say ‘dog-sticks’ !

Any dual outing of this kind, usually requires a time consuming argument of some form too. My more easy going master, the dark one, will often load the basket with items which quite obviously give great displeasure to the other. My more discerning master, the ‘bottle-blonde’, will then chastise the former and make remarks akin to

“No wonder those trousers split !”

or

“Oh, you are SO Essex !”

An insult, for which, I am still trying to decipher a meaning. For despite having, surreptitiously, taken in the odd episode of ’T.O.W.I.E’ whilst relaxing of an evening perched languorously on my leopard-print, high heel-shaped chair – I still have no idea to what this mysteriously colourful, yet slightly irritating term “Essex” relates.

I am only sure that it is a condition from which few seem to recover!

Still, I must add that if my master Andrew is an ‘Essex Boy’ as I hear my master Paul so often accuse him of being – I imagine it must also be a colloquial term for some kind of esoteric amusement. After all, daddy Andrew is the more expert when it comes to all kinds of doggy-style fun, he really is in possession of a veritable canine compendium. Whereas daddy Paul wins paws down when it comes to putting food in my bowl, daddy Andrew certainly takes the lead when it comes to a game of ‘Terrier Twister’.

Indeed, there have been moments when I have entered the room unexpectedly and been surprised to see that he has even persuaded daddy Paul to have a go at the same game — although their rules seem to differ slightly to the ones daddy Andrew and I play.

There are times when my masters have to travel abroad, I long to go with them but realise this is not always possible. At such moments I am sent to stay with my twin brother Buffy, and my wonderful great-aunt Stella!

Buffy can be a little insufferable at times, especially when he continuously tries to mount me in order to play, what Aunt Stella calls, ‘The Wheelbarrow Game,’ but all in all, it is a pleasure to spend time with my sibling.

We often spend hours debating what it would be like to visit the old country — although I have a sneaking feeling this might prove somewhat disappointing, as I once overheard daddy Paul explaining to daddy Andrew that Pomerania no longer exists. I have not let my brother in on this particular piece of information quite yet, as, despite what he thinks, Master Paul is not always right, and our country of origin having now disappeared could all be just a shaggy-dog story. After all,  there is more crap spouted about European borders than Buffy and I can excrete on even the longest of walks in the campo !

The other pleasure of staying at Great Aunt Stella’s is the ever changing menu. I am quite sure that  ‘Chez Stella’ must have at least three or more ‘Mutt-chelin’ stars. The fare is beyond compare and changes daily. At most sittings I am given a choice, and sometimes a desert.

My beds are more than luxurious and I have an extensive selection of matching leads and harnesses that would make even an ‘Essex Girl’ foam at the mouth with envy.

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Victoria Beckham would be rabid!

 

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When vacationing at Great Aunt Stella’s, I feel much like my ancestors must have felt when another, more exalted Victoria, this one, Queen Of England, treated her Poms in the same royal manner. One, to which, I must add, my brother and I, have become naturally accustomed.

But, ahh, I hear the key turn in the lock, so must draw back from my regal reverie and return to being the noisy, excitable bundle of fluff I pretend to be when my masters return home.

They both seem quite pleased with the character I portray — loving, obedient and cute. If I do say so myself I am really rather good at it, even if I can sometimes let the dog out of the bag when an unexpected visitor rings on the doorbell. There have been several moments when an acquaintance of my masters has incurred my inner cur and almost felt the wrath of my royal bite – I have, however difficult this has been, always resisted, and never drawn blood. Well, almost never!

He knows who he is, and will surely never dare return!

In truth, I really don’t like to share my masters when we are at home.

I am happy when it is just the three of us.

Telly aglow. Daddy Paul pretending he’s involved in some pretentious programme on BBC4. Daddy Andrew, sprawled on the sofa playing a juvenile game on his I-pad.

And me, positioned high on my faux leopard-clad throne, surveying all that is mine…

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Queen Lola!

Bliss.

The third canine plural.

We are most amused – Woof !

2 thoughts on “Tales Of A Ten Pound Pom!

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