Saturday, 28 July 2007

Those Were The Days (IV)

Regrets? I've had a few. But then again, too few to mention.

Silly song lyrics. They never exactly apply when you need them. But at least quoting them shows off the depth and breadth of your LP collection. Yes, LPs. Call me contrary, but I reckon CDs are a passing fad. Vinyl rules!

Which is my roundabout way of introducing Buster.

Buster was my mate. He lived next door. He still does. That is, he still lives in the house next door to the house in which I lived. Only I don't live there anymore.

He came from a pet shop. His overbite was such that his top jaw came into the room ten seconds before his bottom jaw. He was a Maltese Terrier crossed with a Floor Mop. Jam a stick up his backside, dunk him in suds, and the floor would be clean in a trice. Not that I ever even contemplated it.

Here's Buster:

That's him on the left. That's Barbra poking her coiffed bonce through in the middle. Never one to miss a photo call, Barbra. "Evergreen" is never far from her lips.

Buster's favourite game was to put his head in my mouth. Maybe, in an earlier life, he was a dentist.

Sadly, there are no existing photographs of Buster with his head in my mouth. The two-legged dogs in the house were too busy pointing and laughing. Fools.

Buster used to come for sleepovers.

I miss Buster.

And I'm still not sure exactly how it all happened.

One minute, I was working on my ventriloquism act:

The next, the two-legged dogs in the house were suddenly talking to me in Italian.

One minute, I was in the usual queue to use the only tree in the local park:

The next, I saw the house being packed up around me.

One minute, Barbra was taking up my dare to cock her leg like real blokes do:

The next, Barbra and I were being bundled off to the boarding kennels where the two-legged dogs always left us, abandoned us, deserted us, whenever they went on holidays.

Little did we know what was in store!

Friday, 27 July 2007

Those Were The Days (III)

Now where was I? Before I was so rudely interrupted? By this little piece of defamatory flummery titled The Dog Sat On The Tuckerbox.

See you in court, Missy!

So where was I? I was happily ensconced in Sydney, Australia, but trapped in a house with Barbra Streisand. Barbra aside, life wasn't bad.
Best of all, I slept a lot:

At least when people weren't poking cameras in my hairy little face.

Now, without getting too personal, and at the risk of proffering too much information, little dogs growing into big dogs have little bladders growing into big bladders. Not to mention the long, winding, sausage-shaped thing inside you that leads from your tummy to your botty.

In short, what goes in must come out. And the challenge for a young chap is to master exactly when and where.

I admit it. I struggled.

The two-legged dogs in the house would run around hysterically with bundles of toilet paper and sponges -

- while I refuelled:

I mean, what did they expect? They had a big white porcelain thingy in a special room for their needs. Actually, as I got older, I discovered the big white porcelain thingy came in handy for a quick cooling drink on a hot day. But that's a story for another day.

To cut a long post short, the two-legged dogs in the house, fed up with galloping around after me like demented sanitary workers, took drastic action:

The horror, the horror. Caged, with a blue plastic sheet under me.

Any wonder I still wake up screaming in the night.