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.