When in Castieleforintosomething, do as the Castieleforintosomethings do

By which I mean speak the language. It's called Italian.

Phenomenally intelligent boofhead that I am, I mastered the lingo in a trice. I have an ear for language. Here's one of them:


Even if I still can't get my big pink tongue around the name of this village. But I'm working on it.

Barbra? Well, let's get scientific for a moment. As well as an ear for language, I also have a nose for science. Here it is:


But back to Barbra and science. It's a known scientific fact that atmospheric pressure will crush an empty vessel. Which is to say, a vessel containing nothing. Nix. A vacuum.

Why then hasn't atmospheric pressure crushed Barbra's brain box before this?

Per esempio, she thought she'd tackle learning Italian. She started with all the best intentions.

Two seconds later:


Firmly ensconced in the Land of Nod.

I'm fast losing faith in science.

How To Win Friends and give Influenza to People

Yeah yeah. Back again. It's cold outside, it's raining, the heating's on inside, and the computer's available. This had better not become a habit.

So what does a boofy Old English Sheepdog get up to in Castinforintinosomething or whatever this village is called? For starters, he has a look around:

Note the vertically-challenged Barbra having a close-up squiz at a cold, hard lump of stone. She seeks out these kindred spirits.

While she communes with a fellow traveller, I, from my lofty heights, muse on distant horizons:

Is that Arezzo in the far, far distance, I asked myself, on the horizon, in the saddle in the hills, about a third of the way across from the left in this snap I took with my trusty Kodak Bow Brownie?

There was only one way to find out. Ask the locals:


"Si, certo, Dermott!", said the locals. It was, indeed, Arezzo.

So that's how to win friends in a foreign country in a village with an unpronounceable name. Show an interest in the place.

While Barbra's contribution to international relations is to catch 'flu and give it to the locals. Hasn't she heard of a warm pair of wellies?


Obviously not.



And she wonders why she's friendless in Castinetforitenosomething.

Victim of Anthropomorphism (II)

Yeah yeah. Back again so soon. Only I don't really consider this being back again on the basis that it's a Part II.

See this pile of my drivel for the preamble to what's to follow. I couldn't be stuffed typing it all again. Besides, I'm running short of pencils.

Back again? Goodoh. My second tag came from a two-legged dog not unfamiliar to me on the basis that, from time to time, she has been known to tickle my tummy and even, sometimes, on the odd occasion, clean up after I throw up.

This time, apparently, I'm supposed to reveal seven things no-one knows about me. Only seven?

1. I dribble. As distinct from drivel, a noun, though I'm on nodding terms with that, too. See above.

2. I'm nutless. I'm banding together with countless other equally abused dogs to mount a class action.

3. I've been known on the odd occasion from time to time fare un peto. I blame diet.

4. I would eat a horse and chase the rider for pudding.

5. I'm the world's greatest chicken-hearted coward with a yellow streak the width of Italy.

6. I'm fluent in Italian.

7. I share an abode with Barbra Streisand.

One or another of the above might be something approaching what could loosely be called a fib.

Victim of Anthropomorphism (I)

Yeah yeah. Back so soon. This isn't going to become a habit, trust me. I've got heaps better things to do than sit in front of a computer. Like eat. Sleep. Eat again. Sleep again. With the occasional peto to keep people on their toes. I'm currently practising the Italian national anthem.

Anyways, one of the downsides of doghood is anthropomorphism. Human beings not only treat you like one of them, they ascribe human characteristics. One of the upsides of doghood is that you can humor the poor saps, feigning human characteristics, watching their human faces light up in delight when they think they've made personal contact. Per esempio:

Two-legged dog: Well, Dermott, what d'you reckon about the US sub-prime mortgage imbroglio?

Me: I reckon it only underlines the utter frailty of the capitalist system vis a vis its dependence on intangibles like confidence.

The two-legged dog walks away chuffed that their pet makes Einstein look like a hairy goose who stuck his finger in a power outlet.

And I snigger up my hairy sleeve. Gotcha again, bub.

All of which brings me to the fact that I've been tagged. Tagging is, apparently, an internet blog thing. So I read online. I wouldn't really know. I'm a dog, after all.

My first tag came from Judith. Judith's a terrific person, grande cuoca, friend of the two-legged dogs. And mine. She even reads my inane utterances to be found littering this site.

Overlooking the fact that I'm just a dog, she wants me to list my five strengths as a writer.

Mmmm.

1. I have paws the size of elephants' feet. Without assistance, when I try to type - per esempio, the letter A - I get this on the screen: 2t7213uot. Two-legged dogs should try picking out the letter A on their keyboard with a clenched fist.

See what I mean?

Thus, ingenuity became my first strength as a writer. With a pencil clenched between my over-sized teeth, I learned to pick out the keys I needed. First downside - it takes me eight weeks to type a sentence. Second downside - I've developed an addiction to both pencil lead and the timber around it. I'm up to two packs of pencils a day. I'm looking into the availability of pencil lead and timber patches.

2. I suppose imagination is a strength. A very old, very experienced writer once told one of my two-legged dogs that the key to writing is to take the lid off your imagination. Sometimes I imagine Barbra as a medium-rare burger.

3. I'm a perfectionist. I can go through an extra pack of pencils getting a phrase exactly right - if not absolutely perfectly grammatically right, right in the context of the flow and rhythm, and, even more importantly, right in the choice of the appropriate word for its colour and tone. That's a lot of rights. More rights than a Formula One circuit. I'd call myself anal retentive but the peti belie that.

4. As per the immediately above, I hate prosaic. Barbra brings new meaning to prosaic.

5. Fun. I like to have fun. I like fun. The world is a sh*thouse place with not enough fun in it.

Excuse me while I open another pack of pencils.

Home Is Where The Fart Is

Yeah yeah. Tacky. Cheap pun. But now it's out in the open. So to speak. My middle name is Windy. I've been known to break seismometers with my own version of WMDs. In fact, if I'd lived in Iraq, I'd have been reason enough to invade the dang place.

So how in the name of brisket bones is this relevant? Because I'm in the mood for reflection. Speaking of which, Barbra's always in the mood for reflection. Her own. In the nearest mirror.

How many homes have I had in my medium-sized life? One. With the two-legged dogs. First, in Sydney. Now, in Italy. Two locations, one home.

Enough reflection. My boofy head hurts.

Anyways, back to the saga. It was after midnight when Barbra and I were delivered to our two-legged dogs in the wee Tuscan town with the curious name of Castiglion Fiorentino. I still can't get my big pink tongue around the name and if I can't get my big pink tongue around something there's something rotten in the state of Danimarca:

A nice guy called Joe drove us the six hours from Milan down to the big pink tongue-twisting placed called Casteloneiefeerentennnesomething. He didn't speak Dog, we didn't speak Italian. It was a quiet six hours. But Joe was nice. He bought himself some dinner on the way and shared it with us in the back of the van. On the basis that food is the number one priority in my life - nay, the only priority - I immediately knew I was going to like this place.

Barbra, for whom food isn't a great priority, mistook it for a marriage proposal.

Next morning, we made our debuts in Castileenafarineesomething:


Jet-lagged? Believe it. Idiotic bullet-head haircut? Better believe it. The cloth-eared bint in the grooming place in Sydney where we had our pre-travel wash and polish had never groomed an Old English before. She's got a great career ahead of her in some other job.

So what's the ultimate fundamental difference between Sydney and Castilleforinteensomething?

Here, my WMDs are called peti.

Ooops. Peeeeeeeeew. Head for the hills.

Bury My Broken Heart at Milan Airport

Yeah yeah, so it's been a while.

Enough of the apologies.

Where was I? On my way to Milan in the belly of a Jumbo. Stuck in a crate, with only Barbra Streisand for company. In her cat travelling box. Did I mention that they stuck her in a cat travelling box? If not, they stuck her in a cat travelling box. Pointing and sniggering at her sure passed the 26-odd hours.

Ah, Milan. What plans I had, what plans. I don't know about Barbra. I never know about Barbra.

Y'see, as is plainly obvious from the photos that decorate these pages, I'm a fashion fiend. I was voted Best Dressed Boofhead At The Local Park three years in a row.

What I didn't know about fashion you could write on the pinhead that is Barbra.

What was I going to do? I was going to schmooze. With guys like ...

... him.

Whatever his name is.

It'll come to me.

I was going to hit the fashion shows. I was going to lounge in the front row with a glass of bubbly. I was going to pick out something for Barbra. Something in which she could make her Italian debut.

Something in keeping.

On the basis that she's famous for doing her best work on her back, I was thinking along the lines of "Chic Cheap Hooker":

I could see her covering my bills for brisket bones in something like that, couldn't you?

Was I set to go? Was I ever. They unloaded us from the plane. They wheeled us into customs.

Which was where we stayed! For twelve hours!

The vet at Milan airport decided that my travelling crate wasn't big enough. We had a six-hour drive from Milan down to our two-legged dogs waiting for us in Castiglion Fiorentino. And no way on earth was that Italian vet going to let me travel in my crate. The crate in which I'd already travelled for 26 hours.

So we waited. Me in my too-small crate, Barbra in her cat travelling box. While someone hand-built a new, bigger crate for me.

The fashion shows? Pffft. Schmoozing with ... whatever his name is ... pffft.

A money-spinning frock for Barbra? Pffft.

Twelve hours later, we were loaded into a van.

Six hours later, we were dumped in the laps of our two-legged dogs.

Whatever their names are.

Sick in Transit Gloria

That, above, is one for the Latin freaks. You all know who you are. In your togas, mumbling about the Ides of March.

Twenty six hours in a crate in the bowels of a Thai Airlines Jumbo. I've spent better twenty-six hour slabs of my life.

So has Barbra.

So traumatised was she that she burst into a Gloria Estafan medley.

I threw up.

And there was my Kodak Box Brownie.

Next stop: