Revenge of the Sausage Dog
This morning the weather was nice, and the forecast was for rain. So once I'd sorted out the things that need to be sorted out every morning, I decided it would be a good idea to take the dogs for a walk early.
Normally picking up the leads is enough to fill the house, the farm and all of Ceredigion with a frenzied excitement of barking. This time, though, only the DevilDog gave tongue. Of the Sausage Dog there was nothing to be heard.
Or seen, as it turned out. I searched the house high and low (which doesn't take long), checked that he wasn't in the polytunnel or trapped on the wrong side of the gate into the vegetable patch (it's well fitted, that gate. Peter Rabbit's not getting into my vegetables. Slippery Simon Slug maybe, but not Peter Rabbit). I even looked in the shed, though it's not been open for a couple of days.
No dachshund.
Then, as I was checking under the spare bed once more, I noticed a sleek black shape trotting across the field in front of the house. He wiggled his way through a small hole he'd worried in the fence and came trotting back to the house with a great big grin on his face.
And reeking of fox shit.
Now John Rickards might have a thing for crack-addicted weasels and shoving badgers up people's recta, but if you want something that's really overwhelmingly offensive, then try fox shit. I don't want to even think about trying to describe its uniquely unpleasant aroma. Trust me on this. It's not nice. And it sticks to everything. Long-haired dachshund particularly.
The Sausage Dog had to be bathed. He had to be lathered in coal tar shampoo - the stuff they use for making cattle pretty at agricultural fairs. The instructions on the side of the bottle read 'mix 250ml with nine litres of water'. It's powerful stuff. Even so, he needed to be rinsed and repeated a couple of times. Then I had to clean the bath. Then I had to clean myself. I'd burn the clothes I was wearing, but I quite like that T-Shirt and the trousers are new.
Dogs. Why do we have them?
Mr Sausage, he no like the bath
Normally picking up the leads is enough to fill the house, the farm and all of Ceredigion with a frenzied excitement of barking. This time, though, only the DevilDog gave tongue. Of the Sausage Dog there was nothing to be heard.
Or seen, as it turned out. I searched the house high and low (which doesn't take long), checked that he wasn't in the polytunnel or trapped on the wrong side of the gate into the vegetable patch (it's well fitted, that gate. Peter Rabbit's not getting into my vegetables. Slippery Simon Slug maybe, but not Peter Rabbit). I even looked in the shed, though it's not been open for a couple of days.
No dachshund.
Then, as I was checking under the spare bed once more, I noticed a sleek black shape trotting across the field in front of the house. He wiggled his way through a small hole he'd worried in the fence and came trotting back to the house with a great big grin on his face.
And reeking of fox shit.
Now John Rickards might have a thing for crack-addicted weasels and shoving badgers up people's recta, but if you want something that's really overwhelmingly offensive, then try fox shit. I don't want to even think about trying to describe its uniquely unpleasant aroma. Trust me on this. It's not nice. And it sticks to everything. Long-haired dachshund particularly.
The Sausage Dog had to be bathed. He had to be lathered in coal tar shampoo - the stuff they use for making cattle pretty at agricultural fairs. The instructions on the side of the bottle read 'mix 250ml with nine litres of water'. It's powerful stuff. Even so, he needed to be rinsed and repeated a couple of times. Then I had to clean the bath. Then I had to clean myself. I'd burn the clothes I was wearing, but I quite like that T-Shirt and the trousers are new.
Dogs. Why do we have them?
Mr Sausage, he no like the bath
Comments
Because they fool us with their innocent looks. That pic is the best example.
And no, I don't have dogs. A 60 square metre flat in a town isn't a good place to keep them, especially not the big sorts I prefer.