About a dog

You are a doggie
all cute and covered with fur
When happy,
your tail wags,
you yap,
when angry,
ears prick up, then you grr.
You like the simple things
like a walk,
things that squeek,
a tummy rub,
and your red lead,
that mum uses to take you walkies
it was bought by the one called Steve-
mummy’s friend that doesn’t come around anymore,
so now you sleep back on her bed
and not upon the floor.
And you love that when you wear your lead
it’s a sign of things to come,
Walkies,
lamposts,
and going for a run.
And today is such a great day
because on Tuesdays it’s the park.
With lots of other dogs to smell
and trees with hint of wee upon their bark.
But best of all
is that object of joy
it’s green,
furry,
goes by the name of Tennis-
it’s a BALL!
YOUR ball.
Mummy holds it in her hand
you stand,
look up,
move tail,
await command…….
‘Sit!’
You obey.
Bum meets ground,
the grass tickles your bits,
but not those that the vet took-
they'll never be found.
Not like this ball
that with a,
‘FETCH!’
Mum hurls through the air-
you tear off after it!
you have to get there!
get underneath it!
catch it in your teeth!
But you never make it….
‘cause you have teeny tiny legs
and only two inch feet.
But that’s ok,
you can grab it as it rolls.
Chasing it is half the fun
You quickly scoop it up,
Squeeze triumphantly,
take it back,
present it to Mum.
And with a ‘Good boy!’
She throws the ball again-
You hurtle off after it!
But wait!
You can’t see it?
where is it then?
You look back at Mum,
with the ball still in her hand
she’d sold you a dummy
that’s why it didn’t land.
Mummy is so clever.
She shops for other humans,
gets paid lots of money too.
you guess that all the humans like to have things like you,
that roll,
and squeek,
to chew.
But I bet she doesn’t play with their balls
that fun's reserved for you,
and for Steve-
who doesn’t come around anymore,
since the night Mummy hurt his balls with her knee.
And called him a creep.
Or something like that?
A two-timing bastard.
A liar.
A rat.
And lots of other words
that you’d never heard before,
as she kneed him in his playthings,
then pushed him out the door.
He left his red lead behind though
which is great for days like these.
‘Hey Mummy, stop texting’ you bark.
‘And throw the ball again please’

Flush

Is it wrong that I sometimes get into a panic about using all the toilet paper on the roll? Just hear me out. I am currently sharing an apartment with another human being. One that I love dearly, and that person also uses toilet paper now and then. One that (quite reasonably) expects me to change the empty toilet roll and replace it with a new one as and when my arse sees fit to do it’s “Brown Baron” impersonation and commences with its bombing run on the bog. Recently. I seem to have decided that I actually don’t like the whole pavlova of taking the old roll off, going to the cupboard, putting the new roll on, and putting the empty one in the recycling bin. It appears that I’m a bit of a lazy so and so?

Who knew?

Anyway, recently, while pooing and wiping, I seem to have gone to great lengths to make sure that I don’t use all the bog paper while on “my shift”. To the point where the other day, I left a quarter of a sheet of 2-ply on the tube and I’m pretty sure that that comes dangerously close to being classed as “using all the loo roll”. But in my Ally McBeal brain, I have rationalised that if there is still some paper on there, then that roll hasn’t run out, and therefore, I don’t have to be the one to go through the pullover of changing the roll.

So why then do I feel like Groomie is going to kick my arse if I keep getting away with this?