Humum Missing in Action

Humum has been missing for a week. I know it's been a week, because I measure my days by The Dogwalker. The Dogwalker comes once a week. I call this day, Day 1. There are six more days after Day 1 - Day 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7. Then it's back to Day 1. Days are measured by 2 Dinners and1 Night-Nights. Dinners 1 happens in the morning, shortly after Humum and The Frenchman wake up, and Dinners 2 in the evening, just before they go into the lounge to sit on The Sofa.  Night-Nights happens when they get off The Sofa and go to The Bedroom, telling me: 'Night-Nights. Go to Edie's Bed'.

Between each dogwalk there are 13 Dinners and 6 Night-Nights. That's how I know Humum has been missing for one week. The last time I saw Humum was last Day 1, when she was giving me Dinners 1 before The Dogwalker came to collect me. By the time The Dogwalker dropped me home, she was gone. I knew something was amiss when it came to Night-Nights and The Frenchman let me join him in The Bed, instead of telling me to go to Edie's bed. 

It's been this way for a whole week now and still there's no sign of Humum.

Don't get me wrong, it's been fun hanging out with The Frenchman. I get taken to The Pub nearly every day and he lets me share his takeaways and beer. But I miss Humum, it's not the same without her. I hope she comes back soon. I'm even starting to miss The Hoover.

A CERTAIN AGE

I know it’s not customary for a lady of a certain age to discuss her certain age, but next week I will be turning…ahem…eight, and it’s making me feel rather – how shall I put it – uncertain. Given the average age for a French Bulldog is nine, I think you can understand my concern.

In my current state of health and fitness, it doesn’t seem possible that I’m teetering on the cusp of my twilight year. Humans tell me on a regular basis that I don’t look my age – only last week a man in the park mistook me for a puppy. Unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed to play with his dog, a serious-looking Golden Labrador who was apparently working at the time. Apart from a slight whitening around the muzzle, nature has been kind to me. Unlike the majority of Frenchies I see waddling about town like they’ve just escaped from Gremlin Fat Camp, I’ve managed to keep my figure and good looks. I have a chest to waist ratio that would've made Marilyn Monroe jealous and all my wrinkles are deliberately inbred.

It therefore seems incredible that in a year from now my Humum could be facing the heart-wrenching decision of whether or not to ‘do the right thing’ and put me and my old crumbling dog bones out of our misery.

I must keep reminding myself that nine is the average life-expectancy for a French Bulldog, and let’s face it I’m no average French Bulldog. In fact I'm no average dog. I should feel heartened by the likes of Pusuke, the Shiba mix, who died in Japan last year aged 26, after suddenly falling ill and refusing to eat. Or Bluey, the Australian cattle dog who died in 1939, setting the Guinness record for canine longevity at 29 years.

Right, catch you later - I’m off to eat sushi and chase some cows.

Things I don't Understand About Humans #2

When it comes The Bed it’s all very confusing. By The Bed I mean the big comfy raised rectangle thing - all fluffy pillows and bouncy duvet - where Humum and The Frenchman sleep. Not the small not-so-comfy-round-thing on the floor where I am supposed to sleep – that’s Edie’s Bed. I know this because on a regular basis I am told ‘Get off The Bed. Bad girl. Go to Edie’s Bed.’

You might be thinking that if I’ve been told this numerous times, I should know by now not to attempt to infiltrate The Bed, and to stick to Edie’s Bed. And well I might, if it weren’t for the following:

1. When Humum is away and it’s just The Frenchman and me at home, I’m allowed to sleep on The Bed, although I’m told ‘Don’t tell Mummy you're on The Bed’.

2. When The Frenchman is away and it’s just Humum and me at home, I’m allowed to sleep on The Bed, although I’m told ‘Don’t tell Daddy you're on The Bed'.

3. When both Humum and The Frenchman are in The Bed and it’s nearing ‘Change The Sheets Time’ I’m allowed on The Bed. As in ‘Oh come on then, you might as well come on The Bed, it is nearly time to change the sheets.’

4. If I get on The Bed nearing ‘Change The Sheets Time’ when nobody else is on The Bed, I’m still told to get off The Bed, and to go to Edie’s Bed.

5. If I get on The Bed in the days (usually a maximum of five) following Change The Sheets Time, I am subjected to a much severer bollocking then at any other time when I'm not supposed to be on The Bed. The frustrating thing for me being that I am never aware when these particular days are because I am not usually in the bedroom during Change The Sheets Time and so I don’t know when it’s happened. To me The Bed always looks the same, changed sheets or not, so it’s always an extra shock when I’m told ‘Get off the bed. Bad girl, we’ve just changed the sheets.’

6. Even if I’m on The Bed at a time I’m allowed to be, I’m still not allowed Under The Sheets. Under The Sheets is totally forbidden. This is a real shame because, devoid of light and sound, Under The Sheets is by far the comfiest part of The Bed. Illicit duvet diving has therefore become of my favourite sport, guaranteed to set my adrenalin pumping. I can’t stop myself from doing it, even though I know it will entail me being chucked off The Bed even at times when I would otherwise be allowed on The Bed.

7. Sometimes when I get on The Bed at a time when I’m not supposed to be on it, I am told ‘Get off The Bed, how would you like it if we got in Edie’s Bed?’ This doesn’t help me to understand why I shouldn’t be on The Bed, because it wouldn’t make any difference to me if Humum or The Frenchman got in my bed. I would simply find somewhere else to sleep, like The Sofa or The Armchair or The Rug. Actually I would be quite amused if they tried to get in Edie’s Bed because it’s not big enough for even half of one of them. And they wouldn’t like it because I never Change The Sheets.

So humans, please realise, us dogs don’t follow your crazy bed unlogic. For us it’s yes or no. On or off. You either always let us on The Bed or you never let us on The Bed. That way we would finally understand.

Spring Is Here - Time To Go Potty!

Whilst Humum and The Frenchman have been busy planting seeds and preparing the garden for Spring, I thought I 'd give them a helping hand.

Things I Don't Understand About Humans #1

Why do humans waste so much time and energy training their dogs to do their business (or as my Humum embarrassingly calls it, our ‘empties’) outside? When we do eventually ‘empty’ in the correct place they rush over, often bending down behind us whilst we’re mid-empty, their plastic-bagged claw hovering like a hungry hawk distractingly close to our rear ready to whip its prey into the nearest waste receptacle faster than you can say Dr Poolittle. If they are going to grab and drop, why go to all the bother of making us do it outside in the first place? Surely that’s the equivalent of them emptying into the toilet bowl, fishing it back out again and dumping it down the waste disposal? Madness. Je ne comprends pas!

It's That Time Again - Merde!

ALL THIS BLOGGING & TWEETING CAN GET A DOG DOWN...