The rod for my own back

The very, very funny Pinky Poinker wrote a blog last week that I wish I’d read BEFORE I bought a fox terrier (supposedly crossed with a Maltese, though I can’t see even a hint of Maltese in him, I was duped!)

Pinky wrote a blog called What Happens When You Replace Your Kids With Dogs and it was all about her hypochondriac fox terrier Celine.

She revealed the trauma that ensues whenever Celine has a needle:

I know when my kids had their measles/mumps/whooping cough (whatever) needle, they had a minimally tender arm for 24 hours… but this dog is unbelievable. She needs to be carried out the back door for wee wees, carried up and downstairs to bed, refuses hand fed treats and moans theatrically every time I walk past her.

It’s like living with an eighteenth century consumption patient.

She sits shivering on the couch staring with googly, dilated eyeballs whilst Scotto and I bring her ice blocks to lick in order to stem the fever. You can’t touch any part of her body lest she scream like a banshee and God forbid anyone try to coax her from her eyrie on top of a half dozen pillows on the couch.

Bilbo Baggins is exhibiting similar highly strung tendencies.

You should see the theatrical production whenever he thinks he might be going somewhere in the car. He hides in the corner with his ears down and his whole body quivers. You’d swear he’d been abused instead of spending a privileged life filled with freshly cooked beef mince for dinner every night and a pig’s ear when mummy does the grocery shop.

If I am sitting down he must curl up on me. Not at my feet or beside me, but on my lap, like this …

I wear lots of black and he sheds lots of white fur. I’m not entirely thrilled about wandering around every day covered in dog hair.

Neither Bilbo or Charlie – the little bastards – are trustworthy, so they’re not allowed in the bedrooms. The lounge room door must therefore remain closed AT ALL TIMES.

If I return to the lounge room after a two-minute absence, Bilbo must jump and claw at my legs to plaintively express his distress over his abandonment and his joy at my return.

This scrabbly sign of affection is not welcome when I am wearing my fancy Leona Edminston stockings. So I dance aside saying, “Down, down, down!”

Unfortunately all that seems to do is get him even more excited and scrabbly.

When I wake him each morning at the ungodly hour of 6.30am, he squints at me from his comfortable perch on the couch and cringes and shakes when I tell him it’s time to go outside for a wee. I have to carry him into the garden and throw him a few metres onto the grass or he will try and dodge back between my legs and into the house.

He’s also VERY contrary about the whole pooing outside thing. He much prefers the luxury of the Persian rug. He was outside for oooh, eight or nine hours the other day while I was at work, but the moment I let him inside and turned my back … steaming pile on the rug.

Cue more cringeing and shaking as I waved the offending poo under his nose and screeched “OUTSIDE!!!!! OUTSIDE!!!!!”

Bilbo is due to get his balls removed. I am putting it off – in much the same way I am putting off the pathology bill that requires a phone call for payment … ARE THEY KIDDING ME? HAVE THEY NOT HEARD OF DIRECT TRANSFER OR BPAY? – because I can’t even begin to imagine the histrionics that will accompany a trip to the vet and surgery in a delicate area.

I think the stress might kill him. And me.

Any drama queens in your house? How furry are they?

Song of the day: Elvis “Hound Dog”