I was bored. Really, really bored. I'd been so bored that I'd even tried to help out around the house. I'd cleaned the dishes, well, licked them, I'd mown the lawn, I'd chewed some grass then gone inside and thrown up. And I'd tidied away Mrs Brown's slippers. So I forgot where I'd tidied them, big whoop. All day I'd worked, I'd given blood and tears, I'd suffered hardships beyond your wildest imaginations, I'd...well, not quite but I'd worked up a sweat. Anyway I was waiting by the door when she got home, back straight, coat well groomed, looked like a proper pedigree I did. And do you know what she did? She yelled at me, flicked my nose and sent me to my basket! Well there's gratitude for you. I don't know why I bother.
As you've probably gathered, I'm a dog. My name's Wilf. I know, sad isn't it. But I suppose that's what you get if your owner is a sixty year old farmer. Mr Brown is I mean. Mrs Brown would be too scared to sweep the mud off of the porch let alone scrape cow poo off the floor of a stinking, mouse ridden pen. Having said that, I see her point. I'm a bit of a wimp me. Mr Brown doesn't like me. He says I'm not a proper dog, a waste of dog food. The cheek of it! Of course I'm a proper dog. I happen to be the self proclaimed best fetcher in all of Clayton, that's the village we live in, not one pooch has ever beaten me. Well, I've never actually met another pooch but if I did, I would definately beat them.
It's not fun being a dog on this farm. Any chasable form of poultry has long since died and not been replaced. Not one chicken to scare the wits out of. There's one old battered cow called Daisy, how very predictable. She really gets on my nerves. Always rambling on about the 'good old days'. I'm seriously considering selling her for some magic beans. Anyway, apart from Daisy there's, yep you guessed it, Tiddles the cat .I. Hate .That. Cat. I honestly don't know why humans like them so much. I mean, all they do is sit on their backsides all day waiting to be fed. That reminds me of someone I know. Can't think who. Oh well, back to Tiddles. She's such a grump. Once, I played tag with her .I may have forgotten to tell her that we were playing but it was all in the spirit of fun. So, I bounded up to her, being the cheerful misguided puppy I was back then and tapped her on the back, well, what I thought was a tap on the back. It actually sent her sprawling. Guess I didn't know my own strength. Muscles they called me, don't ask me who but I promise you they did. Anyhoo , I tapped her on the back and she went flying across the room, moments later she came slinking back, hissing like a snake and clouts me right on the nose. Well you can bet that hurt. I still have a scar. Obviously that annoyed me a bit. It was all supposed to be in the spirit of fun remember. So I chased her. We went right round the house, up the stairs, over the sofas, through the kitchen until a red faced Mrs Brown appeared wielding a rather large rolling pin. She picked up Tiddles, giving her all this mushy guff. Ooooh I can still see that cats stupid smug little grin. I sat there, waiting my turn to be petted and when she'd finally finished worshiping Tiddles she turned round and whacked me up the backside with that rolling pin! You can tell how much they love me. Hmph.
This morning though, something weird happened . I was sitting in my cramped, uncomfortable, charity shop job basket when Mr Brown comes up to me and pats my head and calls me good boy! Wow, am I dreaming. That wrinkled old prune actually complemented me. That was going in my diary. If dogs could write, which they can't. There are several annoying disadvantages to not having thumbs.
Well, Mr Brown started having a conversation with Mrs Brown, during which I heard several oo's and aah's from Mrs Brown. That aroused my nosy side so I sidled up to listen.
They were talking about me! Didn't ask me to join in or anything and I was in the room! I heard the words dog parlour . Uh oh, that sounded a bit ominous. Then, my worst nightmare, Crufts. Uh uh, noo way. There is absolutely no chance of me going to Crufts to be paraded round and gawked at by small annoying children while crushed in a tiny cage. I don't care what they say, I'm not going, ever.
I'm going, now. I didn't agree to it. They waited until I was asleep and then bundled me into my cage. Of all the cowardly tricks. I'm going to a dog parlour then on to Crufts. Woohoo. Woohoo with a cherry on top.
I'm in Mr Browns car. A second hand Nissan Micra, Puke green. Talk about travelling in style! Tuh! Uh oh I've got more pressing issues right now. We've arrived at the dog parlour.
Mr Brown carried me to the highly polished counter. I'm perfectly capable of walking thank you very much. The lady at the counter smiled at me. She was wearing a pink cardigan with a neat white apron over the top. I decided I didn't like her. Don't ask me why. I'm funny about these things.
Mr Brown said he wanted the full works. Great. The woman called over a young girl who picked me up and carried me to what looked like an opperating table. She leant down to get something and I expected her to appear with a scalpel. But she came up holding something much worse.Shampoo. After a short wrestling match,where for the record I was unfairly outnumbered,I was pinned to the table by Mr Brown. Flat on my stomach and in danger of being crushed to death by Mr Brown's stomach. Not the most dignified look for either of us really.
The woman squeezed the shampoo on to her hand and started rubbing it into my fur. To be honest it was quite relaxing actually. But obviously I didn't let them know that,so instead I adopted the most sourfaced,sulky,Tiddles like expression I could think of.
Eventually she washed out the shampoo and turned me round. I caught my reflection in a mirror behind her. It's a good thing humans can't understand dogs because if any of the words that came out of my mouth then were translated they'd have to wash my mouth out with shampoo as well. Which they actually did anyway. I looked like a drowned rat. My beautiful, sleek, smooth, shiny, glamorous coat was hanging off my body in a sodden mess.
Its more decipherable that way. Aslo, apostrophes would be nice. Without them, it seem like you wrote the stroy just to get it done...
