Black Doggerel

I suppose I am lucky. I do not see too much stupid pet ownership round here. There's just been the odd one that really boggles my mind - like the people with the free-range black-and-tan terrier (probably now deceased; I've not seen him around in a long time) the idiot who occasionally cycles down Woodbury Avenue with his offleash German Shepherd running behind his bike - on the main road, not the pavement, you understand - and the other idiot who does something similar with a big blond bully breed and got shirty with me for my dogs barking at his fucking loose dog.

( And then there's Yellow Labrador Guy. )

Imagine that you are walking your dog down a long straight road. (If you don't have a dog, imagine that you do.) Ahead of you, walking in the same direction, is a woman with a big arse and two black and white dogs. One of her dogs turns, sees your dog and starts barking at it. The woman growls ENOUGH in his ear, he stops barking and they start to walk faster. However, your dog (who's clearly not as quick on the uptake as hers) has now seen the other dogs, and explodes in a storm of frenzied barks and growls.

What happens next?


[Poll #941971]

Why the fuck is some sludge-brained shitstain setting off fucking fireworks now? Not only is it not New Year for another three fucking days, it's NOT EVEN FUCKING DARK YET, YOU FESTERING CHRONOLOGICALLY CHALLENGED MENTAL MICROBE.

I hope you trip over your own dragging knuckles and land arse first on a rocket that blows your brains out. Because that's clearly where you keep them.

Not a single quark's worth of love,

Your fairly close neighbour, her hysterical shaking collie who's hiding in the bathroom, and her GSP who needs a pee but can't have one till you've finished your fucking artillery attack reenactment. Because I can't leave Spike alone in this state and I certainly can't take him out. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

The Hoover idea helped, but my hoover cuts out if it overheats (and then won't start again for several hours), so an hour after the first pyrotechnics, with the bangs still going out there like a fucking war movie, I've had to switch the bastard thing off so it can cool down and just turn my speakers up to eleven.

it helps a little. of course between the hoover, the aggressive rock music (I'm on to Iggy Pop now) and the fireworks the cats are all hiding so Spike has no distractions. He's a small trembling heap over by the door. He's two-thirds of his normal size, all except his eyes which have doubled. He's off his face on Rescue Remedy which is stopping him barking himself hoarse.

I wish to fuck Guy Fawkes had succeeded. Not because I give a shit about far-reaching political implications (or even have an idea what they might be) but because then it might have been considered in bad taste to set off fucking explosions all fucking autumn.

am going to hug my collie now. bastards.

Edit: Bonus! I found out where those maggots were coming from. Fucking Cassie and her obsession with covering food dishes. She'd dragged a pair of my trousers out of the wardrobe, covered a half-empty food dish with it and bundled the whole thing behind the door, where I completely failed to find it till now. Am not attempting to salvage either trousers or food dish.

Dear Spike,

I know it's important for you to perform the Mighty Pawing of the Ground ritual after taking your Mighty Shit of a morning, but for the love of Tuggy, don't forget to take that all-important step sideways first. I am not Mary fucking Magdalene and washing your feet afterwards should not have to be part of the ritual.

Much love,

Our Lady of the Mighty Throwing Arm

****

Dear Squish,

Saffron was not "looking at your bone in a funny way". Get over it and stop scaring the cats or I'll take all the damn bones away.

Kisses,

She Who Has Meatball

****

Dear Anonymous Dog Walker,

For fuck's sake get some decent food into your dog. That turd I picked up from the middle of the path this morning was studded with whole corn kernels, and the one that I stepped in yesterday had a uniquely unpleasant slippery glutinosity that caused me to land on my arse in the wet grass. It's very short-sighted of you; after all, who'll clean up after you if I break my neck or puke myself to death?

Hoping your poor unfortunate protein-starved dog eats you,

The Poo Fairy.

*sigh* Remember my idiot neighbours with the continually-straying unfixed Staffie-mix puppything, the four Jack Russells, and not enough brains to use leashes on the main road?

http://lizblackdog.livejournal.com/232185.html#cutid1

http://lizblackdog.livejournal.com/241422.html

http://lizblackdog.livejournal.com/265376.html

I walked past their house today, and a couple of the kids were playing in the front garden. I called out from a distance to make sure none of the dogs were loose, and the kid said: "Oh, we don't have the dogs any more, Mum got rid of them."

"Why?" I asked.

"She's got a new job and doesn't have time to look after them any more"

I honestly don't know what to think. The dogs might very well be better off because she was a shitty pet owner; but it's so unutterably depressing to hear the words "got rid of" in connection with a living, feeling creature.

Part of me wants to wonder what she did with them; most of me would be happier not knowing.

Oh, for fuck's sake. I took the dogs out and discovered piss all over the floor in the downstairs stairwell. What the everloving fuck?

I don't know if it was Sloppy Drunk Guy in the flat next door but one, the GSD puppy having a bad housetraining day or what, but I do know it was semi-dried, which means whoever was responsible had left it there at least an hour or so without any attempt at cleaning up.

Rang the Council's "Antisocial Behaviour Officer" (we actually have one of those!) and left a grumpy message on their answerphone, more to forestall anyone thinking it might have been my dogs than in the belief they can actually do anything about it. I've no fucking intention of cleaning that up myself.

In other news, the futon collapsed for good when I lay on it last night - the heavy mesh panel that goes under the cushion part detached completely from the frame and basically dumped me and Squish on the floor. Buggerfuckpisswank. Luckily, I had a moment of inspiration and remembered the stack of carpet tiles someone gave me when I first moved in. They're scratchy, bile-coloured and nasty and the only use I've had for them so far has been to put them underneath things like dogcrates to avoid buggering the lino, but a stack of them underneath the futon proved to be the absolute perfect solution. I R SMRT!

Ahhh, fucking wonderful. I suspected something last night when I took the dogs out at midnight and there were two men wanting to come in. I knew they didn't live here. They were polite enough, but they had... that look. It's like the fucking Dark Mark and I felt mine fucking burning.

I knew it for certain this afternoon. I walked down the hallway and there were two KitKat wrappers - the ones which come wrapped in actual tinfoil - and a small piece of crumpled, dusty plastic bag lying on the floor.

Reflexively, to confirm what I already knew, I touched the plastic to the tip of my tongue. I wished I hadn't afterwards... I was spitting in the bramble bushes and scrubbing my tongue on my T-shirt but I couldn't clear the taste away. I got back inside and spit and gargled, spit and gargled, spit and gargled again. It made my lip numb and my stomach churn in pure fear and loathing. I spent five fucking years scrubbing that taste and smell off myself, and now, here in my fucking safe space, one of my fucking neighbours is shitting it on my doorstep. I want them out of here, I want them gone, I want them fucking dead.

Small mercies. The Kitkat wrapper means whoever it is is smoking it and not fixing. That means there won't be dirty needles lying around the place... at least, not for a while. I hope.

Good stuff happened today, for which I am soulshakingly grateful. It helped take the taste away. I can't talk about it in the same entry as this. Two different worlds.

GUH!

Just came from One Stop. I am so glad I don't try and take Spike and Squish there with me any more.

The first thing was the cat. It was a young black cat who reminded me of Cassie - the same lithe long-legged prancing only just not a kitten thing. S/he was following a blonde girl across the playing field. I don't think the blonde girl was the owner, I think it was just a friendly young (wandering, collarless) cat. The blonde girl was almost at the shop, cat at her heels, when the (loose, collarless) German Shepherd puppy that had been racing round the outside of the basketball court startled the cat and sent it up a fortuitously-located tree.

GSD puppy had a Lab/Staffie mix puppy companion, but no visible owner. Both were capering around One Stop wagging their tails at people and enjoying themselves hugely. I was torturing myself alternately imagining Spike's reaction if I'd brought him and worrying about the loose dogs running onto (fairly busy, fast-moving) Throop Road when the owner ambled into view with another loose GSD more or less following her.

Me: "Oh, are they yours? I was worried they'd get run over, running about LOOSE like that."

Owner: "Yes, they're mine. They're friendly, don't worry!"

Me: "Gosh, I'm glad I left my dogs at home. My Collie really hates it when he's ON-LEASH and loose dogs run up to him." (I can see they're bloody friendly. Do you imagine that'll deter a moving car or a dog-aggressive dog, you dumb irresponsible bint?)

Owner: *calls dogs*

Dogs: *look at owner, make no move to go to her. Loose, muddy, GSD puppy runs into the food shop*

Owner: *goes into shop and hauls GSD pup out, wanders away*

Dogs: *sort of follow her, not particularly under control*

Me: *brain 'splode with stupid*

I was going to rant about denture fixative as well, but I seem to be ranted out. I'll just say that 1. Sainsbury's have stopped stocking Poligrip Flavour Free which is the only brand I can stand to use.

2. Fixodent "Flavour Neutral" is NOT fucking "flavour neutral" at all. IT'S FUCKING BLOODY MINTY. There are few things more revolting than spending the entire day with your mouth all minty fucking fresh. Every bite of food, every sip of drink and every cigarette tastes disgusting. After the first couple of hours, your mouth tastes like stale chewing gum. It's particularly galling when the fucking label lied to you about the flavouring.

Edit: I just found the Fixodent website and copy/pasted this into their feedback form with the bad words cut out. DIE PROCTER AND GAMBLE, DIE.

3. Fixodent does not, however, lie about the "extra strong hold." It hurts to take the fuckers out at night. It feels like I'm either going to break the dentures or rip the roof of my mouth off.

4. The only piece of good news: when I asked the One Stop manager if she'd consider stocking my Poligrip she said she would. A major, major point in favour of the small local shops. But unless I haul my fat overheated arse to Boots tomorrow before 4pm, I'm stuck with the nasty Fixodent for at least a few more days. UGH UGH UGH UGH UGH.

...ok, so I lied about being ranted out. Excessive mintiness will do that to you.

What the everloving actual fuck...?!

Just had a conversation with Downstairs Neighbour Couple. They told me that Cassie's former owners would like to "have the orange and white kitten if it's a boy".

OK, remember the way Cassie got dumped on me without any forewarning? Those people had my phone number, but they didn't think Cassie's welfare was important enough to speak to me at all before bringing her to the Conservative Club without so much as a cat carrier or a litter tray and leaving her with someone else to pass on to me. It's pure luck that I didn't want her to bait my dogs, sell to a laboratory, feed to a python or make fucking mittens out of, isn't it?

They told me they didn't know she was pregnant. Personally, I don't believe a word of that, I'm convinced they rehomed her solely because they didn't want the bother of kittens - but I suppose it's possible. Again, it's possible to be a responsible owner and have your eight-month-old kitten get unintentionally pregnant - but it's also not a bloody point in your favour.

Lastly and most telling, I was told that Cassie was being rehomed because her owners were moving into sheltered accomodation where pets weren't allowed. So what's changed? Did getting rid of your pregnant cat magically make you twenty years younger? Is it only black and white girl cats that aren't allowed at this "sheltered accomodation", or - tell me if I'm getting warmer - is it just that Cassie wasn't a little fuzzy-wuzzy kitten any more, you can't be arsed with speutering your pets, cats in heat are a nuisance, and if you have a boy cat the accidental pregnancies end up being some other poor sap's problem?

I like Downstairs Neighbour Couple a lot, and they aren't the SPOs in question, so I only touched on the "sheltered accomodation" issue briefly and told them all the kittens were girls (I'm not completely certain about the tabby, in fact, but that's irrelevant). They knew what I was getting at, though.

Cassie's ex-people: FUCK OFF AND DIE. NO KITTEN FOR YOU!