lizwilliams: (Default)
We have had a fairly standard weekend of work, more work, cooking etc but the only 2 events of note involved animals:

T clipped the new dog's claws. The new dog is a nice dog, but she was allowed to rule the roost at her old home and her claws have not been done for some time. T flipped her up and clipped them, which resulted in a full-blown set of canine hysterics: HELP, HELP HELP! HE'S MURDERING ME! I AM BEING TORTURED!!! Pointed out that everyone else in this household has to have their claws clipped, including me and she was lucky not to have to pay £15 at a salon for the privilege. Unfortunately the dog's command of English does not extend this far.

Eventually she tried to bite T in the face, which is unwelcome from anyone, but particularly from someone whose teeth can make lace out of a catfood tin. So she got a smack, and the attention of the elderly Rottweiler, who came in and growled at her ('Why are you making such a fuss?').

I'd have turned this into another letter to the RSPCA but it would have to be about 15 pages long to do justice to the dog's sense of outrage.

On Saturday, when I was at work in the shop, T came into the kitchen unexpectedly to find a mouse running about on the counter. The mouse thumbed its nose at him and took refuge behind the breadmaker. So T flattened it, with the cheese board. Who says the universe has no sense of irony?

Naturally, since we live in the country we are well 'ard (ahem), but not actually Hill House-stylee rural mutants who live for killing. So T is pleased to have got rid of the mouse, but a bit ill and guilty with it.


Feb. 10th, 2006 01:17 pm
lizwilliams: (Default)
We saw a newspaper board in town this morning: 'Local person reported for cruelty to dog.'

Awful, but it raised suspicions that our dog has been on the phone to the RSPCA this morning, or emailed them:


Despite being cruelly incarcerated in the house last night, I managed to escape into the freezing night, and was minding my own business around 3 a.m. barking at the neighbours, who are all criminals. Rather than showing any gratitude, my 'master', as he likes to call himself, charged downstairs and dragged me back in again and made me lie in a basket. I overheard 'master' and that bitch that's recently moved in talking and what they said worried me:

Master: I have killed the dog. Or soon will, anyway.
Bitch: Please can we just make him into a rug? He'd be much more useful.

I am now very frightened. Also the quantity of food they give me is barely adequate. Please come and save me.

lizwilliams: (Default)
Tim Burton's SLEEPY HOLLOW was on the box last night and I couldn't be bothered to do anything else despite having seen it three times before, so we watched it.

Our viewing pleasure was somewhat impaired, however, because when the headless horseman appeared, the Rottweiler suddenly made a violent incursion into the living room. She doesn't normally come in the room in winter, because she's afraid of the fire, but this obviously took precedence over her personal fears.

"GNURRRGGH!" she roared, launching herself at the TV. Then she howled until the horseman disappeared, but she remained vigilant, and every time he came on, she protected us. I wanted to see what she'd do when she found out it was Christopher Walken all along, but no difference, she didn't like him either.

Then she trundled off to bed with the air of a job well done - I suppose if I'd saved my family from a decapitating menace from Hell, I might feel the same way. The Alsatian, who did not share in this, sat looking bewildered, but then that's his default mode. The cat, who was on my lap, treated the whole affair with characteristic hauteur ('What is that great oaf doing now?')

The Rottweiler hasn't behaved like this since her last great hate - Xena, Warrior Princess. It's reassuring to know that if we ever get some kind of supernatural threat, which is quite possible round here given the amount of legends about headless ladies, spectral shapes and lunatic black dogs (oh no, wait, that's ours), Tara will be well up for it.

Mind you, if that Lucy Lawless ever shows her face around here, she'll be in big trouble.


Jan. 17th, 2006 06:36 pm
lizwilliams: (Default)
We are 2 weeks off Imbolc, which is supposed to represent lambing season in the Celtic calendar, but the sheep in the field opposite have started. I happened to be looking out of the window in time to see a ewe giving birth. Unfortunately, the lamb slid out in its sack ummoving: they usually struggle and kick their way free. But this one was already dead. We went over and she was desolately pawing at it as if she could make it move. T had a word with the shepherd, who said that all four of her lambs last year were stillborn but when previous ones had survived, she was a good mother. She has two to go, so here's hoping. Shepherd was carrying two very dirty, but very alive, lambs, so it's not all bad news.
lizwilliams: (Default)
Scene: Sunday evening, Somerset.

Dog: arfarfarfarfarf!!!! [trans: I WANT SOMETHING!!!!]
Me: What do you want, then? It's not teatime. You've just been out!
Me: [ignores dog]
Me: [ignores dog]

etc, until T (pack leader) comes in and gives dog a bollocking for making so much noise and not obeying me.

Dog slinks abjectly off into basket.

(Some time later)

Cat: Awk! [Woman! I require the use of this chair immediately. Kindly vacate it forthwith so that I may avail myself of its many comforts and fireside position].
Me: Shut up, Pug. You're not sitting here.
Cat: AWK!
Me: [ignores cat]
Cat: [hmmmm]

Cat emits small pool of vomit, at which we both stare with interest.

Me: Oh for GOD'S sake. [gets up to fetch kitchen towel].

On returning, cat is peacefully asleep in chair.
lizwilliams: (Default)
Today has been Horse Day. T trimmed the pony's hooves and I brushed the big horse, which is a lot like grooming a massive sofa. Big Horse's hair reminds me of my hair: thick, dark, coarse and prone to natural dreadlocks unless ruthlessly treated. Maybe L'Oreal does stuff for horsehair and then he can canter about the paddock tossing his mane and smirking 'because I'm worth it?'

However, Sod's Law dictates that as soon as you groom a horse, they immediately go and roll in some cack so as not to seem effete in the eyes of other horses. Actually, our horses are not: every other horse around here is a hunter and wears a blanket, whereas ours have to make do with woolly winter coats of their own growing.

Other than that, we have been to the woodyard (which is incredibly macho and full of arcane tools) and then, as a kind of antidote to this rural ruggedness, to the local outlet mall to purchase a full set of discount Spode Christmas china. You can shoot me now.


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