Sin Bin

What is the point of bringing me to bear-infested woods and then not letting me go hunting? I tried to follow a trail in the woods 4 times this morning only to be dragged back and now I’m in the Sin Bin. My talents are being squandered.

Terrier Alert

I believe I qualify to join the huntin’ – fishin’ set. That should make the Manservant back in Notting Hill happy, mixing with the crowd that he does. If I sneak up quietly, I get close to those fat, dullard sea gulls on the beach. Today, I was only 10 metres away before they escaped skywards. Then I tried my paw at fishing for crabs. But those cowards just tunnelled their way away from my lethal nose. I need to design a dog snorkel.

"That's Entertainment!"

The Rents have spared no expense and brought in entertainment for me. New people to chase me for the ball! The first lot were the stooges Mum and Dad convinced to go to the premier of the mackerel festival in some odd place called Odde.

The second one was a beautiful diva.

She kept me awake by singing Janis Joplin songs really loudly late at night aided and abetted by Mum and some glasses of grape juice. Me and Janis go back a long way. I’m not sure she would approve…….

Walking to Heel

Dad thinks I need a better upbringing and has decided that I should be taught to walk “at heel” when on a lead. No more zig-zagging down the road. No more running back and forth. No more circling around them in the hope someone might just trip up and give me a laugh. No more sniffing every bush and blade of grass we pass. He thinks by making me walk to heel, I will have less stress in my life and become a calmer dog. Less stress. LESS STRESS???! HE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT STRESS IS! I’LL TELL YOU WHAT STRESS IS! Stress is sitting in the back of the car for 12 hours whilst they drive across the whole length of France. Stress is going on a ferry across the North Sea and only being allowed out of the car for the shortest of breaks 3 times in 18 hours. Stress is not being given any chicken when they are having roast for dinner. THAT’S WHAT STRESS IS!!!! Still, I’ll humour him for now. He clearly needs less stress in his life, after all.

When I said Sausage Dog...

The Rents decided to stop off at a Helsingør establishment to satisfy their cravings for raw herring … do they serve that in biscuit form?

What delightful people! Immediately, even before The Rents got their yellowy-browny looking water with bubbles, a large metal goblet of finest H2O was presented to me for dégustation. I must admit to swallowing and not spitting. Then! The beautiful blond handmaiden came out with, wait for it, a sausage! For me! The Rents have had me on this spartan health-food diet, previously mentioned, so there was some looks exchanged but, as usual, my charm won them over. I’ve reached the apogee – sausage in Helsingør and streaky bacon in Notting Hill. It can’t get better than this. Life will always be different PS – post-sausage.

In the paw prints of Hamlet

For some reason, The Rents decided I needed some culture. I can’t understand why. We Scots have bags of culture, what with the bag pipes and haggis hunting. So they dragged me off to Helsingør, a town that has been pulling in tourists for hundreds of years on the back of some English guy called Shakespeare writing some play about a cigar. As far as I can see, the only decent line in the whole thing predicts my future: “The cat will mew and the dog will have its day”. I wonder if the cat is called Yorick?

PS
Damn fine people, the Danes, I don’t care what anyone says about something being rotten in the state of Denmark.

But surely there is only one me!?

What? I’m not special? There must be some mistake.
The Rents dote on me, of course. And, I am told I have a fan club in Notting Hill, which is only to be expected. My charms are not lost on the French, who call me ‘Cesar” after some matinée idol they have seen on the TV (quite understandably, given my photogenic good looks).  Even Australians adore me, for goodness sake, so no shortage of macho allure there. But it seems that in Denmark, dogs like me are 10 a penny! That can’t be right, surely.

"Dude! No way!" "Way Dude"

My new health regime is already showing results. Better looking coat, 2 long beach walks every day, no cats so no stress and lots of quality time with the Rents. I have gone hard core and now insist on sneaking lots of big slurps of sea water each time I go paddling. There is nothing like a good purge to increase inner beauty and I manage to purge quite a lot after my briny refreshments. The Rents aren’t happy about it but hey! They’re the ones that keep me on a strict health food diet and you know what that means – no sugar, no red meat and NO SALT. So I say, never look a gift ocean in the mouth and with 2 walks a day, I’m taking saline as often as I can!

Looking this good is a full time job

At not inconsiderable expense, the Rents have been kind enough to bring me to some kind of spa. It is a huge expanse, very clean and absolutely no-one else on it. There is plenty of sand to roll in and exfoliate. There is a sea with crashing waves, which I guess is a bit like thalassotherapy without the hoses. I have been courageous enough to go in up to my shoulders although I have so far refused flotation therapy.  And there are copious amounts of only slightly smelly seaweed. I have discovered the joys of seaweed wraps and must say that my coat has never looked or felt better.

Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen!

Aahh! Country life. A cabin in the forest, a beach close by.  The Rents* on the sofa reading. Me, patrolling the perimeter. This is the life. The Manservant in Notting Hill first introduced me to squirrels but they were those drab grey things, which I guess is the trendy colour for anything in Notting Hill these days, from living rooms to vermin. But here, they have squirrels  a bit like a Fiat 500 – red with a white stomach - and they are in the trees, 10 metres from our back door. When I get let out for my constitutional, they run around the tree tops, tormenting me, whilst I sit patiently at the bottom of the trees, waiting for the day one of them will loose his grip and fall into my clutches. They even chase each other up and down the tree, spiraling as they play chase but the dratted things don’t even give me a sporting chance. Damn cowards.

* paRENTS – acknowledgement to Gracie.