Friday 21 November 2014

Albert Stanley Fletcher

Today the dog turns 1. We've had him for just under 9 months now and the time seems to have flown by but at the same time it seems an awfully long time since I was in the weeping on the kitchen floor wondering what the fuck I'd done stage of dog ownership. He was given a fitting middle name and surname in the early days. I thought he was a horror but from talking to other dog owners, he was just a puppy and I wasn't prepared for it, as you'll know if you heard my woes back in March. Don't get me wrong, he's still an absolute horror when he wants to be. He has a personality and in a way that's nice, but in another way it's not, because he has a similar personality to me. He's a stubborn little fuck. He's aloof, he pretends he can't hear you, he has to have the last word when he's told off for barking at nothing in the garden and if you don't comply with his demand to play with him he'll bark in your face. But he's also a good dog and he's very patient considering he's often being swept up in mine or Mr T's arms for an enforced cuddle. Now, if we can just train his obsession with wool out of him - he cannot bear the idea that I might want to crochet or do some knitting - and stop him chasing us down the hall when we're leaving the house, biting on our sleeves, snapping over the baby gate, then he'll be a pretty awesome dog. 

Here's a blurred picture of him modelling a short snood while Mr T is playing with his feet, he was surprisingly sedate when I put this on him, he lasted a few minutes before he realised it was wool and then went absolutely loopy over it, because that's what he does. 


Is he going to report us to Paul O'Grady for not buying him a birthday present? Or for putting a snood on him?

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