Hi all. It's Elly, intrepid reporter, covering the pets' letter this month. Since I quit university to become a writer, I figure this is a good way to start my career as a writer. Just kidding. Sort of. My parents think I quit university to pay for John’s dentist school. That’s another story.
Our two-legged creature is too busy getting ready for his Grade 1 exams and digging himself out from under what is, allegedly, a mountain of homework to do the job. You should see the mound of paper on his desk. He is so precocious. He said, “Mom. A professional writer and best-selling author doesn’t write a letter for pets.” He sounded very grown up; but I have to remember this is the same boy who can’t seem to remember to put his painting shirt in his backpack no matter how many times I remind him. Not only that, if it weren’t for my spit in a rag, I would swear the boy wouldn’t be clean. Mind you, he never thanks me for those cleanings. There’s a little girl at his school he likes, named Deanna. I am sure she appreciates my cleaning. Michael talks about her all the time. “Deanna and the kids, this. Deanna and the kids, that.” You would think Michael would remember some other children’s names in his class.
As you may have heard, we got a new puppy at the end of October. I hadn’t planned to get it at all; but our neighbour, Mrs. Baird, said she was going to kill the puppy unless someone took it. I didn’t realize the old woman was so bloodthirsty, especially since she’s like an “adopted” grandmother for my kids. I would worry about this, except Mrs. Baird, as cruel as she is, is still nicer than any of my grandparents.
When we got the puppy, John and the kids said they would take care of it; but you know how that works. Who has to buy a new cage for it and fence off a room for it? Who has to shampoo it, feed it, walk it, newspaper it, introduce it to a leash, yell at it to do its business on the lawn, walk it in a snow storm with a baby on her back? It sure isn’t John or Michael.
It chews on the furniture, urinates all over everything, and you know what the worst part is? The little thing is too young to eat the leftovers. After a long conversation with our veterinarian, Dr. Schell, where he kept saying he was retired and no longer did veterinary work, finally he said the puppy needed to be at least 6 months old before he could eat leftovers. I couldn’t believe it. I am going to get so fat. Imagine 6 months of eating leftovers by myself until that puppy gets big enough to eat them. At least it will be good stuff, and not that awful organic, health food Anne Nichols eats. I don’t know how she can keep that stuff down.
John tried to stop me from eating all the leftovers the other night. I told him the reason I had to eat them instead of Farley. He suggested I call his sister Bev for a second opinion, since she is a veterinarian. Sometimes John has the strangest suggestions. As if either of his sisters could give good advice on leftovers. John’s sister Doreen is enormous, and his sister Bev has no scruples. Someone could defame her brother in the press all over Canada and the U.S.; and Bev would still work with that person, if she thought she could make a buck. Even if it was working on a children’s book. The woman is shameless. I told John, “Thanks, but no thanks” on talking to Bev, and I mentioned the fatness of his sister, Doreen as an example. He looked very confused when I mentioned Doreen as if he didn’t know who she was. That’s how John looks most of the time these days. Men are so clueless.
The other day, Mrs. Baird had the nerve to come over and tell me about how she promised to help one young family, who took one of her other dogs, show the promising dog in dog shows. First she said she was going to kill Farley; but then she is off taking the other dogs to dog shows. Sometimes I think she lied about killing Farley just to get me to take him. The dog she plans to show is named Dame Clarissa of Mountjoy (alias Crumpet). What kind of name is Dame Clarissa or Crumpet for a dog? Michael wanted to name our puppy a name like Snoopy, or Barfy, or Ruff, or Daisy. Yuck! With that kind of name, the animal will never last. We learned that lesson the hard way with Fred the fish. I decided that the puppy should be named after Canadian author Farley Mowatt, who looks a lot like an English sheep dog in real life. We call the dog Farley. You should have heard John and Michael complain about that name. However, a good “GROWL” settled them down nicely. That word is so effective. I should use it more often.
Christmas always affords an animal some excitement - with the tree, visitors and extra goodies. John tells me that there is a very good chance my brother Phil may come to see me to help me snap out of it. Whatever that means. I got a great recipe for holiday dog cookies, and I found a bone-shaped cookie cutter at the dollar store recently. I'll be making some puppy treats alongside the regular Christmas baking. I should get started on that soon, actually. Maybe the dog will chew on that instead of the furniture.
There's always something to be done!
Talk to you soon,