Shaggy doggy lightbulb joke

How many dogs does it take to change a light bulb?

Golden Retriever: The sun is shining, the day is young, we've got our whole lives ahead of us, and you're inside worrying about a stupid burned out bulb?

Border Collie: Just one. And then I'll replace any wiring that's not up to code.

Dachshund: You know I can't reach that stupid lamp!

Rottweiler: Make me.

Boxer: Who cares? I can still play with my squeaky toys in the dark.

Lab: Oh, me, me!!!!! Pleeeeeeeeeze let me change the light bulb! Can I? Can I? Huh? Huh? Huh? Can I? Pleeeeeeeeeze, please, please, please!

German Shepherd: I'll change it as soon as I've led these people from the dark, check to make sure I haven't missed any, and make just one more perimeter patrol to see that no one has tried to take advantage of the situation.

Jack Russell Terrier: I'll just pop it in while I'm bouncing off the walls and furniture.

Old English Sheep Dog: Light bulb? I'm sorry, but I don't see a light bulb?

Cocker Spaniel: Why change it? I can still pee on the carpet in the dark.

Chihuahua: Yo quiero Taco Bulb.

Pointer: I see it, there it is, there it is, right there ...

Australian Shepherd: First, I'll put all the light bulbs in a little circle ...

Poodle: I'll just blow in the Border Collie's ear and he'll do it. By the time he finishes rewiring the house, my nails will be dry.

Ridgeback: I do not take orders.  If you wish to suggest I change the bulb, I will consider this in my own time and get back to you later.

Lurcher: It isn't moving. Who cares?

The Cat's Answer: Dogs do not change light bulbs. People change light bulbs. So, the real question is: How long will it be before I can expect some light, some dinner, and a massage?

Gyppo to boyo

Bobbi practicing for his dashes down the wing for the Welsh rugby team. Move over Shane Williams.

Bye Bye Mooli and Bobby

Life seems very strange at the moment. Firstly Mooli, who arrived in December, has flown the nest, his owner picking him up on Monday evening. On Tuesday mornings walk Judy was counting her four charges, Rocco, Bobbi, Mora, Bella and Mooli. Yes, he was back - temporarily deserting his owner to join-up with the pack on Barnes Common once again. Judy was more than a little surprised.

The unsettling feeling is more pronounced by Bobby’s absence. We heard a couple of days ago that a lady in Wales had seen him on the All Dogs Matter website wanted to adopt him. All we knew of her was she has a lady lurcher of her own and likes running on beaches. We were unsettled in that we knew so little about her but Mary the person re-homing Bobbi reassured us that she would provide a good home. On Tuesday afternoon Mary turned-up, she was impressively middle class and drove an impressive Jaguar.  She told us more about Bobbi’s potential new owner who is in her 60’s but has a son living with her in the countryside. We said that if things did not work out we would have Bobbi back.

We packed Bobbi’s many coats and possessions into the boot of the jag, he hopped onto the leather back seat and with a typical dog’s disregard for saying good-bye, he was gone.

Several times over the past five months he stayed with us, we nearly said OK we would adopt him. What stopped us was Rocco’s status as top dog in our household. He is now 11 and undoubtedly the boss on our walks. However when Bobbi and he race into our garden at dusk, Bobbi made it clear that he should be top dog in the chasing cats out of our garden etc department.

 We have trained Bobbi out of a few of his bad habits but the one he never managed to break was his desire for a dash in the garden between three and four in the morning. His agitation to go out got more vocal the nearer he got to the garden door. One had to hold his collar once the door opened to stop a mad fit of triumphant barking before letting him go. We thought that he might have some kind of bladder infection so I made an appointment at the vets. The vet’s nurse gave me a tiny bottle to collect a urine sample, it had a little yellow dish-like thing to help collect the pee.

If I had little enthusiasm for the sample collecting, Bobbi had none. He found my attempts as beyond embarrassment, his cooperation less than zero. I fancy Rocco enjoyed watching. I began to think that I would have to provide the sample - but the vet might be surprised by its alcohol level. Eventually on the walk before the vet visit I kept him on the lead, walking close. Eventually Bobbi lifted the rear leg furthest from me and I lent over him and I got the sample. The vet checked Bobbi and disappeared off to the basement to analyse the sample. He returned to say there was nothing wrong with Bobbi’s bladder. So he has gone to Wales with a clean bill of health and a hearty distrust of sample collectors.

Richmond Council's Regulatory Meeting

Rocco sleeps

We were in France last week when Richmond Council had its regulatory committee meeting so I was unable to add my fourpennyworth but Lucy Bonnett was and excellently presented the professional dog walkers case, well backed-up by other committee members of the newly formed Association of Professional Dog Walkers.. 

 

Lucy wrote the day after: "As most of you know the Regulatory Meeting took place last night.  It was a huge success and Richmond Council have decided to pass a DCO restricting the number of dogs any one person can walk to 6 dogs max per walk. Notices will be going up soon in the parks so the general public will be aware. I had previously raised concerns with David Allister that the public are confused as to the rules as the four dog max signs are still up. There will be now be a period of notification and the DCO setting the limit to six will come into effect on the 1st July, although of course for those of us already signed up to the Association we are already abiding by that.

 

The meeting was a huge success for us. Although there were some sticky moments and difficult questions, they loved the Association and everything it stands for. They want to work with us and endorse us. David talked to us at the end of the night about a press launch and other exciting things. We are delighted that finally we have had the opportunity to explain to the council, not only exactly what being a dog walker involves, but also that we are a group of dedicated professionals and that through our Association we will at last receive some recognition for our contribution to the community. David asked for us to contact him today to arrange another meeting where we can have a more in depth discussion.

 

Thank you to everyone who has supported us and applied to APDW, all your applications are being processed and we welcome you all on board.

 

I would also like to take this opportunity to say a huge thank you to Christabel Molesey from Twickenham Vets who spoke at the meeting last night and gave us her full support."

Badly behaved, Moi?

Those readers who remember my writing about Rocco biting a jogger on the towpath back in February might like to see how a real writer tells the story...

C'est la folie: badly behaved, moi?

Dear old Pike, the rescue dog with a heart condition. Surely this endearing character’s bark must be worse than his bite...

Step change: Pike in peaceful mode  

By Michael Wright

29 May 2012

Centuries of being slapped in the face with the wet flannel of disappointment have taught the British to be wary of looking forward to anything. Instead, we warn each other against tempting fate and counting chickens; claim not to be superstitious and touch wood if we catch ourselves banking on anything. Don’t sell the bear’s skin until you’ve killed it, the French say. They touch wood, too. The people of most European countries do, except the contrary Italians, who touch iron – tocca ferro – instead. This may be where they’ve been going wrong all these years.

We are terrified of losing something good by wanting it too much. But what about when it’s the other way round: when we expect the worst, yet things turn out just fine, or better? We all live with so many swords suspended from horsehairs above our heads – the credit crunch, global warming, asteroid strikes, superbugs, drought, the Schmallenberg virus, the varroa mite and Simon Cowell – that every extra moment we manage to eke out on the planet really is a miracle. Having no word for whatever is the opposite of disappointment, we can barely even shape this emotion in our heads. But there is such a feeling, and it’s more than simple pleasure or relief. It’s what you feel when you have been told that your adored rescue dog is likely to die of congestive heart disease before Christmas, and he is still going strong in April.

Actually, my emotions about Pike’s survival against the odds are complex. Mostly I feel grateful and amazed. But I feel ever-so-slightly embarrassed, too, having publicly anticipated his death months ago, with perhaps a few too many violins playing the Ave Verum Corpus in the background. In my defence, the stages of congestive heart disease are graded in severity from one to six. And the Jolibois vet, shaking his head with a mournful smile, classed Pike as somewhere between five and six.

At first, it felt as if the vet had passed a heavy sentence upon us, and it was hard to look at the little fellow – Pike, I mean, for the vet is actually quite tall – without a pang. But I have managed to stop picturing his diseased and enlarged heart as a ticking time-bomb, liable to explode at any moment. After all, the high-speed pleasure he takes in life makes it easy to forget how sick he is, and the vet’s prognosis merely makes us appreciate him all the more. “Even if it is to be,” as Seneca puts it, “what end do you serve by running to distress?”

Today, Amélie and I are out walking with Digby and Pike before breakfast. I’m not sure who spots the runner first, but now Pike is off, sprinting in the direction of the tall figure in black Lycra who is lolloping towards us. I am expecting Pike to sprint up to the runner and sprint back again, his duty as chief scout done. This is his usual technique with walkers. And, because he is a timid terrier and only about the size of a briefcase, even the French – who are often far more fearful of dogs than are the English – tend to be amused.

So I am stunned when the runner suddenly emits a high-pitched shriek, clutches his bottom as if he has been peppered with a 12-bore, and starts screaming that the little dog has bitten him. His legs spasm like Galvani’s frogs. Tears stream from his eyes. And he wails à la Beaker from The Muppets in an anguished falsetto, with such histrionic wretchedness that I can but stand there, open-mouthed, and gawp.

I do not mean to make fun of him. I am merely attempting to express how extraordinary the young man’s response to a greeting from a little dog appears to be. Initially, at least. You’d think the poor chap had been Tasered; that he has been watching too much grand opera, or premiership football. Pike is still running in circles around his ankles, visibly gobsmacked by the soprano ululations, leaping up with the excitement of a Callas groupie wanting to give yet another ovation after an encore. More spasms, more screams, more tears.

I run towards them both, calling for Pike to come back. I can see that I have a problem on my hands, even before Digby gets involved. He lumbers up to the runner like a well-meaning St John’s Ambulance volunteer, wanting to see if he can help. And the man kicks him so hard that it quite makes my eyes water. Digby’s, too. I know what this means. It means that the man has been pushed beyond his limits. And now he’s not just hurt. He’s angry, too.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, in French, grabbing Pike. “He’s a sweet dog, but I can see he gave you quite a scare.”

“Il m’a mordu! He’s bitten me!” he howls. His face is wet with tears.

“I really don’t think so,” I reply, glancing at the man’s shorts, and wondering if he’s got a no-win no-fee lawyer tucked inside them. Pike has never bitten anything before.

And then the man points at his left buttock. My jaw drops. A square of Lycra hangs flapping in the wind, like the door of an advent calendar. Behind the door, I can see a slash of red on white. So I was quite right about Pike not biting the man. Unfortunately, he appears to have knifed him instead. With one flick of a razor-tipped canine, he has sliced through the man’s shorts and carved an angry welt in the skin beneath.

My apologies are fulsome and heartfelt and, frankly, a bit desperate. Thank goodness the young man is so forgiving, when he has every right to feel aggrieved. He agrees to accompany me back to La Folie, so that Nurse Alice can patch him up, and I can find some cash to pay for his shorts, before he continues with his 14km run.

As we go, I attempt a little male bonding by telling him about my own running training, and asking about his.

“I’m cross-training for le vélo,” he explains. “I’m currently champion of Haute-Vienne, and hoping next month to become champion of France.”

“Ah, d’accord,” I gulp, badly wishing Pike could have chosen a less distinguished buttock to lacerate.

While the champion of Haute-Vienne runs off into the distance, Alice and I stand looking at Pike, wondering what on earth we are to do with our wayward invalid. From now on, he must stay on his lead for the duration of our walks. This is no bad thing, for slowing him down should reduce the chances of a heart attack in mid-stride.

Even so, the stain on his record means that our every walk must henceforth be conducted with a new sword hanging from a horsehair above my head. And, more than ever, I shall be craving my daily shot of that nameless emotion which is the opposite of disappointment, when you expect the worst, yet everything turns out just fine. I’m sure it will, too. Touch iron.