Noel, in the year of Our Lord, 2018.

No, I don’t believe in A God, as such.  Sorry, God.  Maybe later.  Much later, hopefully.

So let’s get back to You Know Who.  I was up at 8 o’clock this morning trying to repair the ripped sofa.  After I had mopped up rivers of pee.   O’Connor was just sitting there with a ball of sofa stuffing in his mouth, and actually looking quite pleased with himself.  Well, at least he wasn’t beating up Charlotte or chasing the Cat.

I resisted the temptation to turn him into sausages.   But it was hard.  Not enough room in the oven, basically.  Maybe next week.  Sheesh, never in all my life have I had such a problem with a puppy.  Six weeks and I am getting nowhere.

But I have got over The Hump now.  Too late now.  I won’t be sending him back, although I did briefly think about it.  And I certainly understand why some people do.

Do I now expect to win?  Who knows?  I have my doubts.  But as ever, he is such a sweet thing.

Bon Noel to you all.

Dachshunds.

Okay.  I should not have read The Blurb.  But I did.  Too late now.  So I was a bit forewarned, sort of.

However, I have recently discovered that all sorts of people that I have known for years and years, all own Dachshunds.   They never talk about this.   It’s a big secret.  Mayhap it’s some Club that you can only join once you are foolish enough to acquire one for some inexplicable reason, like, I wanted a Pure Breed, and this one was going a bit cheap.  Or, no one else wanted him or her, so I rescued him or her.  How could you not?  They are so bloody sweet.  Gender has nothing to do with this, by the way.

But now I know why.   They all say that you can’t house train them.  Oh really.  I am not giving in that easily.  Am I a fool?

O’Connor has become used to being taken outside, and he does pee, so perhaps he doesn’t understand unless he is taken out.  He thinks, okay, they have put me in the garden so I have got to have a pee.  The rest of the time, fuck it.  What’s wrong with the floor?  I mean what is wrong with the floor?  It is tiled.  No carpets around here.  The incontinent Pug took care of that many moons ago.

Nope, I am not having Charlotte blamed for this.  In fact she pees in the house even less these days, so we have a win, win there.

I actually pointed his nose at his latest pee, told him off, and then put him out.  But of course, it was all a bit too late by then.  I know that.  He probably thinks I am crackers.

And how on earth I have managed a Blog on a randomly pissing Dachshund leaves my sanity in some doubt.  It can only be of some interest to other Dachshund owners.

Is there anyone out there who has crack this?  If so, please get in touch ASAP.

 

 

Christmas is Coming.

Christmas is coming, and so is Elijah.  Elijah, my youngest grandson, and not the Prophet Elijah, although having done a quick Google, there are some similarities.  But that’s for another time.  Naivety, basically.  He is a sweet boy.

He arrives tomorrow, so loads of planning has gone into this.  As I previously said, I am not good at spontaneity.  No doubt my planning will fall by the wayside, because it always does, but I do have some fun thinking about it.  It’s mainly about food, but that’s okay because I like cooking, even if no one actually eats it.  But the dogs most certainly will.

He is going to love O’Connor.  Elijah is a dog person, like his paternal Grandmother.  I don’t have many of those in my family.  I don’t know why.  It is inherent in me.  My own children just tolerated them.  But then the dogs tolerated the children.  I didn’t have a problem with any of them, thank goodness.

Until Noel.

 

The Cat.

The Cat, No Name, hasn’t actually left home, but then she was never going to, was she?  She knows which side her bread is buttered.  She clouts Conner when Connor gets a bit silly.  And she was here first.  Although so far Connor shows no sign of cat scratches on his nose.  So possibly no claws.  But he does holler.  Connor is very good at hollering.  He does that a lot.  It is pitiful, gut wrenching even.  Rotten little sod.

I suspect that The Cat has a better measure of this horrible little puppy than I have.

The Vet, a very nice lady, was a bit upset by the fact that The Cat has got No Name.  What is wrong with having a No Name Cat?

Anyway.  I starved The Cat this morning.  And she is mightily fussy about what she eats, as though she has any bloody choice, oh really.   She just turned up one day without so much as a Please May I.   So I stuffed a Flea Pill in her food this evening.  She ate the lot.  Good.  that’s her sorted.  I was getting a bit fed up with her ruling the roost, and a bit fed up with Flea Bites.  Fleas always go for me.  I am their next best thing.

The same for Charlotte, although Charlotte will eat anything, including shit.  But we won’t go into that.  Sometime Pugs are not very nice.

How did I finish up with all of these dreadful animals, and a rampant Puppy who might be looking as bad as them.  Time to wield the whip, I suspect.  I used to treat puppies like recalcitrant children, or vis versa, but it has been a long time, and I had forgotten who is in charge around here.

That’s it, Fellers.  Mummy has had enough.  Stand by.

 

 

 

The Veterinary.

All Vet’s bills start at 100 Euros.  Nothing less is even remotely possible.  That’s it.  Gender or Breed doesn’t come into this.  But she was a very nice lady, and she speaks English.

This is not always necessarily important, but it helps if your French is crap.

So O’Connor, for ever after to be known as Connor, had to go for his last vaccination this time around.  He won’t be getting any more because one lot is enough for me.  I am not a fan of repeated vaccinations.

No thank you, I don’t want a Rabies Vaccination, at least not for the moment.  I could change my mind about this if we look like getting Rabid Bats, but I doubt there is much chance of that.  The Bats around here are absolutely fine.  And we are a bit far North for that anyway.

So what with  The Vaccination, The Worm Pills and The Flea Pills, which all took about fifteen minutes, 100 Euros.  Merci Beaucoup.

Not that I have a problem with Vets.  It’s a hard road dealing with things that can’t speak at all.

Connor is an absolute wimp, and hollered mightily on receipt of the vaccination.  And has been wimpering ever since.  How could we be so cruel?  He will probably never recover.  Poor little soul.  Another poor little soul to add to the brood.  But Charlotte the Pug has got the franchise on that one, so far.  Charlotte has been at death’s door for five years now and still not looking like actually kicking the bucket.  Where do I find them?  My animals always live long and prosper.  But then I do tend to go for the runt.

And I do have to say that Connor looks like a well nurtured Rat.  It might have been cheaper to get a Rat.

But he is very sweet.