I don’t suppose he’s ever going to properly introduce me, even though I’ve had a sneaky look at this blog thing he does and he talks about me all the time. I’ve noticed this before, when I take him out, that he talks to other people who I’ve never met before, but he never properly introduces me to them. So, of course, what I have to do is bark. Loudly. How else do I get them to notice me?
Anyway, how do you do? You see? At least I know my manners. My name is Ruby. At this point I am wagging my tail, while at the same time making sure you think I’m REALLY BIG by standing sideways on to you. After all, I don’t know what you’re like, do I? I suppose you might be one of his friends, but, well, honestly, in my experience, that’s no real guarantee, with all respect . . .
I’m a springer spaniel, and I’m Welsh. Technically, I suppose, I’m really English, because I was born 10 years ago on the borders of Wales, just inside Herefordshire, but my father, whose name was Flint (a really hard name, don’t you think?), was a Welsh working springer, and my mother was a show bitch (pardon my French). My heart and genes are pure Welsh, see, and I bark in Welsh, of course, which is why the ignorant Yorkshire folk round here don’t understand me. So, there you are, then.
Still, at least round here there are big hills, woods, rain and plenty of mud, just like the land of my fathers, so it could be worse.
I’ll give you a brief run-down about me, but don’t get me wrong. I don’t want you to think this is some kind of Internet Dating chat up thing, like you humans do. I’ve had my bits removed, and, anyway, I’m not like that. There are boundaries, you know. Having my ears scratched, though, is something else. That’s OK, if it’s consensual.
Anyway, I’m not free – I have two human dependents that would be totally unable to cope without me. They would have no-one to take them out every day in all weathers, for a start. Sometimes, between you and me, it’s a real chore, having to take them out every day, but they just wouldn’t get their exercise if I didn’t take them. Someone’s got to do it!
My favourite thing is to jump into filthy water, swim around in circles, then get out at a muddy bit of the bank and then shake myself over people. Oh, how they enjoy it, how they laugh and scream! It does my soul good to give them so much pleasure.
My least favourite thing is getting into clean water. Have you noticed, clean water always changes colour when you get in it? See, clean water is fundamentally untrustworthy. Only English water does this.
I have no favourite food, because all foods are my favourite. However, I do particularly love those cakes with card and plastic icing that my humans put out for me on the breakfast bar. Why do they do that? Why do they put my food where it’s difficult to get at, but drop rubbish on the floor? If I had a cake for every time I had to clean up their rubbish biscuit things they drop on the floor, I’d be a happy dog.
However, I wouldn’t let them know this, so please don’t post any comments about this bit, but I’ll be really sad when my humans die. They don’t know they will die, of course, and it must be really nice to live in the present moment, like they do, with no worries about where the next bone is coming from, and no understanding that, if they just wait patiently, a bone or a biscuit or a cake or a ball will just appear.
I suppose, when it boils down to it, I must love them and their annoying ways. But don’t tell them.