It's a Wonderful Life…

…isn't it…?

The Dog that Doesn’t Speak English July 8, 2012

I may have mentioned, once or twice, that my parents have a penchant for rescuing waifs and strays. This week I have received a constant stream of hysterical text messages from my mother. You see, she decided, this time, to rescue a dog from a group of ex pats out in Spain who have been lovingly rescuing and nurturing some very sad cases of animal cruelty and neglect. This dog hadn’t been neutered and, despite only being a baby herself, had gotten caught out and ended up with a litter of mouths to feed. My Mum took pity on this little being and decided she should come and live with us.

Bonita – means “pretty little one” in Spanish


Text message received after Bonita’s first night in her new home:

She’s following me everywhere like a lamb. Poppy [my dog] hates her. She has chased the cats out of the house and won’t let them back in the garden. She won’t listen when I tell her to stop

Text message returned:

She doesn’t speak English, what do you expect?

Text message to Mum the next day:

How are you today, much sleep? Still hysterical and a silly English woman getting between a dog and her toys?


No. Yes. She’s been on the roof.

My response:

HAHAHAHAHA. You mean the house roof don’t you? How did she get there?


Yes. Landing window was open.

Text message back:

Senorita Bonita thinks she can fly. Nuhnuhnuhnunnuh BAT DOG!

That evening, to calm my Mum’s hysterics about having this loony puppy that doesn’t speak English climbing on the roof, we went out for a walk. Surprisingly, the expected arch enemy, Poppy, actually rather likes bat dog now and they walk along side by side like the best of friends.

However, our nice, peaceful walk was interrupted when they both tried to give chase to a pair of wild bunnies lolloping merrily across the golf course. And then.



Turns out our little Spanish one is quite fond of a squirrel. Sees them everywhere in fact. If you have ever seen the film UP you will understand what I mean when I say that she is every inch Dug the Dog.


I have also been obliged to point out that it’s very much a “dogs and their owners” thing as she displays “squirrel” tendencies on occasion: breaking off midway through a conversation and interjecting with an entirely unrelated topic. Anyone who has read my post “My Boyfriend Has Renamed Me Jim” will understand exactly what I’m talking about here.



There, undoubtedly, will be more to follow on the adventures of the dog that doesn’t speak English so stay tuned, lovely readers J


I Feel Like Chicken Tonight February 29, 2012


I have just been stood outside in the freezing cold for at least half an hour trying to outlast the cockerels. Bearing in mind my parents rescued the pair when they were found, believed to have been dumped, on the golf course where we live. So, the hens and ducks went away without a battle, the goose went into his shed a little begrudgingly but without too much hassle whilst the pigs screamed for food. My attempts to wave the cockerels towards the shed that is acting as their temporary home were to no avail. As soon as one of them got close to the door the other one did his best road runner impression and sprinted back off up the garden. I coaxed and cajoled with no result. After about five or ten minutes of these antics I decided to sit and try and wait them out: not before I ranted at them that if they were so keen to get eaten I would GLADLY be of service and fulfil such a request.

I don’t know how many of you have watched a chicken walk but one comedian made a spot on observation of their walking style recently that frustrated the life out of me trying to get them to go away. Chickens walk as if they are afraid of stepping on a land mine. One clawed foot goes up, rests in the air and is very gingerly placed down a few millimetres from where it started out then the same with the other foot. This ridiculous dance is continued almost all the way to the shed door. Then the chicken alters his choreography slightly and adds in some impromptu cleaning action…edges forward…edges back… ballerina stretch…cleans a bit….the suspense is killing me…ballerina stretch… actually the suspense is about to kill him.

Eventually the pair of them give in and enter the house for the night. I throw myself against the shed door and bolt it as quickly as I can before one of them decides to make another break for it. Inside there is not so concealed mirth from the cockerels as I can hear them clucking away to each other about the good joke they just played on me. I have just one word for you boys: “dinner”.

As I walk back up the garden I check that all the others are definitely away and secure.  Walking past the shed that the goose is housed in I simply sigh at the eccentricities of my parents “pets”. This goose, named Lou Lou but more deserving of “Butch” or “Rocky”, attacks Mum and I with real zest any time we walk past him and hisses and screeches any time he gets a glimpse of us. Very territorial and aggressive. However, as I walk past the shed I can see him through the window. At my eye level. He has somehow managed to propel his fat frame up onto the shed shelf in a bid to stay off the floor. Why? Because he’s absolutely petrified of the mouse that lives in the shed. Go figure.