The turning of the shrew

My pooches - Brenda, the stiletto-loving Doberman Pinscher and Mr Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop, the dyed poodle - love watching television, and they're in awe when Superstar Dogs comes on.  In case you live in a remote part of Britain which hasn't yet been connected to the television network (such as Peterborough), Superstar Dogs is presented by the ever-so-dishy John Barrowman, in which dogs jump through hoops, dive into pools and are cannonballed across a football pitch.  Fanny heard on the showbiz grapevine that Cheryl Cole was asked to present the programme, but it didn't prove popular as viewers couldn't tell the difference between the presenter and the contestants!

As you can see from this photo, as Superstar Dogs reached its climax, both dogs began barking at fever pitch.  I couldn't understand what was wrong (Mr P tends to start licking the tv screen at the very sight of John Barrowman, as indeed do I).   As Brenda jumped up on the table and began growling, my blood froze.    Outside in the garden, staring hungrily in through the window was a ghastly spectre dressed in her usual slovenly attire of a 1980s Wonderwoman outfit.... it was, of course, Belladonna, my dangerously psychotic, Russian ex-maid, who, since her expulsion from my employ, has been living rough behind the bins on the village green.

I reached for an Uzi sawn-off shotgun (which I keep stashed in my bedsit cabinet, in case of opportunistic burglaries or visits from the Jehovah's Witnesses) and chased Belladonna out of the grounds back to where she was sleeping rough, firing a few rounds randomly into the air.  I discovered that the once-respectable village green has been turned into a rubbish tip.  Just look at the state of the place: 

*click to enlarge*: Belladonna is living in a yellow skip, and around it, a disgusting paraphernalia of half-eaten pizza, empty beer cans, a gargantuan pile of Quality Street wrappers (I read on Belladonna's previous employment report she once tried to commit suicide by consuming three tins of Quality Street in one sitting), as well as a filthy, stained mattress, five inflatable sex dolls, four tubes of KY jelly and Vaseline, three dildoes (one was 20 inches in length and double-pronged) and a foot-pump. 

To my horror, Belladonna was also holding this handwritten sign, visible to all passing traffic.

In a terrible flap, I screamed at the top of my voice, ran home, poured myself a triple strength gin-n-tonic, gobbled down some Xanax, Prozac, Lithium and Valium, snorted some Poppers, and then grabbed and began necking a bottle of whiskey.  My social standing amongst the villagers was now in tatters, thanks to Belladonna.   What was I to do?

The day of the fox

Fanny was enjoying quail egg soup this afternoon in the drawing room when there was a deafening, almighty crash.  The west window completely shattered inwards and a gingery-red flash of some animal leapt into the room.  Before I could scream in horror, in hot pursuit of the animal were Brenda, my Doberman Pinscher, and Lady Bossity, a boisterous, mad Springer Spaniel bitch from across the village.

For my own safety, I jumped on top of the table and from up there caught sight of a 5-ft long fox jumping over the silver service and just missing my Ormolu clock.

Both dogs had gone mad: the fox wasted no time in mounting the Louis Quatorze dresser, knocking over and smashing into a thousand pieces a Ming vase, before leaping onto the piano, leaving deep scratches.

Ten seconds later, after a blinding flash of red fur, followed by Brenda's slavering lips and Lady Bossity's high-pitched growl, there was another almighty crash as all three animals jumped straight through the east window and disappeared into the grounds.

It was sometime later that I 'came round' (I usually revive myself not with smelling salts, but a good snort from a bottle of Poppers) to find Lady Bossity, the mad Springer Spaniel, lording it up on my once pure-white carpet (it originally cost over £55,000).   What had become of the fox or Brenda the Doberman, I did not know. 

However, the Spaniel was covered from head to tail in fox shit (I recall one of my grounds-men telling me that all dogs love to roll around in the stuff, as they think it a very expensive and pleasurable perfume) and my beautiful carpet was now more  a shade of chocolate surprise than truffle-white.

Tip-toeing in horror towards the door, I was on the cusp of escaping, but for the harrowing creak of a floorboard.  At that moment, the filthy Spaniel startled from her reverie, saw me and made a running jump into my arms.

You can't teach an old dog new tricks

Many readers have been in touch to ask about the gorgeous poodle I adopted back in the Spring.  As you will recall, when I moved to my new country estate in rural northwest Buckinghamshire, I vowed to open my house to animals, whom I love with a passion.

Below is a picture of Mr P, back in June.  His full name is  
Mr. Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop.  He's an adorable boy; he gives me licks and cuddles and loves it when I tickle his belly.

He can be a little destructive, however:  I recently found him fast asleep on a heavily-scratched, 18th century, walnut-wood dining table, lying amidst the skeletal remnants of a large, roast pheasant, which Cook had spent all afternoon preparing for my dinner, lacing it with cream and brandy, in her idiosyncratic style (using the whole bottle of brandy, when only two tablespoons of liquor were really required).  

Apart from a few clean bones, there was nothing left of the dish at all.  The small, innocent poodle with the doleful eyes had devoured the lot, gnawing a hole in my tablecloth hand-made by Cistercian monks, wolfing down a bowl of fruit, and knocking the Christmas tree on its side and eating all the chocolate oranges and sweets. 

I don't mind the damage to my antiques nor the consumption of roast dinners.  I also found he'd completely chewed the leg off my 1863 Henri Fourneaux piano; a set of green velvet curtains had been torn down; and he'd jumped mercifully unscathed through a plate-glass window to chase a fox across the walled garden area.

I spoke to my vet, Jacqueline Pimblott, a transvestite dog psychiatrist, who has a weakness for pink gin.  

"He needs a companion" she barked, before coming out with some rubbish about not being able to teach an old dog new tricks, and ingrained canine behaviours being irreversible.  Really?

Jacqueline Pimblott, transvestite dog psychiatrist. Lives in Bracknell.
Sometimes she gets so bladdered on pink gin, she takes the dog pill by mistake
instead of her Valium. Should you see Jacqueline, wandering around the streets of Bracknell, 
please call the council's stray dog hotline as a matter of urgency.

I'm pleased to say that Jacqueline Pimblott is not exactly on my Christmas card list; however, it did get me thinking.  Maybe Mr P does need a companion?

48 hours later, having considered it at length, I purchased a beautiful female Doberman Pinscher from a rescue centre.  I also bought a nice bling collar studded with 24 diamonds, and some other footwear accessories for her.  

I don't like common dog's names, so I have decided to call her Brenda.  Here is a photo of Brenda, wearing a pair of specially-adapted red canine high heels I also picked up online.

My new Doberman, Brenda, wearing specially-made-for-dogs blood-red high heels
and a bling collar.

She is beautiful, isn't she?  And Mr P is much calmer and very welcoming of his new companion!   

Well, Jacqueline, you might not be able to teach an old dog new tricks, but that doesn't excuse you from trolling all the bars in Bracknell trying to pick up 21 year old boy-next-door types!