The UK Lancashire Heeler Club
Another message from Malvern – The Life of Riley the Lancashire Heeler part II by Pete Schofield
How time flies, eh? One minute it’s just after Christmas and I’m running round the garden eating that cold white stuff... hang on a minute... what’s it called? Snow? Oh, right. Apparently it’s called snow. That stuff that makes you wee everywhere after you’ve eaten loads of it. The next minute it’s too hot to do much of anything, and there isn’t any snow at all, not even in the cupboard where the rileybiscuits are.
But there are lots of rileybiscuits in there. Not as many as there were before I went looking for some snow, though.
It was hot today, too. I watched the cricket today while I was lying on the floor. At least I think it was cricket – there were some people in white pyjamas running around hitting a ball. I like balls. I like them a lot. There are balls all over our house. Well, most of them are stuck under the sofa really, except the one that I chewed in half. That one’s in the garden, lying in the grass like a little bright green fuzzy brassiere. That’s the first time a heeler has ever written the word brassiere, apparently. I’m a trend-setting kind of a dog, me. I like to push the envelope. And then leave bits of it all over the carpet.
I saw my mum and sister on Saturday. We all jumped in the car, and went to this place where there were loads of dogs.
Actually, I was the only one who jumped in the car. People don’t jump into cars. When we all jumped out – well, I did; people don’t jump out of cars - we saw these nice people called the Simpsons. Not the ones on telly, although Mrs Simpson looks a bit like Mrs Simpson except for one of them not having very tall blue hair.
I’m sure I remember the Simpsons from somewhere. I was certain I remembered the Simpsons when we went into their caravan, because they had brought two hundred and sixty-three dogs with them, and they all looked just like me. You could have knocked me down with a feather. Did they bark? Cripes, did they ever! It was just like me barking two hundred and sixty-three times, all at once.
Anyway, my mum was nice, and so was my sister. Even if my mum did try to clean in my ears with the corner of a screwed-up spitty hanky. I think that’s something that all mums do.
The best thing was Mrs Simpson giving me some biscuits like little bones.
That’s the Mrs Simpson without the blue hair. This other man said that I should maybe go in for shows because he said I was a handsome dog. Well, tell me something I didn’t know. I’m not so sure. I’ve seen dog shows on telly, and you aren’t allowed to do a poo in there or anything, and then you have to stand still on a little box while someone important in a suit with elbow patches feels your equipment!
No thanks.
I’ll stick to chasing my best mate around and biting him on the leg.
Must dash. That’s what I do best, dashing. Everywhere. Except when it’s hot.
Toodles
Riles.
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