ADRIENNE'S HIV BLOG – Hivine's Weblog

HIVINE is written by HIV positive women but still with a sense of humour

Archive for April 2, 2011

Dogs Behaving Badly

La Doody was the naughtiest girl in class again. Oh, the shame and the embarrassment. Felt like I was a bad ‘parent’ the owner of an asbo puppy with behavioural issues.

The head trainer brought her a special muzzle in this week but Doody soon made short work of that, then she was off haring round the horse/dog training ring like a gazelle, sniffing bottoms and disrupting the more refined, dignified, obedient, scholastic pupils.

One of the male trainers manages to catch her. “She is a very spirited young lady, you have to be firmer with her, like this” he advises gruffly, nearly yanking her head off her neck. I try but I don’t like being gruff and I don’t approve of yanking either, especially in public places, or for that matter yankers like him!

“Allow me to show you the correct training procedure madam,” off Doody trots at yanker’s heels. He hands her back with a superior look on his smug mug. “She is getting too strong for me,” I snivel pathetically. “She’s not strong,” yanker denies, “You are weak.”

He reeks of cheap aftershave powerful enough to succumb any dog or woman into submission. His scathing words resound in my weary ears, but I am too tired to argue, rope burn on hands, tennis elbow playing up. Even Dennis (the other Labradoodle in the class) is starting to behave himself, but he is smaller than Lady Dood. Should have got a miniature Labradoodle think ruefully to myself. Obviously that’s why some women go for smaller men.. easier to yank!

“Trainers and dogs forward,” shrieks the head trainer, “ Heel – Heel….” everyone echoes in high pitched voices. “Heel,” I squawk at Doody, but she too busy eating horse poo. “Faster,” orders the trainer and everyone starts running. “STOP – HEEL – SIT – TREAT – DOWN – STAY -TREAT -STAND – STOP.

Bugger, all my bits of sausage have fallen on the floor and are now mixed in with the horse and dog poo. Doody doesn’t mind, she has field day. Am now sausage less, not a good state to be in. Other dogs are behaving why wont she? I look at the other owners enviously – smug b******s . Am exhausted by time the hour is over. I chuck Doody in the back of the car, “You is one naughty, naughty girl,” I tell her driving home eyes clouded by tears of futility and shame. She definitely asbo dog. Me failure as parent/pack mistress and as with unruly children everything is blamed on the parents.

“Typical of breed,” snorted trainer, when I asked for her expert advice before leaving, “Daft as brushes.”

How dare she? She daft as brush if you ask me. Daft as a brush is a typical northern expression. The art of brushing up north is a lot more complex than you may have hitherto believed. Apparently, when you poke with a wet brush, you ‘dab’ and when you poke with a dry brush, you ‘daff’. Not a lot of people know that. When a brush has been daffed a great deal, its bristles splay out in all directions. The brush is then called “daft” and becomes practically useless.

All my brushes have been daffed by Doody who considers them (and the mop who she thinks is one of her deceased relatives on a stick) her deadly enemies. Someone who is daft as a brush is unable to direct their concentration properly to the matter in hand. In the days of chimney sweeps children were often held upside down inside the chimney and accidents frequently ensued resulting in brain injury. Hence the other explanation of the word “daft” which means silly, unable to concentrate.

Doody is definitely not daft (although I have considered sticking her up the chimney!) she’s too clever for her own good and devises cunning ruses to entertain herself, like pulling my pony tail bobble out when I’m least expecting it. No wonder my hair is a mess. Lady Doodle’s baby hair is falling out all over the place and floats around the house like balls of ginger tumbleweed. Her new hair is quite shaggy and she is growing a tiny beard, but like any lady she doesn’t like it when her facial hair is drawn attention to, or if you say good morning beardy, or worse call her beardy Branson. Neither does she like it when jokes are made about her having an orange perm like an ageing bingo player.

I do hope she does turn out to be a shaggy Rastafarian dog. My dad used to tell me shaggy dog stories when I was a little girl. A shaggy dog story is a lengthy, improbable and ultimately pointless story, often told in an attempt at humour – like some of my blogs you may be thinking!

During my research into the origin of the shaggy dog story, which had quite a grizzly end, and if you are a dog lover I wouldn’t advise googling it, I came across the following article in Psychologies Magazine –

Can shaggy dog stories make us happier?

“In times of stress and uncertainty, nothing lifts the spirits like a good shaggy dog story. Psychological research points to the fact that owning a pet can have a positive impact on both mental and physical health, raising the spirits and lowering cholesterol.”

Well, that’s good news for dog owners, especially if you are taking medication, which is renowned for raising cholesterol. But they can also help send you to sleep with boredom, at least the ones my dad used to tell me, which went on and on and on. Wonder if a long shaggy story before I went to bed would help me sleep better? No rude comments please.

This is an example of a shaggy joke, if you’ll pardon the expression.

A piece of string enters a pub and orders a beer. The barman says “Look pal, it’s nothing personal but we don’t serve string in here, we had some trouble with some twine last year”

(Maybe he was from Lancashire talking about tut wine!)

“Fair enough” says the string and leaves. Next day the string comes back in and the barman says “I told you yesterday, we don’t serve string – now get out!” The piece of string promptly leaves but returns the next day, and the next. Every time the barman throws him out. Finally the barman has enough and threatens the string. “You’re pushing your luck!” he says, “If you come in here tomorrow, you’ll be sorry!”.

Sure enough, next day, the string comes in. The barman loses his cool, snatches the string, whacks it on the bar, ties it in a knot, swings it around his head and throws it at the wall. Finally he gives it to his dog, which chews it up and spits it out. The barman finally throws the string out of the door and says, “There, let that be a lesson to you – WE DON’T SERVE STRING!”

Next day, the string comes in, still tied up and all tatty. “Oh for goodness sake!”, says the barman, “Look, we don’t serve string and you are, are you not, a piece of string?”

“No,” says the string, “I’m a frayed knot!”

I’m like a frayed not when I’ve finished dog training. Will Doody ever calm down and be a good girl I ask myself?

I’m a frayed not.

I still love her to bits and will continue to tie myself in knots both physically and mentally until she is trained – and at least hopefully she is lowering my cholesterol if not my blood pressure.

A question you could ask your HIV specialist.

Doc Is there a chance my HIV test could be wrong?

I’m a frayed knot.