Rubin and I just heard the best joke ever:

We’re totally not going to tell you what it was though. Sorry.

Today I decided, in my infinite wisdom, that I would start up a Tumblr. Well, all the cool kids were doing it, and you know, me, if there’s a bandwagon in town, I’ll… well, I’ll probably wait a year or so and then I’ll jump right on it. Slowly. (Also, it bothered me that there was a blogging platform I hadn’t used. )

So I got me a Tumblr. Five minutes after I published my first post, I got my first spam comment.

Seven minutes after I published my first post, I got my first piece of personal abuse, from someone telling me I “look so much better when I don’t show my face.”

I deleted the Tumblr. I figure people have enough ways to abuse me on the Internet already.

(Seriously, though, maybe I was just unlucky, but worst blogging experience ever. I’d been wondering for ages why it was so popular and… I’m still wondering. Anyone?)

p.s. Nominate  TheFashionPolice.net in the Cosmo Blog Awards? Or Shoeperwoman.com? Or hey-dollface.com? Pretty please?

So, I’m out walking Rubin. I’m NOT wearing a dress, you’ll be pleased to know, and neither is he. He is, however, wearing his leash, and because it’s one of those extendable ones, and Rubin likes to be as far away from me as he possibly can on his walks (perhaps he’s embarrassed by what I’m wearing, who knows?), this leash is stretched taught between my hand and his body, and remains like this for the duration of time he pulls me around the footpaths of The Ghetto. (Actually, I don’t know why I even call the outings Rubin and I take together “a walk”. It would be better described as “a pull”.)

Now, note the word FOOTpath, here, folks. This is a path for FEET. Not for WHEELS, say, but people on wheels do love to use it: mostly cyclists, but we also get the occasional MOTOR CYCLIST roaring along it, and all I can say about that is that I hope there’s a particularly hot space in hell for those people, I really do. The regular cyclists, on the other hand, don’t really bother me. Most of them are really good about ringing their bell when they get close to a pedestrian, and this gives me ample opportunity to reel Rubin in and prevent him from trying to throw himself under their wheels, which is totally what he would do, and why he is kept on his leash on this particular footpath.

Yesterday, though, this did not happen. Instead of ringing his bell to let me know of his approach (INCOMING! INCOMING!) one particular cyclist decided to sneak up on me in complete silence: a Stealth Cyclist, if you will. It was only when I felt one of those rare pricklings of danger at the back of my neck that I turned around and saw him… just as he prepared to cycle at speed into Rubin’s leash – an act that would surely have sent his bike spinning out of control, with Rubin and I spinning right after it.

I am not ashamed to admit that I shrieked like a girl at this point. OK, I am a bit ashamed to admit it, to be honest, because it was a particularly dramatic shriek. He was SO close to us, though, and he cycled right up to Rubin’s rear (note: there was plenty of space around Rubin and I, so there was no need for him to do this. I did wonder if he just hadn’t noticed the leash, but even giving him the benefit of the doubt there, it would still have meant he was planning to pass really close to me, and he was cycling fast) before swerving at the last possible second, giving me plenty of time to imagine him flying over his handlebars, and me and Rubin ending up in court on charges of Interfering With a Cyclist or somesuch. (And I just KNOW Rubin would sing like a bird to get the law off his back, and would blame it all on me…)

The cyclist, meanwhile, didn’t even give us a second glance. He just sped away nonchalantly, and I got the distinct impression, although I’m possibly just making this up, that he felt the shrieky scare he’d given me served me right for daring to be in his path. It was this, rather than the scare I’d just had, that prompted me to shout feebly after him, “You’re not supposed to cycle on footpaths, you know!” Which would’ve TOTALLY told him, except at this point I noticed that he had headphones on and wouldn’t have heard me anyway.

And THIS is why Terry normally doesn’t let me walk the dog on my own…

I couldn’t find a bunny, so here are some photos of a big bad WOLF instead:

As you can see, the snow has melted, but it’s still very, very muddy. Especially in the region of Rubin’s belly.

I’ve taken a couple of days off over Easter, but so far, other than eating vast quantities of food and braving the crowds on Princes Street during an ill-advised shopping trip yesterday, I’m not doing much of anything. Which is sometimes the best kind of holiday you can have..

Happy Easter!

Yesterday afternoon, Terry was out with his friends so I decided to take myself off for a quick spot of shopping. Because that’s what I do when I’m left to my own devices, obviously.

(I also apparently buy a whole bunch of summer clothes when left to my own devices, despite the fact that the snow is still thick on the ground and we probably won’t get no summer, anyway. Why must the shops get their summer stock in NOW, when it’s not even CLOSE to summer? Seriously, WHY?)

Anyway, when I came home, I found this in the middle of the floor:

EXHIBIT A

Well, I knew right away that something bad had gone down in my absence, reason being that this, my friends? Is an EAR. Yes, an EAR.

It didn’t take me long to locate the body:

OMG!

And it didn’t take me long to identify the chief suspect, either, on account of the fact that once again, he hadn’t even bothered to leave the scene of the crime:

"Who, me? No, I never touched him..."

The fact that the body was blue told me that it had been in the water a long time it was none other than “Bluddy”, or “Blue Buddy”, a one-time close-friend and associate of the Rubinman’s. This is the second vicious attack on Bluddy, though, which leads me to suspect that this is not a motiveless crime. As to what the motive actually IS, though, I have absolutely no idea, although Rubin DID show an extraordinary amount of interest in the severed ear that night, totally ignoring the body of his former comrade in arms, and choosing instead to run around with the ear in his mouth like a trophy. Sometimes he would even throw it into the air and pretend to “chase” it. It was all quite inappropriate, actually, especially considering that the erstwhile owner of the ear was RIGHT THERE.

Faced with the evidence of his crime, however, Rubin was totally unrepentant:

"SO?"

There is but one question on the lips of all of the other toys in the basket now: who will be next to face the wrath of the Rubinman, WHO?

The Toys, yesterday

Note: Bluddy is currently recovering in “hospital” before surgery to replace the severed ear. His condition is described as serious but stable. Also, he’s a stuffed toy, so I’m sure he’ll be fine…

Last night I stumbled off to bed fairly late. We’ve been working hard to get back to normal after the events of Black Friday, obviously, so I was exhausted and looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

I kicked off my shoes, and stepped around to Terry’s side of the bed to close the blinds.

And stepped straight into a large pool of water.

Only… it wasn’t water, was it? No, it was PEE. The Rubinman had struck again – motive: unknown. He had been walked. He had been out several times that night. Still, though, he had struck. It looks like Terry’s-side-of-the-bed is the new washing machine as far as Rubin is concerned.

He HAD been left upstairs alone briefly: we can only assume that he saw a window of opportunity during that time and took it. Thanks, Rubin. You really know how to pick your moments…

Remember the shirt Terry got for completing his 10k run on the weekend?

It was white. Pristine. It had the name of the race on the front of it, and, this being the first race of this type Terry had ever competed in, he was fairly pleased with it. So, last night before bed, he took his brand new, sparkling white t-shirt, and he laid it out with the rest of his clothes, so he could wear it to the gym this morning.

Well, this morning came, and Terry got up and reached for his (brand new, sparkling white) shirt… And then Terry recoiled in horror, screaming.

Because on the shirt was….

was…

PEE.

Yes, pee. SOMEONE had peed on Terry’s pristine white shirt. Here’s a clue: it wasn’t me. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Terry. This leaves only one real suspect:

He did try to put the blame on TED, but Ted was out partying at the time, so we know it wasn’t him. We’ve tried to piece the events of last night together, and we can only assume that at some point while I was in the bathroom taking my makeup off and Terry was in the office finishing up work, Rubin has snuck into the bedroom and exacted his revenge on the white shirt. It does appear to a be a completely motiveless crime, which is confusing, but then again, Rubin moves in mysterious ways, his, er, wonders to perform, so he doesn’t necessarily need a motive for these things.

Strange Things About This Event: (other than the obvious)

1. Although Rubin will pee inside the house if he’s left on his own (or if he can sneak downstairs at some point), he does NOT generally pee upstairs: he seems to understand that this would be crossing a line from which there would be no coming back. So he doesn’t do it… UNTIL NOW.

2. Rubin has been trained to come and “tell” us if he needs to go out. He did not do this, even although Terry was right there. This suggests that Rubin deliberately targeted the white shirt and used stealth manoeuvres to pee on it. WHY? what did it do to him?

3. Although I know this post is going to generate a lot of “helpful” advice about how awful Rubin is, and how he needs to be trained, OMG, he actually hasn’t peed on any of our clothes since he was a puppy. The last time he did this, though, the item in question was ALSO a white shirt belonging to Terry: a pattern?

In conclusion: Rubin has basically peed all over Terry’s achievement with the run. Terry is not happy. The white shirt is currently being disinfected. The entire bedroom, in fact, has been disinfected. Rubin, meanwhile, is under close surveillance. I’ll keep you posted…

Remind you of anyone?

Not a hat

I think Terry and I should get one each, and wear them every time we’re out with Rubin. In fact, I think EVERYONE should get one. I mean, who WOULDN’T want to walk around with a Rubinman on their head?

Rubin’s favourite sleeping spot: the little pool of sunlight that falls through the bathroom window and lands in the hallway:

On Saturday morning, the bathroom door was closed, and – get this – he actually went and pushed it open with his paw, just so he could create that little pool of light to lie in. Isn’t he a clever boy? Sometimes?

Yesterday I was working away at my desk when I happened to look round to find that OMG, there had been a MURDUR!  </ Taggart>

This photo doesn’t really do the scene justice, because there was stuffing EVERYWHERE. Whoever the victim was, it was clear they had been, not just killed, but also skillfully disemboweled. Closer inspection, however, revealed not just one, but TWO possible victims:

On the right of the picture: Bluddy. So called because he is a BLUE version of BUDDY. This unfortunate creature is “Buddy”:

As you can see, Buddy hasn’t been well for quite some time. My mum performed pioneering surgery to sew his face back on after the, er, event that led to its removal, but ol’ Buddy, he just hasn’t been the same since. Sometimes he can’t even remember who he is, the poor guy. We keep him around now for purely sentimental reasons: he was Rubin’s first toy, and actually, we’ve had Buddy longer than we’ve had Rubin, because as soon as Terry and I knew we were definitely getting a dog, we rushed out and bought Buddy for him. When we brought the young Rubinman home, Buddy was bigger than him. Then a year later? Buddy was dead. Shame.

Anyway, back to our crime scene, and as I’m sure your keen minds have deduced, our victim was not, in fact, “Bluddy”, but …

Yes, it’s the DUCK! Who is simply known as, er, “Rubin’s Duck”.  Or who WAS known as “Rubin’s Duck”, past tense. I don’t think that duck will ever “quack” again, somehow, which is a shame, because it does actually “quack” when Rubin presses it with his nose. DID actually quack.

Of course, we didn’t have to look far to find the alleged perp: he was standing right there at the scene of the crime, looking strangely pleased with himself:

He’s all “Yeah, I did it. SO? I’d do it again…” And he would. For now, though, his work here was done:

Still looking inappropriately smug, considering he just disemboweled one of his best friends. That’s the closest we can get him to sit to that dustpan and brush, by the way. Not that I want to spoil anyone’s illusions of how Rubin is a WOLF or anything, but he is TERRIFIED of that thing. Any closer and he will totally lose his mind. I think it must come to life at night and attack him or something.

This concludes our investigation into the Sad Case of Rubin’s Duck. Don’t have nightmares, folks…

I hate gardening. And, yes, I know, I’ve already made my point about that, thanksverymuch, so don’t worry, this isn’t going to be YET ANOTHER POST about how much I hate and resent the fact that I work hard all week, and then on the weekend, instead of relaxing, or doing something nice, I have to do hard, manual labour in the freaking GARDEN instead.

Well, to be fair, it kind of IS about that. But it’s mostly about Rubin. Because Rubin is insane. And as much as I hate working in the garden, I’m pretty sure Rubin hates it even more.

You see, Rubin hates being parted from Terry or I (or my parents, or Terry’s folks, or whoever his “humans” happen to be at any given time). On Saturdays, Terry goes hillwalking with his friends, which means it’s just me and Rubin, therefore I am the chosen human who mustnotbeleft. Unless, of course, I leave the barrier at the top of the stairs down by mistake (Terry had to make a “barrier” to place at the top of the stairs, to stop Rubin going down and peeing on the washing machine. We call it his “perimeter”. As in, “Quick, Jack, set up a perimeter!”), in which case he will be more than happy to leave me all by myself, while he goes downstairs to pee on the aforementioned washing machine. And sometimes the sofa.

Anyway.

So, Rubin and I are alone together, and I go out to GARDEN. (Did I mention how much I hate… I did?) Rubin cannot be left in the house, or he barks the place down. (Note: he doesn’t do this if we leave him to actually go somewhere. He’s fine with that. It’s only if I go outside and he knows I’m rightthere but he can’t get at me. Then he barks like a crazy thing. Which, of course, he is.) So I have to take him with me. This is OK while I’m working in the back garden. There are a few horrified minutes when the lawnmower gets switched on and Rubin reacts with shock and awe, but after that he will relax and go about his business, leaving me to go about mine.

(Unless The Man is out in the garden behind ours, because if Rubin can see anyone AT ALL while he’s in the garden, he will start barking at them like a crazy thing, and when I come out to bring him back inside, he will run away and force me to chase him.)

When I go round to the front, though? All hell breaks loose. I can’t take Rubin into the front because the garden there isn’t fenced in, so he could – and would – run out into the road. Having him on the leash isn’t an option while I’m operating a lawnmower, and you can’t tie him to something stationery either because he would freak out. So I leave him in the back garden. (I’ve tried putting him back in the house at this point, but he knows I’m out there and he gets hysterical. Like,REALLY hysterical. And he tries to climb the furniture so he can get out of the window.) But the back garden has a wrought-iron gate. HE CAN SEE ME. But… he can’t REACH me. And so he goes hysterical. You would be amazed by how much noise a small dog can make when he really puts his mind to it. The whole time I’m working in the front garden, Rubin will be barking. He will not stop. He will not take it down a level. No, he will remain utterly hysterical for as long as it takes for me to return to him. And then he’ll start up all over again when I return to The Front to pick up my gardening stuff.

Solution? Well, I can’t very well leave him barking like that, so this time? I had to pick him up and CARRY him with me. Like a clutch bag, basically, with him tucked under one arm, while I used the other to pull out weeds and people walked by going, “Who does she think she is, Paris Hilton?” . Rubin was perfectly happy with this. He just sat there like a little lord, gazing around the street like “Yoos better not mess with me, right?” And all was calm once more.

(And I know what you’re thinking: I could just have waited until another time, when Terry was home to look after the dog, but unfortunately you can’t really do that in Scotland – if you get a brief window of dry weather, you have to grab it before it’s gone.)

And that was how I passed my Saturday morning: carrying Rubin around like a furry clutch bag while I weeded the garden.

On Sunday, though? On Sunday I bought shoes: