Forever Amber

Dog-Gone. To the pub.

Firstly: I have broken my month long gym drought! Yay me! Yes, Terry and I went to Body Pump this morning, an act facilitated yesterday by Terry giving me a £10 note and telling me that if he DIDN'T get up and go to the gym today, I could keep it. Naturally, I hoped he wouldn't go, but damn, if he wasn't up bright and early, all "Let's go the gym! Let's go now! Give me back my £10, bitch!"*

* Not really

There was a moment as I hauled my sorry ass out of bed when I briefly contemplated giving him £10 not to make me go, but it's always the actual getting up and getting out the door that's the worst part, isn't it? Once we were there, I did enjoy it, and I may even go again tomorrow, only probably not because whoa, there, sister, let's take this sloooow....

Anyway, when we got home, we decided to take advantage of the brief outbreak of watery sunshine (don't worry, it didn't last, but there were a few hours today when we got to see what the roads and paths around our house look like when they're dry, and that's not something you get to see very often, let me tell you) and take the dog for a walk, and, once again, Rubin tried to go into the local pub. Yes, folks, looks like Rubin has himself a drinking problem. GOD.

Of course, I jest. Rubin is really just a social drinker, but he has tried to get into the pub the last three times we've taken him past it, and if we manage to stop him getting in the front door, he just runs round the back. Yes, it's almost like he's BEEN THERE BEFORE. Which, actually, now I come to think of it, would totally explain all those beer bottles we keep finding in his bed, and the way he sometimes doesn't get up until afternoon these days...

Anyway, Rubin is hellbent on getting inside that pub, and it actually has nothing to do with Happy Hour and everything to do with the fact that a couple of weeks ago, Rubin found himself a girlfriend. See, these are the things no one tells you about buying a dog. You think you're getting this cute little puppy, then the next thing you know, it's a teenager and it's bringing home girlfriends and trying to get into the pub all the time. WHO KNEW?

Rubin's girlfriend is a Shitz-zu called Bonnie. Bonnie belongs to the landlord of the pub, which I guess is every young man's dream - a girlfriend whose dad owns a pub. They met a couple of weeks ago, when I was out walking Rubin alone, and, of course, once he spotted Bonnie, he was transported with delight. Bonnie's owner was standing outside the pub with her at the time, and he seemed equally delighted to see Rubin, which was unusual, because that's not the reaction Rubin usually gets from people. Probably because he normally tries to eat their trousers.

So, Rubin and Bonnie played happily together for a few minutes, and it was kind of like a scene from a Disney movie - two cute little fluffy animals gamboling happily among the green grass and broken Buckfast bottles. Then it all turned a little less Disney as Rubin suddenly spun round a few times and then dropped a giant turd right in front of Bonnie's surprised face. That was pretty much the end of any romantic notions she might have been starting to have about him, and after that he owner picked her up and carried her back into the pub.

And Rubin followed them.

Luckily, I managed to snatch him up just as he crossed the threshold, but ever since then, he has tried to return at every opportunity he gets. This is mostly our fault, as Terry and I have somehow managed to develop selective amnesia about the events surrounding Rubin and The Pub, which means that every time we go past it, we normally have Rubin off the leash (the pub is right next to the strip of woodland where we walk him), which allows him to speed up and make a break for the saloon doors. Only the presence of the landlord sitting outside the back door stopped Rubin entering the bar and pulling up a stool today, I swear to God.

Clearly the solution to this issue is to keep Rubin on the leash when we get anywhere near the vicinity of the pub. I think his drinking days are over. Also, we really don't want to have to go in there and drag him out by the scruff of his neck. We really thought that by not having kids we'd be able to avoid those kind of scenes...

The Day Rubin became a REAL Bichon Frise

For as long as we've owned him, Rubin has never actually looked like a Bichon Frise. Well, OK, maybe when he was a puppy. He looked like a Bichon Frise when he was a puppy. What's that you say? You want to see the "Rubin as a puppy" photo AGAIN? Oh, OK, any excuse...

Everybody say, "Awww!"

Once he grew up, though, he stopped resembling any kind of pedigree creature at all, and started to look a lot like a raggedy ball of fur that likes to spend its time digging in the mud, standing belly-deep in stagnant water (yesterday) and maybe rolling around in things that are too unspeakable to mention. And that's exactly what he is.

Because of Rubin's love of Unspeakable Things, Terry and I do our best to keep him groomed, but sadly, that doesn't often extend to the full-on, fluffy Bichon treatment. Because it would be a waste of time, basically. No sooner than Rubin was done being be-fluffed, Rubin would go out and find a dead bird to roll in, or a wood full of twigs to get stuck to his fluffy self, and that's why we tend to keep his hair in what's known as a "puppy cut".  It's also why when we take him out for walks, people always stop and ask us if he's a poodle. (This is ironic, actually, because when I DID have a poodle, people used to stop and ask me if he was a Bichon Frise. Fluffy white dog ownership: ur doin it rong!)

Anyway, over the last few weeks, Rubin has been a little @*!#, to put it mildly. Sorry, mum. There has been barking. There has been more barking. There has been - yes! - even more barking.  Sometimes the barking has come at 6am, sometimes it has come at 5am. Sometimes the barking has come at 2am, and again at 4am. Then there's the barking that goes on ALL DAY, every time the wind blows, or someone drops a feather in the next street.

We have tried everything to work out what the night-time barking is about. He has water. He has toys. He does not appear to need to relieve himself. His routine has not changed. Our routine has not changed. We don't think anything is disturbing him, because our night-time alarm call is not his trademark "hysterical bark", but rather his, "I'm going to bark steadily and consistently until I get to sleep in the Big Basket" bark.

Terry thinks he's doing it because he's jealous of Pepe and the Tortoises. (Their new album is out on Monday, by the way). I think it's probably just the way we raised him. Maybe the wine wasn't such a good idea:

Anyway, today it suddenly occurred to me what all of the barking meant. It meant Rubin was trying to tell us something. Either someone was stuck down a well, or... he was trying to tell us that he wanted to look like a REAL Bichon. I couldn't be bothered going to look down all the nearby wells (or to find out if there even ARE any nearby wells - we'll leave that one to Lassie, I think), so I decided to assume Rubin was sending us the second message.

And so I made Terry brush him, and trim his hair into a proper "Bichon" shape. (Look, I had twenty gazillon blog posts to write today, OK? Also, if Rubin is going to start hating one of us, I'd rather it was Terry). I should add here that we DO brush him regularly anyway, but this was different: rather than the usual, "brush out all of the tangles and make him look vaguely presentable" brush, this was a mammoth, "make Rubin look like a proper Bichon, even although tomorrow he will be back to usual bedraggled self" brush. It took hours. But lookit the result!

These pictures actually don't really capture the amazing fluffball that is the R-Man right now. Seriously, that is one BIG head he has right there. But I thought I'd post them here anyway, so that tonight, when he wakes me up at 4am with his barking, I will perhaps be able to remember this moment, when he was fluffy and cute and totally silent.

Oh, and as well as spending a long, long time be-fluffing Rubin, Terry also found time to make me this as a snack:

I think I'll keep him. And oh, what the hell, Rubin too.

Amber & Terry's Menagerie Now Open for Business

Ever wondered how long it might take to get three tortoises to stand in a straight line? I HAVE:

Oh, and "a long time" is the answer, just FYI. That whole "tortoises move slow" thing is just a rumour they put about to try and trick you. Trust me, as soon as their little feet hit the deck, those bad boys are off and running...

Anyway, the reason they're here, guest starring on the ole blawg today is because we have reached that part of the year when the in-laws take their annual five week trip to Greece and Terry and I take custody of Pepe & the Tortoises, which sounds like a 60s skiffle band, and actually, is almost as noisy as one, too.

Here is the lead vocalist of the group (the tortoises are on percussion, banging their food dishes against the glass of their tank. Yes, like prisoners.), Pepe le Parrot:

Don't be fooled by the little smile he appears to be giving in this picture, folks: Pepe hates me with a vengeance (he hates everyone except Keith and Terry), and was probably thinking about how he's going to bite my finger first chance he gets. And to think mine is the hand that feeds him, too!

And, because he gets crazy jealous every time we so much as look as the other animals, here is Rubin, just before trying to eat what appeared to be a large pool of vomit which we encountered on our walk tonight:

Terry and I will now be subjected to a couple of days of Rubin acting out almost constantly, in a bid to divert our attention away from Pepe & the Tortoises, and to prove that he's still the most bad-ass pet in da house. (A mission he is doomed to fail in, by the way: Pepe is the most bad-ass pet, for sure.) Seriously, for the first couple of hours of their stay, he will generally follow me around, sometimes placing his paw on my knee appealingly and looking at me as if to say, "I'm still the number one pet, aren't I? Say I am the number one pet." Then he'll clamber up onto my knee (he can jump up perfectly well, but for some reason he's always preferred to climb, like a small child), and will sit there looking at Pepe smugly, thinking, "Hee! Lookit me sitting on Amber's knee! Not so smart now, huh?" Then Pepe will say "Hello, pretty boy!" and that'll freak Rubin out all over again.

You know what they say, people, never work with children or animals...

The Mysterious Incident of the Dog Turd in the Night time

Skribit question: How much would you sell Rubinman for?

Did I ever tell you about the time I found a turd on the kitchen worktop? The kitchen worktop WHERE WE PREPARE OUR FOOD? THAT WE EAT? No? Well, picture this, people...

It's early one morning. You've just dragged your unwilling self from bed, in response to the constant barking that's been coming from the kitchen for ten minutes now. You stagger downstairs, rubbing your eyes and asking yourself once again, "Why did we buy a puppy?" Did I mention it's EARLY?

You reach the kitchen and open the door to reveal its occupant: a puppy Rubinman, who for some reason doesn't seem quite as ecstatic to see you as he normally does. In fact, he almost looks guilty. Brushing this thought aside, you trudge your weary way to the back door, to let the Rubinman out for his morning ablutions, and as you turn the key in the lock, you happen to glance idly at the kitchen counter to your right, and on that kitchen counter (THAT YOU PREPARE YOUR FOOD ON! YOUR FOOD THAT YOU EAT!) you see a TURD. Once more for dramatic effect, ladies and gentlemen: A TURD.

You instantly stop what you're doing, scarcely able to believe your eyes. Surely not... it can't be... it just can't be. But it is. Someone has crapped on your worktop - and you suspect that someone may still be in the room, looking guilty. You look at the Rubinman. He looks at you. You both look at the turd. You look back at the Rubinman, who seems to say, "Turd? What turd? I don't know nothin' bout no turd, dude. And anyway, lookit the size of me. Am a PUPPY! How would little puppy me even get up there? Better ask Terry, is all I'm sayin'..."

You consider this matter further as you let the dog out and remove the offending... turd. Then you scrub down the kitchen with bleach, about fifty times in a row. Then you have a shower - again with the bleach. Then you have another shower. As you stand there, scrubbing the palms of your hands with a nailbrush and wondering if you and your home will ever feel clean again, you ponder the matter. For the Rubinman has a point, you see. There appears to be no way that he, being a puppy, could have made it up to the worktop and back down again. Seriously, how could the Rubinman have done it?

So you finish your shower and you go to the bedroom, where Terry is still sleeping soundly, mercifully unaware of the scenes of horror that have just taken place in the kitchen.

"Terry, did you by any chance  crap on the kitchen worktop last night?" you ask, trying to make the question sound as casual as possible. Terry says... Actually, maybe let's just draw a veil over what Terry had to say in response to that question.

So. It wasn't Terry. It wasn't me. Rubin says it wasn't him, but the thing is, I just don't believe him. He was found at the scene of the crime. He was in the habit of crapping in the kitchen at the time. And to be perfectly honest, it wouldn't have been the first time we'd found a dog turd in a place it really shouldn't have been. He had previous convictions, basically. I mean, it just didn't look good for him, did it?

As for how it got there, well, you know the phrase, "Don't play with your food"? When Rubin was a puppy, you could easily have exchanged the words "your food" in that sentence with .... Yeah, so this totally wasn't the kind of answer you were expecting to your innocent "How much would you sell Rubinman for?" question, was it? In fact, you'll probably be scarred for life now. I know I am.

Why am I telling you all of this? Well, in the years that have passed since The Mysterious Incident of the Dog Turd in the Nighttime, that turd has continued to haunt me. Images of it have popped, unbidden, into my head from time to time - most often when I try to prepare food on the kitchen worktops, to be honest. Thank God we replaced those bad boys is all I can say! So when I received the Skribit question, "How much would you sell Rubinman for?" and I started to write a long, gushy entry about how Rubin is my prechus fur-baby, and no amount of money would ever persuade me to part with him, I suddenly remembered The Turd.

That's why my answer to the question is: when can you pick him up? We'll even throw in the yoda costume for free...

No, I'm kidding. Rubinman is not for sale. And after reading this, would you really want to buy him?

(P.S: Rubin's account of The Mysterious Incident of the Dog Turd in the Nighttime can be found here.)

Rubinman: All by Himself

Apologies for the double-whammy of Rubin-related posts this week, but when he showed me this video he* made, I laughed so hard I actually cried. Also, I'm too lazy to write a real post today, so suck it up, people, suck it up. And look out for a guest appearance from my main man, Ted:

* OK, it was actually Terry who made the video. Don't tell Rubin I told you.

When your dog gets better press than you do

Imagine, if you will, readers that you have a blog. In fact, chances are you already do have a blog, so imagine you have a whole bunch of blogs: a veritable blog network, in fact! And imagine that every day you get up and you work long and hard on your blogs, slaving diligently over a hot keyboard for hours on end, and working long into the night to bring your loyal readers news from the world of fashion, beauty and random acts of stupidity.

You do all of this, not because you are a complete glutton for punishment (although that too), but because you keep on telling yourself that one day, one of these blogs will Get Noticed by ...er, someone important. Someone who will, say, feature them in a magazine or just give you wads of cash, for reasons that aren't yet 100% clear to you. "And then I shall be rich beyond my wildest dreams!" you tell yourself, laughing a manic laugh as you pour another mug of coffee and get back to burning that midnight oil.

So, say you do all of this, and then one day you open up your email and you find a message from a journalist telling you that your dog - that creature who still pees on the washing machine every time you go to the gym, and who once ate three of your shoes in one sitting - has just beaten you to the punch, and been featured in a magazine. BEFORE YOU.

Yeah, that would suck.

Actually, it was pretty damn cool, too. Rubin, you see, has appeared in this month's edition of Dog's Today magazine, in an article about blogging. See, there's a picture of his blog and everything:

Writer Julie Hill says:

"Rubinman is a Bichon Frise who writes his own blog, and Rubin is another dog with character. I live with a Bichon, and from the photographs I recognise many of the traits of the breed, such as relaxing with tummy exposed and paws flopping. Rubin apparently has a distinctive odour, unfortunate toilet habits, and a taste for pulling the 'brains' out of tennis balls. His blog is offbeat and amusing."

So, I read all of that, and all I saw was, "Blah, blah, blah, blah...offbeat and amusing." And it made me smile because as much as I'd hate to try and take credit for Rubin's work, I did teach him everything he knows. About blogging, I mean. Not about peeing on the washing machine and having a distinctive odour. And then it hit me. "It's the dog who will make us rich!" I thought. "At last that bag of fur will start paying his way, and fame and fortune will be mine! I mean his." This thought has cheered me up greatly. And really, it almost made up for the person who called me a "pretentious asshole" in a StumbleUpon review last week...

Rubin, meanwhile, has let the "fame" go to his head, rather, I'm afraid. He’s asking for his own agent now and refusing to work unless he gets at least the minimum wage and five weeks' paid holiday. And he tried to chase an Alsatian last week. You can’t get the staff these days, you really can't.

Going Postal

So, Rubin terrorised the postman yesterday. I mean, I say "terrorised" - Rubin is a small white ball of fluff - but, you know, I dare say some people are terrified by small white balls of fluff, and Rubin certainly seems to think they are or I guess he wouldn't go around pretending to be a wolf all the time.  As a mark of what BAAAD dog owners Terry and I are, we couldn't even call him off because we were laughing too much. I KNOW! Ladies and gentlemen of the postal service, you have my sincerest apologies. But it would probably be better for you if you just bring me that eBay parcel I've been waiting for sooner rather than later, know what I mean?

We were out on one of our regular walks at the time. Rubin was off the leash: yes, because we believed him to be a totally non-threatening fluffball who wouldn't harm a soul, and who, I should add, has NEVER approached anyone on any of his walks before. (Although given that he had already terrorised a toddler that week, and was still in the doghouse over it - ha! Do you see what I did there? - maybe complacency shouldn't have been our friend, hmmm?) And the thing is, we KNOW Rubin has identified Postpeople as The Enemy. He marked them out as such a long, long time ago, as soon as he was old enough to realise that Postpeople infiltrate our property every single day in life and poke bits of paper through the letterbox. And to be honest, I probably wouldn't put up with that kind of behaviour from them either if I were him.

Anyway, as I was saying, yesterday we were out on our walk and as soon as the familiar red-and-fluorescent jacket wove into view, it was a case of "enemy sighted, enemy met". Rubin took off like a bullet out of a gun, running quite some distance to reach the poor postman. Then he... well, then he kind of ROUNDED HIM UP, barking like a madman all the time.

Luckily, the postman took all of this in good part and completely ignored Rubin, so by the time Terry and I had stopped laughing for long enough to call him back to us, the situation was in hand. It would seem that the Rubinman will have to be kept on his leash from now on, if there is the slightest chance of post-people being in the vicinity, though, because clearly he's just been lulling us into a false sense of security with his relatively good "walking" behaviour up until now, and has all the time been waiting for the right opportunity to make his move. I mean, I swear to God that he has NEVER tried to round someone up in his life before. But yesterday he did. And I don't think he even regrets it.

A Guest Post from Rubin

Yo, dudes, s'up? Rubinman in da house. Yes, THE Rubinman! We'll sort out the autographs and stuff later, but for now, listen up...

So, it's like, Amber is "busy" today, so it was left up to me, Rubin, to come and tell yoos that Amber's blawgs, The Fashion Police and Hey, Dollface, are, like, nominated for some kind of "awards". No, I don't understand why either, 'cos it's not like they even have any pictures of me on them or anything, you know? And also, while we're on the subject, why doesn't the Rubinman's blawg get "awards"? That, like, makes no sense, AT ALL.

Anyways. Yoos should all totally go and vote for those blawgs (they're, under "fashion" and "beauty", cos, it's like, that's what they're about?), and I'll tell yoos for why: yoos should vote for them because if you don't, Amber'll be all whiny and like, "Boo hoo, nobody loves me!" and the Rubinman'll be the one that'll have to pick up the pieces. As usual. Also, if yoos don't vote for them, I'll personally come over there and bite yoos on the bum, and don't think I wont do it.

So, yeah, that's alls I got to say right now. It's kind of a shame because I'm guessing that as soon as yoos saw my picture on the page yoos were all, "Thank Dog, it's an entry from the Rubinman! Now we don't have to read this crap about The Famous Five and Amber's stupid hair no more, and we can get to read us some REAL blawgs, that are written by a WOLF and everything!" And then it just turned out that alls I was here for was to tell yoos to vote for them stupid blawgs. I feel sorry for yoos, I really do.  I'll still totally bite yoos on the bums, though, remember that.

Smell yas,
Rubin

Sick as a Dog

It hasn't been the best of weekends.

Friday morning kicked off with a comment on one of my blogs from someone informing me that I "deserve to be shot" because I'd said I liked a certain handbag. So that was nice. After that, it all went downhill.

We reckon Rubin ate something funny. Actually, to be completely honest, we think the "something funny" might have been the thing otherwise known as "Rubin's dinner", because not an hour after he'd finished eating it, he abruptly brought it all right back up again, all over his bed.

Now, I am a squeamish person. I don't really "do" vomit, not even when it's ... well, let's just say it was in pretty much the same state it had been in when Rubin last seen it. This was very thrilling for Rubin. "Lookit!" he seemed to be saying. "My dinner is BACK! Result!" So pleased was he with this trick, in fact, that he decided to repeat it ten minutes later, this time vomiting all over the cushion I'd given him to lie on while his bed made its final journey out the front door and into the rubbish bin.

(In fairness, I had been planning to buy him a new bed anyway, so it wasn't just laziness/squeamishness that made me take one look at the upchuck and say, "Nah, let's not even TRY to clean that up.")

Terry was given the unhappy task of cleaning up the mess, while I attempted to comfort Rubin, who was now slightly less impressed with his own ability to regurgitate his dinner, and was feeling very sorry for himself indeed.

We were now one dog bed and one cushion down, so, because I am a FREAKING IDIOT, I did what only stupid people would do, and took Rubin into our bedroom, to lie on the snowy white duvet that...hey!... had only just been changed. I think you can probably guess where I'm going with this, can't you?

Yes, Rubin performed the third and final installment of his "amazing re-appearing dinner" trick all over the white duvet. We were now one dog bed, one cushion and one duvet cover down. So I washed the duvet cover, gave Rubin Terry's beanbag to sleep on for the night (no, he didn't throw up on that, although it would have made a better story if he HAD), and the next day, en route to my parents' house for dinner, we stopped at Pets At Home and bought Rubin (now restored to full health - or so we thought, anyway) a new bed.

Specifically, we bought him a red "pleather" bed with ... wait for it... a WHITE FAKE FUR CUSHION ON IT.

I mean, it seemed a good idea at the time, but all I can say to you now is NEVER DO THAT. Never buy your dog, who has a reputation for peeing on things, crapping on things and now vomiting on things a freaking WHITE FUR CUSHION to sleep on. No good can come of that kind of crazy-ass behaviour, and, indeed, when I awoke at 5am on Sunday morning to the sound of Rubin barking in his "I've done something and I don't think you're going to like it" way, I knew even before I opened the door to his room (Well, it's really the "office", but he thinks it's his) what I would find.

DIARRHEA  - that's what I found. All. Over. The. White. Cushion.

"That was really stupid of us, giving him that," said Terry, as I crawled back into bed some time later, being careful to wake him up so I could share the sorry tale of what had just gone down. "Like, really, REALLY stupid."

And you know what? It totally was.

Final tally:

Soft furnishings "soiled" this weekend: four.
Number of times Rubin has been bathed: two

I think that pretty much sums it up. Thank God it's Monday...

 

New kids on the blog

What with all the drama of being ruthlessly plaigiarised and then getting in trouble with the law, I totally forgot to tell you about the latest additions to the McNaught-Miaoulis Menagerie. It is like a ZOO in here, people. Like a zoo, I tells ya. See, the in-laws have gone off to Greece for five weeks (no, not jealous at all...), giving Terry and I temporary custody of their pets, almost as if we were responsible adults. Without  further ado then, people, please welcome...

George the Tortoise!

Special talent: pretending to be dead
Likes: eating his greens
Hates: it's hard to tell what George hates, really. He doesn't say much.

Pepe the Parrot!

Special talent: Screaming like the end of the world is nigh
Likes: Terry
Hates: Everyone else

Not forgetting, of course...

Rubin the Wolf!

Special talent: peeing on the washing machine
Likes: being the centre of attention at all times
Hates: Pepe and George. As soon as he saw them he was all, "I'm blogging this". So he did.

Marching On (Ho Ho!)

So, that thing I said about having finished all of my Projects of Doom for the month? Scratch that. Actually, my life just seems to be one huge, endless P.O.D at the moment: no sooner is one finished than another one comes along to take it's place. Damn.

The most recent project isn't really a P.O.D., to be fair. It's a 1200 word feature, and the deadline isn't until next Monday, but between now and then I also have to think obsessively about the wedding, examine my face for evidence of incoming spots, think some more about the wedding and... well, you can see how the time fairly slips away, can't you? Of course it doesn't help that everyone I meet says, "Ooh, not long now! I hope you don't get one of your Second Head spots just before The Big Day, because that would suck!" (Well, they don't say that exactly, but THAT'S WHAT I HEAR. Oh yes.)

Anyway, I'd love to write more on this fascinating subject but ... I can't be bothered. Here, have a Rubinman update instead...

Two things:

Thing One:
Terry's wedding ring arrived today. As with my own wedding ring I decided to take a very blurry picture of it for you. Here it is:

 

Them's two little diamonds you can (just about see), the rest is white gold, same as mine. It's really lovely, and just a shame that I can't seem to get a decent picture of it.

Thing Two:
We did something pretty unforgiveable to Rubin today:

Better picture and Rubin's comments are at his blog...

New Rubinman Blog

Because I have no life, I have spent this evening moving Rubin's blog from Blogger to Typepad, so that I can have all of the blogs I write for in a neat little list on my control panel. It's hard being this anal sometimes, it really is.

Anyway, the template is probably doomed to change about a dozen times before I find one I'm happy with, but you all should go and have a look anyway, say hello to the Rubinman. He likes that.

It shouldn't happen to a freelance writer

The phone always rings when I'm in the shower. It doesn't matter what time I choose to shower – that's when the phone will ring.

It happened again this morning. I had just finished rinsing the shampoo from my hair when the phone shattered the silence. Stumbling from the shower, I quickly swaddled myself in as many towels as I could muster, and rushed to the office – previously known as "the spare bedroom".

"Hot Igloo, Amber speaking!" I said brightly, praying to whatever God was listening that there was nothing of the "I'm dressed in only a towel!" about my voice. I would have got away with it, too, if it hadn't been for Rubin.

Rubin is noisy. Very, very noisy. And like the phone itself, Rubin has an unerring instinct for the worst possible time to call.

He sauntered into the room just as I reached the end of my sales pitch to the client on the end of the line. I watched in horror as he made a beeline for his favourite toy. Rubin's favourite toy is a plastic squeaky object shaped like Mickey Mouse. Or, to be specific, shaped like Mickey Mouse's pants. He has one shaped like Mickey's hand as well, so quite the collection of Mickey body parts goin' on there, yesiree.

As I started to explain the intricacies of hiring a copywiter to my prospective client, Rubin seized Mickey's Pants with glee, throwing them joyfully into the air, from where they fell with an almighty THUD. In the home office, with its hardwood floor and its echoes, the noise was implausibly loud. Every time the pants hit the deck, Rubin hit the pants. "SQUEAK!" said the pants. "GRRR!" said Rubin, his growl totally belying the fact that he is, in fact, a fluffy white dog, and not the fierce wolf he so fondly likes to think he is, I edged my way slowly across the floor. Mission: separate Rubin and The Pants. The mission was successful. I lunged, the Pants fell, Rubin stopped growling – and the towel preserving my modesty dropped dramatically to the floor.

For a moment I stood there, dog in one hand, Mickey Pants in the other, phone under my chin, towel-turban (now my only adornment) on head. "Hello?" said the client. "Are you still there?"

I stumbled back to my desk, somehow regaining both my composure and my towel. "Give me that website address again," I asked the client, smiling through painfully gritted teeth. I had just finished typing it into Google when the screen turned blank. Glancing down, I saw Rubin staring up at me, smiling, with one paw pressed firmly on the "power" button on the PC…

  Somehow I got through the rest of the call. I don't THINK the client realised that I was naked, or that a small white dog and his squeaky Mickey Pants were calling the shots. She made an appointment to meet with me, anyway. Needless to say, I suggested we meet up at HER office, rather than mine. I'll aim to be better dressed this time, too.

And I learned a lesson. Well, three, really:
1. Whatever you do, and however you do it, if you work from home, keep regular office hours. That means that if it's 9am on Friday morning, you're at your desk – not in the shower.
2. Pets and business don't mix.
3. Clothes are good. Really.

They say it's your birthday

As well as being the six month anniversary of the transplant, my dad's birthday, father's day, and MOT day, last week was also the week of Terry's 28th birthday. Here he is, opening his birthday gifts* at his mum's house while I gaze at him adoringly (Note: the thing he's holding? Chocolate. Totally explains the expression on my face**, anyway):

Check out the demon eyes! Woo hoo!

As part of the general birthday celebrations, we also had a "surprise" visit from John, who wanted to be reunited with both his brother and his other kidney for a few days. When I say "surprise" here, I mean "We totally knew he was coming because Terry's mum told us, and Terry picked him up at the airport and everything", but it was good to see him, anyway.

Not so good for John, though, unfortunately. He got food poisoning of some kind on his first night back home (we think), and spent most of the rest of his stay shivering uncontrollably by the fire, whilst feeling sick to his stomach. Which was, you know, not so good. 

Anyway, I mention this because for most of today, Rubin has been acting exactly like John did, with the shivering and the laying around, and the generally looking as sick as a dog. (Clearly Rubin actually is a dog, of course, but you know what I mean). The shivering only lasted for a few minutes when he was forced to go outside, and he's eating OK and begging for food as normal, but I'm still freaking out here because OMG MY BABY! I am so letting him sleep in our room tonight. I predict a riot when Terry finds out about that, but y'know, MY BABY.

We booked him into the kennels yesterday, for the weekend of the wedding. I'm sure this is his way of getting his own back...

*Yes, we will be buying Terry new jeans with his birthday money.
** Damn, my face is shiny. GOD.

Baby it's hot outside...

Well, heeeello June! And I have to say, I'm pleasantly surprised. You're hot! And sunny! You're hot and sunny all at the same time, and now that I've said that I just know you're going to pour down for the rest of the month, but today? Hot like whoa. Love you, June!

One of the things I love most about working from home is the fact that on days like today I can just switch on the answerphone and head to the hills. This is what I decided to do this morning: just me, Rubin, and about forty schoolchildren all out enjoying the beauty of nature at Dechmont Law. The problem with this, though? Well, I pretty much underestimated the weather. And also: Rubin. Specifically the fact that Rubin:

a) is very small
b) travelled at last ten miles further than me on account of that whole "crazy" thing he's got going on
c) was wearing a fur coat at the time

It all went swimmingly right up until the point where we headed for home. Rubin was happily hysterical, I was basking in the rosy glow of it being Friday and sunny, and everything was just peachy. Then we exited the park and Rubin just lay down on his belly, looked up at me and was all, "You expect me to walk home now, what, are you crazy?"

It had to be done, people. I picked him up and carried him. Now, I only managed to carry him for two minutes at most until he spotted a lampost and wanted down to pee on it, but those two minutes? Humiliating. Humiliating for the most part because Rubin:

d) is a Bichon Frise.

Bichon Frise = a little, white, fluffy dog. And while it has to be said that Rubin's not so much with the "fluffy" (or, indeed, with the "white" most days. You try keeping a dog clean when it lists its main hobbies as "digging" and "peeing".) it also has to be said that I looked like some kind of Paris Hilton wannabe, trotting along with my little white purse dog and my pink mobile phone holder. I could practically hear the people in the cars passing by, hating me.

Anyway. We're home now, and if that was summer, well, I guess we've had it. Good while it lasted, though...

Technorati tag: Bichon Frise