Spoiled Dog
It’s a good job I’m not the jealous sort, but I rather think Wilma is a very spoiled dog. Oh I know she has been the one doing her best to take care of our Mistress. I would have done if I could. I can’t sleep next to her because of the stairs. And of course because Alfie would have a tantrum, but I’d like to. I’m not as good as taking care of someone as the girls are, but I’d try.
Anyway, what I’m building up to telling you is that Wilma has a new bed. It’s not just any old bed, it’s a special one raised off the floor so that she doesn’t get sore eyes. Our Mistress did try moving a spare chair over for her to sleep on, but two things went wrong with that plan. Firstly our Mistress stubbed her toe on it when she got up in the night and secondly Wilma slept on the floor because the chair wasn’t big enough.
What about me?
I can’t use the excuse of sore eyes and to be frank I do rather dig my bed up and rearrange it, but I’d quite like a new one too. I think once someone has put it together I might ask to try it and see if that’s the sort I’d like. It looks rather fun and even has its own special cushion. Once It’s built I’ll see if I can get a photo of it to show you.
The Loft
Yesterday we all had to stand by while our Mistress went into the loft. “Aristotle,” she said, “if I’m not back out in half an hour then send a search party.” Right, so if I can’t do the normal stairs easily, how on earth does she think I’m going to climb the loft ladder. I just sat downstairs and listened carefully for signs of impending disaster. She eventually emerged with a mouldy coffee machine, which has been consigned to the tip, and various empty but very filthy boxes that I question the wisdom of using. Seriously, I think humans hoard much too much rubbish!
Happy Saturday
Aristotle
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