Pinky's Book Link

Showing posts with label Dogs Cats and Pets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dogs Cats and Pets. Show all posts

Thursday, September 5, 2013

Pinky's Dirty Little Secret

                                       Pablo is a bit unsure of his new grunty pig toy.

I sleep with dogs. 


And I don’t mean Scotto… although… he does dribble all over his pillow. No, wait… that’s me.

That’s disgusting, Pinky! I hear you shouting whilst vowing not to sit beside me in the staffroom anymore.

Well I can tell you, there are plenty of reasons it IS okay to let your furry friends into your bed.

# Some celebrities sleep with their pets; Alicia Silverstone, Elizabeth Hurley and Will Ferrell for starters and if rich famous people do it then it must be okay right?

# You are never lonely. Celine, the mini fox terrier, sleeps at my feet but Pablo, the demonstrative Chihuahua, prefers to spoon the back of my head all night.

# No need for an alarm clock. Every morning, six-twenty sharp, Pablo stretches luxuriously, wakening his sister with a nudge. They both simultaneously shake their bodies vigorously causing two sets of ears to flap with a sound approaching two miniature helicopters coming in to land.

Every work morning I’m the first up and the two newly reinvigorated dogs stare at me patiently through the frosted glass while I shower. 

Later, as I sip my first coffee of the day, they tear around and around the kitchen chasing each other, nipping and barking excitedly. Occasionally, Pablo goes that one nibble too far and Celine shrieks in outrage in a Nathan Lane-esque manner disturbing the still slumbering members of the family upstairs.

Up we go again to the bedroom to take Scotto his coffee, scuttling and sliding on the polished wooden stairs with claws slipping out from under them in anticipation.

As soon as I open the bedroom door they both leap onto the bed, exuberantly launch themselves at Scotto’s head and slither their agile tongues up each of his nostrils.

                      Hurry the hell up Pinky! You look fine already!

Watching Pinky apply her make-up is extra exciting because after that they know there’s a milky puppy treat in store.


Begging is all part of the job description at Pinky's.

The worst part is when Pinky has to leave for work. Don’t worry Pablo… that’s how I feel about work too.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Beware the Tyre-Biter!

Greggles told us funny stories in the staffroom this morning about his old family dog, Patches. Patches was a cattle dog that lived on the farm with Greggles and his three brothers, sister and Mum, and apparently he was an excellent snake/rabbit/vermin hunter.

“Did he chase cars and bite tyres?” I enquired, already knowing what his answer would be.

“Sh#t yeah!” laughed Greggles. “He chased any car that drove past until he grew too old and took up sentry on the front steps like a ferocious Direwolf.” (see Game of Thrones).

                                Scotto and I endured our own acrimonious altercation with a particularly robust and tenacious cattle dog about ten years ago which led us to label the entire breed as “Tyre-Biters”.

Scotto was moving up to Townsville to reunite with the love of his life, Pinky, and the vivacious Pinky had flown down to the Gold Coast to accompany him on the 1600 km drive up.

 He’d already sent most of his furniture up in a removal van but had packed his miniscule hatchback (Lenny) to the hilt with the remainder of his worldly possessions. Each item had been meticulously placed into the boot and back seats with military precision allowing for angles, corners, tiny niches and intensive layering. I honestly don’t think you would have been able to squeeze a cat’s fart into the car with the amount of stuff he’d squished in to it.
                                 Lenny the Lanos

Precision packing in the extreme.

Just before we set off Scotto decided to call in to say farewell to his mate, Adam (owner of the Lord of all Tyre-Biters) and as we left Adam’s house the malicious mutt chased us down the driveway. 

Unbeknownst to us it managed to sink its yellowed fangs into one of our tyres.

Literally five minutes later, excited about the long, long road trip ahead, as we were driving naively down the M1 at 100 km per hour, singing merrily along to the radio, Scotto was suddenly forced to pull over as we realised something was amiss.

“F#%king flat tyre!” Scotto railed. “I’m going to have to take everything out of the f#%king boot to get to the spare!”

“You’ve got to be freakin joking!” I nervously squealed, watching the huge trucks hurtling dangerously past about three centimetres to the side of us.

He wasn’t joking. It took us about half an hour to unpack everything on to the side of the road. I was wearing a short flared skirt which flapped up around my neck every five seconds when another vehicle swished past, providing every unfortunate motorist on the Gold Coast Highway with more of an eyeful than they probably desired at that time of the morning.

Finally Scotto had replaced the tyre and we’d completed the arduous half hour task of repacking the chock-a-block boot.

Sh#t Yeah!!!!

Three minutes down the highway: 

“Oh noooo….” groaned my devastated travelling companion, “I forgot to tighten the f#%kin wheel nuts.”
“That’s okay,” I said reassuringly, “Just pull over and quickly do it, not a problem!”

“Ummmm…. The spanner is in the boot where the spare tyre was.”

And... I went on and married this man.

In remembrance of our friend, Adam Pallister who was taken far too young.


Monday, July 22, 2013

Do Dogs Go to Heaven?

                                  Padraic and Rocky

One rainy day, when Scotto and I were in the throes of new love and we were playing the ‘telling each other everything that’s ever happened to us’ game, he mentioned to me that he’d owned a beloved Australian Terrier when he was young called Rusty. Unfortunately his parents had been forced for some reason to give it away.

“But it was okay,” Scotto assured me cheerily, “he went to live on a farm.”

“That’s weird,” I gasped, “I had a cocker spaniel called Rebel which my parents gave away to a farm as well!”

It was only later that the penny dropped and I realised Rebel and Rusty were probably frolicking around the misty fields of the exact same ‘farm’ for all eternity.




Since then I’ve heard a lot of adults say the family pet they grew up with went to 'live on a farm'. 

It’s strange. I’ve never seen any farmers advertising in the paper desperately seeking out old dogs to provide a home to.

I don’t even remember my father knowing any farmers.

I found this question (sic) on Yahoo7Answers (where I do all my investigative research).

Wat does it mean if your mum says your dog went 'to the farm'?

this is a puzzling for me, i have a dog in my hut called lassy after the famous lassy, shes a great big dog an i love her every so much, i have lover her ever since my parents both died a couple fo years ago in a freak bus crash on the interstate. anyway so now shes really like my only family cause i live with my aunt who makes me call her mum (so shes the mum in the question) an we live in rural wisconsin so its really cold and nobody at my school likes me and also i don have any shoes. anyway lassy was pretty much all i had to live for but the other day i got home from bible class and she was gone and after three days i looked in the trap i set up for her but there were just dead rats and i asked my aunt/mum and she said lassy had gone to the farm. what does this mean? does it mean our neighbors farm? in consolation we have many farms in our region maybe it cud be one of them?

Best Answer - Chosen by Voters

I think she is dead. Sorry.

Personally I think that answer is a little harsh.


Someone else on the site accused ‘Timmy’, (yes that was the name provided; just like the Timmy who owned the original Lassie) of being a troll because if he was in Wisconsin without wearing shoes he would be taken away by Child Protective Services.

I do love the Internet.

The trouble with pets is their lifespan is so much shorter than ours which entails a fair amount of heartbreak on our part. Having gone through the sorrow and grief of losing many cherished animals over the years, my sympathy goes out to my old neighbours, Newman’s Mum and Dad, on the loss of their pooch, Rocky, who has unfortunately finally ‘gone to the farm’.
I’m not sure what breed Rocky was, but he put up with a lot when our seven rug rats terrorised the neighbourhood with their wicked pranks.

He was sixteen years old. A truly marathon effort. Thaddeus rang me last night to give me the bad news and I recalled with sadness the many times Rocky would climb up the gully to our house with Newman and his little brother George. 


My kids adored Rocky and since George and Lulu are both only sixteen now they can’t remember a time without a Rocky.

If you use the old rule-of-thumb that one dog year equals seven years of a human life then Rocky was 112 years old. 

A fairly decent innings I’d say.

R.I.P. Rocky.

On a more mundane note… this is what I discovered when I came home from work this afternoon.




The couch my mother gave me has been violently demolished by Pablo the Chihuahua!

Hmmm… I wonder if Chihuahuas make good farm dogs?



                         "So... I'm in trouble... again?"

I found this beautiful site arguing that animals do have souls!
Click here! 




Monday, July 15, 2013

Pinky and the V8 Supercars


Do you remember the Seinfeld episode when Jerry is in charge of waking up Jean-Paul, the marathon runner and he accidentally allows him to sleep in and miss the start of race?

Well I think a similar unfortunate incident may have occurred at the Poinker residence last weekend.

Our fair city hosted the V8 racing car event last weekend and all the top drivers were staying in town. Our next door neighbours are dedicated V8 followers and the husband is a sports photographer so unbeknownst to us at the time, they had Jason Bright the Holden driver staying with them for the weekend.




Evidently, in Bright’s first race he qualified in fourth place which sounds pretty decent to me, however; the following day he didn’t race quite so well slipping back to seventeenth and eventually finishing in sixteenth place.

“No rest for Brighty!” the headline on his site proclaimed and the post went on to say he was utterly exhausted stepping out of the car after seventy laps.

Why was he so exhausted? I hear you ask.

According to our neighbour, last weekend our German Shepherd, Borat, raucously barked his woolly head off outside Jason Bright’s guest bedroom all afternoon as he was resting up before the second day’s racing. Our neighbour commented that she screamed out to Borat several times to “Shut the f#ck up!” but he stubbornly sustained his non-stop barking with the dedication of an ambitious grid girl trying to get her photograph in the newspaper.

This is not good.

Our boof-head dog may be responsible for Bright’s bad run and I’m feeling a bit accountable.

Perhaps Borat was rooting for Jonathon Webb because he’s sponsored by VIP Petfood?

Who knows?
Maybe Borat is simply a Ford man, not a Holden man…

                            Borat telling Scotto to go faster!


Saturday, July 13, 2013

Sick as a Dog- I thought these days were over!


“Did you and Scotto have a fight last night or sumpin, Mum?” enquired my nonchalant twenty year old son, Hagar, this morning in the kitchen.

“No… why?” I replied squinting at him, bloodshot and bleary-eyed.

“Why’d he sleep on the couch then?” he continued.

“Because Pablo is sick,” I croaked, “and he kept us up all night so Scotto brought him downstairs.”

We had been startled from our slumber on Thursday night by the sound of Pablo heaving and retching. Acting out of natural instinct and a decade of managing barfing children in my bed at night, I scooped him up with military precision and allowed him to chuck his guts up on the bathroom tiles.

Since then, alarming amounts of disagreeable fluid have been squirted from both his ends and last night at three o’clock in the morning he was so restless Scotto put him in the bathroom. After a while the sound of his determined, undersized body launching itself at the bathroom door in protest became too much to bear and Scotto carried him downstairs away from the carpeted areas and attempted to get a wink of sleep before his golf game this morning.

If he’s not better by tomorrow I’ll take him to the Vet but I’m using the exact same verification factors I used with the kids when determining whether or not they needed professional attention.

Does he still have energy?

Yes he does. This is what I discovered after I left him in the bathroom (with newspaper neatly laid out on the floor in case of poo spurts) for one hour.





Is he still eating and drinking? Yes, a bit of boiled rice and water to bind his little bottom.
Is he still responsive? Yes… and judging by the attention he’s getting I think he may be secretly milking his doggy day in the sun.

                                Kisses from Dad.


                                               
                                         Cootchy-Coo from Mama


What we really don't want is for our German Shepherd, Borat, to catch Pablo's gastro bug! I can only begin to imagine that!


Pablo the Chihuahua




Thursday, July 4, 2013

Should I have my teenage sons neutered?



This letter arrived in the snail mail yesterday. It seems that Pablo the Chihuahua’s number is up.


The vet wants him for more than just a little chat, a vaccination and the odd claw clip this time.

In order to avoid undesirable behaviours such as; humping, wandering, fighting, and marking his territory he needs to be neutered (castrated, desexualised, sterilised, desexed, demasculinised, vasectomised, emasculated, altered, or fixed).

The thought has occurred to me that it is not poor unsuspecting Pablo who needs to have his yet undescended testicles lopped off. 

I’m thinking of a couple of undomesticated teenage youths currently in situ at Poinker Palace who may benefit from a bit of a snip.

Let’s see; sterilisation prevents wandering, fighting, humping, and marking out territory.

This could mean the end of anxious nights waiting to hear the front door slam itself off its hinges just so I know my wandering teenager is home safely and not spending the night in the lock-up or worse.

No more fighting, yelling and shoving matches over who drank the last swig of Coke or who gets to watch Entourage versus (WWE Main Event) World Wrestling Entertainment.

The stinky, urinally smell emanating from the downstairs toilet will be a distant memory as the boys will no longer feel the urge to spray the wall, floor and toilet seat in order to mark their domain.

I suppose I haven’t noticed any obvious displays of humping, but then again I can’t be absolutely positive about that.

While the boys are on the operating table the Vet might like to microchip them as well… and clean their ears and clip their fingernails.

The only drawback I can see from the literature provided by the Vet is that once neutered the male patients increase their daily food intake by 26% and at the same time their energy expenditure drops by 30%.

Does that mean I’ll wind up with obese teenage boys lounging around the house, eating Hungry Jacks and painting their toenails?

I’ll tell you what… I’ll leave it up to you dear readers. Should I have the boys neutered or not?

Please enjoy a couple of "Scumbag Steve" memes I created which reflect the recent goings on at Chez Poinker over the last couple of days leading to this vitriolic post!











Wednesday, July 3, 2013

A Letter to Scotto from the Dog

                           ME (Pablo) typing Dad a letter.
Dear Dad,

Mum has something to tell you and she’s scared to. Maybe this will come as a bit of a shock so prepare yourself.




I mean a really big shock!



This morning after you left for work she became a little too engrossed in her internet activities and she neglected to keep her beady eye on me. 

To be fair she assumed I was merely sunning myself on the floor beside the window. You know… right beside your side of the bed…

Please don’t get angry with her. I was very quiet and sneaky when I did it so that she would think I was sleeping… but really, I was chewing.

It’s just that sometimes I get bored waiting for Mum to take me and my sister downstairs.


I am very sorry for what I did. I know you will want to hang me on the clothesline by my transparent ears for being naughty.

 Like all dogs when they commit a crime… I truly am sorry it happened.


Maybe you shouldn’t leave things lying on the floor. Oops… I shouldn’t have said that.

I hope you don’t go too crazy when you find out what I did.



Mum doesn’t even know what it is ??… but she knows it’s broken and it’s definitely her fault, not mine. 



Please read this before you come home so you can calm down before you see me.

                                 Love, Pablo xxx



Monday, July 1, 2013

We Need to Talk About Celine

                      

Celine had just sadistically bitten her little brother and drawn blood. The violence of the act was reinforced by the fact that she’d bitten him on the tongue.

Scotto and I were appalled at her vicious aggression. This was most definitely the worst act of green-eyed jealousy she’d ever perpetrated.

“We’re going to have to do something about this behaviour…” I whispered broodingly to Scotto. “You know Grandma told me she doesn’t like Celine and Grandma loves everyone! She thinks she’s cunning… sly… sneaky.”

“No-one likes her!” exclaimed Scotto in hushed tones and a sad sense of defeat.“No-one!

His declaration hung in the air like the stale, unpleasant stench of a teenager’s fart.

It was true. I thought about our kids; Lulu, Hagar and Padraic who especially resented Celine’s surly presence beside me on the couch every night. They were frightened of her churlish lip which drew back in a snarl every time they asked her to slide over and make room for them.

Our friends nodded and smiled politely whenever we talked about Celine but I could always see the bored glaze they attempted to mask and their suppressed yawns. The truth is they couldn’t stand or trust her either, largely due to the way she slunk around shiftily whenever they came to visit.

We’d call her out of the kitchen to come and say hello but she would cower behind the door, her eyes bulging in some strange and primitive fear.

“What can we do about it?” I beseeched. “We love her to the ends of the Earth. Why doesn’t anyone else?”

“We just have to accept the fact that she’s... different,” acknowledged Scotto dejectedly.

“It doesn’t help that her little brother is so affectionate and… normal.” I added. “I’ve been away for an entire week and he was all over me like a rash when I walked in; kissing and cuddling me. 

She won’t come near me and if I try to touch her she recoils in revulsion. She’s over there in the corner staring at me with those resentful, unforgiving eyes right now. It’s almost as if she hates me for leaving her.”

We watched our inexplicable, private girl skulk over to the couch, sit on the arm rest and glower at us with protruding, blackish eyeballs.
“I hope she forgives me,” I sighed, cuddling her little brother while she jealously watched. “Maybe I shouldn’t go on holidays without her any more. This is breaking my heart.”

                              Celine- the troubled child.


    
Celine's little brother recovering from having his tongue bitten.

Monday, June 24, 2013

"Winter is coming!" and Pinky is frightened!

                  "Winter is coming!" Pablo Lannister.
                         (Game of Thrones)


It’s 9:00 am and I’m running away from home in eight hours. There is sooo much to do in that time.

That’s why I’m on my laptop looking at adorable pictures of dogs on Facebook.

I have to pack, go shopping for frozen supplies to nourish those unfortunates left behind, wash my hair, and recharge my phone, laptop and Kindle etc.

I loaded three books onto my Kindle yesterday, “Blogging for Dummies”, Bill Bryson’s “Down Under” and a book called “The Power of Habit” which examines… habits.

I’m a bit worried about a few things regarding this mini-holiday.

Firstly, I’m worried that I won’t know how to check in at the airport, (Scotto always does it for me) or find and catch the train from the airport (I usually just blindly follow Scotto around like a backward child). 

How have I come to be this useless, dependant creature that relies on her husband to read a simple timetable? What if I get mugged on the train? (Note to self: pack school whistle.)

Secondly, I’m worried that I’ll spend the entire week arguing with my parents. Dad doesn’t approve of my blog so I will have to hide in the bedroom and write my daily post like a teenage girl writing in her secretive and explicit diary. (Dad thinks hackers will sift through the titbits of information on my blog, steal my identity and scandalise my life by exposing the highly controversial material I provocatively write, as well as invade my bank accounts and steal my millions.)

Mum doesn’t approve of a lot of things, including my hair.

“Why have you grown your fringe out, Pinky? Your forehead is way too big! You need to cover it up!”


Thirdly, I'm worried about getting too cold. I'm a tropical girl. I have no winter clothes and I'm too cheap to buy any.

Finally, I’m worried about missing my baby chihuahua, Pablo. I wish I could stuff him in my suitcase.

What if he forgets about me and bonds with Scotto in my absence?

Now, I dearly hope I am able to access the Internet through Dad’s wireless system… if he has it connected that is.
If not… I’m afraid you won’t hear from me for a week. 

Fingers crossed for whichever scenario you prefer. XXX

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

The Queen Bee is Guarded by her Minions.



I was just caught lying on the couch in my cow print PJs at 2 o’clock in the afternoon by the pool guy. I’m sure he’s seen it all before… he is a pool guy after all; wink, wink.




The mucous membranes lining my nose have finally given up trying to rid my body of the insidious virus contaminating it. After releasing more fluid than runs over Niagara Falls in the wet season they have at last ceased their deluge.

This is good, because I don’t think there is any remaining skin around my nostrils. It’s all been stripped away by a zillion sandpaper like tissues leaving raw patches of tenderised sirloin instead.

I’m much better today. The violent shivering, never-ending sneezing, weird pains in my kidneys and soapy feeling in my throat seem to have dissipated.

I can’t taste a thing… but I’m craving Scotch Finger biscuits dipped in a milky tea with three sugars. Sook food.



I attempted to take a nap yesterday but every time I’d deliriously nod off, this guy …

                                Borat the German Shepherd

would begin barking like Rin Tin Tin, setting off the other three mongrels in a chorus of yap-bloody-yapping.

While I lay wafting in and out of consciousness, Celine and Pablo sat on a high perch like worker bees diligently guarding the queen bee.



The trouble was, every time a car drove past Borat would bark and Pablo, in his excitement would clumsily jump off the back of the couch straight on top of the enlarged and tender spleen housed in my abdomen.

Not the nicest way to be awoken from a feverish slumber.

I must have drifted off for at least ten minutes because at one stage I awoke to discover Pablo had unravelled an entire toilet roll. He had also shredded the eighty-seven used and damp tissues sitting on the coffee table beside where I lay in my semi-coma.

There were bits of soggy tissue from one corner of the house to the other.

I really hope the vicious little b#stard catches my cold.



Sunday, June 9, 2013

Pinky says- Mothers! Make friends with your son's girlfriend!

                                        Meggles!

Feeling a bit full of pride today, a bit chuffed you might say! Two of my boys are the reason for this self-satisfaction.

Last Wednesday evening Hagar stumbled out of his bedroom brandishing a tie and shirt in the air.

“Hey Scotto,” he called out, “does this tie go with this shirt?”

Scotto gave him the A okay sign and he had just about withdrawn back into his den of ill-repute, when I snapped out of my blog-writing abstraction and intercepted him.

“Where are you going that requires one to wear a tie?” I royally needled him.

“Awww… just an apprenticeship board dinner,” he answered evasively.

“Why are you going to that?” I persisted. “… have you won an award or something, Hagar?”

“Yeah Mum,” he mumbled discreetly, “I’ve been nominated for  a First Year Electrical Apprentice of the Year award.”

After a bit more motherly badgering a typically uncommunicative Hagar finally came clean and informed us that the formal dinner presentation was on Friday night (in two days) and he was one of four nominees out of 300 apprentices. It goes without saying that Pinky was not on the invitation list. I’m counting myself lucky I even found out about it.

The mind-boggling news is that I think I may have a new and clandestine ally in my continual struggle to glean any information from Hagar. 


His adorable girlfriend Meggles, accompanied Hagar to the dinner and without any prompting from Pinky, snapped a photograph of the elusive gentleman accepting his medal and sent it to me via her phone.


                             Hagar second from left!

Yay for girlfriends! We mothers really have to be grateful for the small things when our boys grow up.

Who’s the other boy I’m so proud of on this beautiful Queen’s birthday weekend?



This little guy…





Pablo Escobark, who went for his first walkies along the Strand today. Pablo took to strutting around on a lead very quickly and I would have expected nothing less from the smartest Chihuahua in the Universe.

Poem for Pablo (El Perro) 

(To be read in a Mexican accent)

Andale epa! We are een the car!

Where are we goeeeng? I hope eet’s not far!

Please don’t say eet’s back to the vet!

I theenk I break out een a cold sweat

The smell of that Vet's ees one theeng I hate…

Plus when he pokes sometheeng een my date.

What’s that I smell? Eet smells like the feesh

The stupid cat sometimes leaves in eets dish.

Eh sweet Holmes! I theenk it’s the beach!

My mummee is holdeeeng one lead each

For me and my seester to go for a walk!

What’s that een the sky? It looks like a hawk…

I theenk I’d better stay close to my mummee

That hawk is theenking that Pablo looks yummee.

I better stay nice and close to her feet

Or that hawk will swoop down for eet’s lunch meat.

Why ees my mommy lyeeng on the ground?

Why she say Pablo go back to the pound?

I deedn’t mean to trip my mummee up


Eet’s not my fault I ees just a chico pup.



PS: Happy birthday Queen Elizabeth II and thanks for the day off! Have a cracker party and don't do anything I wouldn't do.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Pinky doesn't have a cow!

                                  

“You should get into Trade Secret, Pinky!” Emmsie bellowed across the staffroom to me the other day. “They have cow print winter pyjamas on sale. You’d love ‘em!”

Emmsie knows me oh too well. It was all I could do not to abandon work and recklessly drive Golden Boy (my car) to Trade Secret to nab me a pair of those PJs right there and then. 


What if they all sell out? I thought in alarm. 

Restraining myself until the end of day school bell rang, I hurtled out to the car park, aggressively pushed my way through the after-school pick-up traffic and flew like the Green Hornet towards Trade Secret. I was stunned to discover at least twenty pairs in an assortment of sizes still hanging on the rack. Perhaps the word about the cow print pyjamas hadn’t spread as yet, I mused.

Ah… how things have changed. When I first married Scotto it was all about satin negligees and hot little teddies in magenta and leopard print. Now it seems I’ve slumped to the dowdy depths of massive, granny-like flannelette sleepwear. 

Poor Scotto. The saying, “Why buy a cow when you can get the milk for free” has a unique connotation for him. He went ahead and bought the cow but now he can’t find the bloody milk under all the furry fabric. 


I’ll tell you who is a bit keen on my bovine attire though… our Fox-terrier Celine. Celine has had many nicknames bestowed upon her over the last five years; Punky, Punky Brewster, Punk Sausage, Pinky Punk, Moo, Little Cow and the Cow. The last three names were bequeathed upon her in honour of her Friesian cow markings. 

In consequence of this characteristic we have purchased a beloved plethora of ‘cow toys’ for her to play with. She has gradually developed a curious attraction to anything that resembles cow print.

When she espies her Mummy sitting on the couch kitted out as 'Clarabelle', she assumes I’m just a big and brand new toy. 

Celine has also astutely cottoned on to the fact that I am an excellent and inconspicuous place of sanctuary from her rotten little nippy brother, Pablo Escobark. 




(Pablo the Chihuahua has developed some unsavoury practises of late; including following me into the toilet, snatching the toilet paper out of my hand as I’m about to use it and zipping out the door like a malevolent bat out of hell.) 

He still has his razor-sharp baby teeth and hasn’t yet learned that when a girl says no, she doesn’t want to play anymore, she means NO! Previously, in order to evade the pesky Mexican nuisance Celine has resorted to disguising herself on the bedspread like this- 



Celine in disguise.

Now she merely climbs on to my lap and stays very, very still.
For Celine's extra hilarious guest post please click here!

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Pinky's Interview with the Family Parrot

Farfel the Lorikeet
                               

Farfel, the family’s Rainbow Lorikeet lives just outside our kitchen window and is privy to many of the nefarious goings on at Chez Poinker. I thought he would make an excellent subject to interview in order to gain a more insightful portrait of our day to day lives.

Interview transcript: Warning- this is not for the faint-hearted.

Interviewer: Pinky

Interviewee: Farfel- Rainbow Lorikeet

Interview Setting: Interview conducted outside kitchen window at 3:00 pm on Thursday afternoon.

(Start of Interview)

Interviewer: So I suppose you have some fairly interesting stories to tell as the resident parrot at Chez Poinker over the last five years Farfel?


Interviewee: Oh for f#ck’s sake! Let’s get this straight first… I’m not a parrot you stupid b#tch! I’m a lorikeet which is a completely different f#ckin thing!


Interviewer: (Startled) My apologies… I thought it was the same thing.


Interviewee: Yeah… well you should have done some f#ckin research shouldn’t ya?



Interviewer: Right… (swallowing nervously), Farfel would you like to talk about your interactions with the kids in the house?


Interviewee: You mean F#ckin D#ckhead, Lame W#nker and Smelly Little B#tchface?

Interviewer: (Choking on my own saliva) Farfel! I’m sorry but could you tone down your language please? Why are you calling the kids those horrible names?


Interviewee: What do you mean? That’s what they call each other isn’t it? (yelling) Dinner!

Interviewer: Well… their names are actually Hagar, Padraic and Lulu.

Interviewee: Is that a fact? Well, who f#ckin knew…? (yelling) Dinner! 


Interviewer: Farfel, may I ask why you keep yelling out ‘Dinner!’?


Interviewee: Because at 7 o’clock every night I hear you screaming it out at the top of your lungs about twenty times in a row you dumb a#se. I can’t get it out of my f#ckin head.

Interviewer: Farfel I can’t help but comment that your language is a little vulgar. Could you explain this anomaly?

Interviewee: Listen you f#ckin sook! I learnt it from your a#sehole brats so don’t blame me. I’m in a sh#t box of a cage right outside the frickin kitchen window and it’s all I f#ckin hear all day. They swear like bloody sailors. (yelling) Dinner!

Interviewer: Okaaaaay… Let’s tackle another question. What are some memorable incidents you might like to relate to the readers? 

Interviewee: Well I suppose there was that time when ‘Nerdy B#stard’ came over for dinner…


Interviewer: You must mean Thaddeus?

Interviewee: Yeah, the one that goes to f#ckin university. Well him and ‘Lame W#nker’ got in a massive fight and ‘Nerdy Bastard’ chucked a full plate of Spaghetti Bolognese at him. That was entertaining! (He chuckles at the memory.)

Interviewer: Do you remember what happened after that?

Interviewee: Are you fr#ggin senile Pinky? You remember what happened don’t you? You came storming down the bloody stairs like a she-devil, smacked the b#stards over the head with a tea towel, screamed at them to clean it up and ran upstairs and cried on your f#ckin bed. (yelling) Dinner!

Interviewer: Hmmm… that is true. What happened after that?

Interviewee: From memory you spent the next six weeks finding bits of spaghetti all over the kitchen. I remember hearing you bitterly muttering things like, 
“What… not in the damn toaster as well?” and “Will I ever stop finding freaking spaghetti in the cutlery drawer?”


Interviewer: That’s very accurate, Farfel. You know… I’m feeling a bit stressed out by this interview and think it’s probably time we finished it off. Do you have any final words to impart?

Interviewee: Yeah. I don’t want to be a f#ckin dobber but you need to know a few things… ‘F#ckin D#ckhead’ drinks the milk straight out of the bottle, ‘Lame W#nker’ allowed his friends to stub out their cigarettes in your Nativity Scene at Christmas and ‘Smelly Little B#tchface’ chucks her broccoli down the garbage disposal every night when you’re not looking.


Interviewer: That’s very interesting. Thanks for your time and your enlightening information, Farfel.


Interviewee: You’re welcome. (yelling) Dinner!

P.S. I really love it when people comment on my posts, hint, hint! Just click below…

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Pinky and the Two Amigos


About three weeks ago Pinky (me) invited Celine the Fox Terrier to write a guest spot which proved to be a popular and widely-read post. Thank you very much Celine. If you would like to read or recap you can locate the article … here

I can unequivocally assure you that Pablo and Celine have since become BFFs and happily eat and drink from communal food bowls, sleep together, share the abundance of doggy toys and regularly play a fairly brutal game of nippy tag in a V8 lap fashion around the house. This is somewhat of a surprise to many considering the jealous and possessive nature previously displayed by Celine.

Apart from some improper and tasteless humping of his fluffy pillow on Pablo’s side of things, canine conduct has been travelling swimmingly.



Pablo the Chihuahua humping

I recall when I was about twelve years old the family pets were similarly chummy. We owned a couple of miniature poodles named Ping Ping and Zorba who were mother and son and they too were lucky enough to be ‘inside’ dogs although not on same level of freedom as Pablo and Celine. 


Both dogs were very canny, as poodles notoriously are.

We didn’t realise just how canny until one morning when I feigned illness to get out of going to school. After giving me the usual hard time my mother eventually accepted my pretence and left to drop off my siblings. 

I was lying in bed thinking about what daytime TV I’d get to watch and as I heard my mother pull out of the driveway I heard the dogs begin to bark and yelp. Frenetic scuttling down the long tiled hallway ensued, followed by loud snuffling and snorting sounds. 

Curiously intrigued I crept out of bed and tiptoed towards my parent’s bedroom carefully pushing open the door.

“Hey!” I shouted in surprise. 

The two astonished poodles froze and stared at me clearly knocked for six. They had obviously assumed the house was empty as it always was when my mother pulled out of the driveway. Without a word from me they guiltily slunk from the bed looking as shamefaced as a dog is able.

“I’ve always wondered why my bed was such a mess when I got home after school drop off.” commented my mother when I told her about their diabolical trickeries. 

Another time when Mum was taking us to school I had to run back inside to retrieve a forgotten item and found both miscreants grazing on the breakfast leftovers on the dining room table.

Now in order to prevent tiny (incontinent) Pablo free run of the carpeted area upstairs, Scotto built a little barrier at the foot of the stairwell. 

Celine is big enough to hop over if she needs to and it’s very convenient to leave him downstairs when I need to grab something quickly. 

Yesterday while I was upstairs doing just that, I heard the scampering of puppy feet. How did he manage to get over the barrier? I puzzled. 

After a vigorous re-enactment it all became clear. His partner in crime, the Bonnie to his Clyde, Celine was (like a true comrade in arms) pushing the barrier aside to he could squeeze through. Crap! 


Celine and Pablo negotiating the barrier.