Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

WELCOME HOME CYNTHIA AND CRICHTON

                                                                                                                             photo courtesy of Sausage Dog Hotel

It’s so good to be back. 

We returned home from our little trip away to find the family in fine fettle. The twins have taught Brexit to roll over and give a paw and he greeted me with great joy. 

They had entered him for the Western-Super-Mare Sausage Stroll on Sunday and against my better judgement I agreed to let him take part. The organisers were hoping for over 500 hundred dachshunds to turn up for a mass walk on the beach and possibly get into the Guinness Book of Records. 

Jerome produced a fabulous Norfolk jacket and matching deer stalker for him (Brexit)…all in lovat tweed, which he’d sourced on ebay. Fashion is everything at these events apparently. 

‘All the doggies will be in smart outfits, and Brexit mustn’t let the side down by turning up naked’ (Jerome’s words not mine). I was worried Brexit would look foolish, but he seemed happy enough running about in the coat/hat combo and only gnawed a small corner of the belt. He always seems to behave well for the twins. Besides, as Arraminta pointed out, it’s no sillier than that dreadful pirate costume. I suppose she has a point.

They went off at crack of dawn and returned triumphant, just as The Sausage Stroll made it onto the six o’clock news. 
It seems there had been quite a turn out…the record broken by several dozen. Roy Castle and the McWhirter brothers would have thoroughly approved. Crichton said that seeing so many dachshunds in one place made his flesh creep and the coverage should come with a health warning. He can be so witty sometimes.

 Several of the dachshunds were in tweed, and I thought I caught a glimpse of Brexit well out in front, galloping through the surf… but it couldn’t have been him, as this doggie was off the lead. Even Jerome in his wilder moments knows not to let that happen. 

Brexit was exhausted after his day at the seaside and fell asleep in his basket almost as soon as he’d finished his tea.

Poor Brexit…he seemed to  take a long time to bounce back from his outing. He was very  QUIET, which is always a concern, and his little feet seemed quite worn out. He didn’t even have the energy to jump up at the table for scraps and I was worried that J and A may have let him have a little too much fun. You do have to be so careful of dachshund’s back. He wasn’t cocking his leg against every tree and fence post on our walk either, so off we went to the vet, just as a precaution. 

Unbelievable!

There are times when it is difficult to stand by one’s family when they have done something silly and that visit to Denby and Hornsea was one of them. I could cheerfully kill Jerome and Arraminta.

‘I’m worried about Brexit,’ I said to Katy when she examined him. ‘He doesn’t seem himself.’ 

In fact he was a quiet as a lamb. No barking, howling or nipping at all.

‘No he’s definitely not himself,’ she replied, ‘not even close. This dog is a bitch! I’m surprised you didn’t notice.’

I would have said something along the lines of not going about checking my pet’s genitalia on a daily basis, but felt I was in no position to fight back. I should have known something was up last night when Crichton’s unattended cheese sandwich was still on the coffee table when he came back from fetching the Branston from the kitchen.

Katy scanned his/her doggy microchip.

This black and tan sausage was in fact 'Mildred', property of Elizabeth Hannam of High Wycombe. 

One could only suppose that our Brexit was at this moment, tearing up Ms Hannam’s cushions and peeing all over her carpets. Serve her right for sausage-napping him.

A phone call confirmed my suspicions. 

‘Don’t let her off the lead, for God’s sake,’ she said, with a note of desperation in her voice. As if I would.

I said it was a bit late to worry about that now and I would return Mildred and reclaim our dear Brexit the following morning. Ms H could keep both beastly tweed jackets and the hats. 

Two hours in the car with little Mildred. She was really no trouble compared with her doppelgänger, but it was obvious which house she lived in, as soon as I turned the car into the cul-de-sac. The Brambles is the only bungalow with an eight-foot chain link fence all the way round, and a notice to say that on no account should visitors open the gate. I could hear Brexit barking before I’d got the car door open. 

Ms Hannam came out to meet us with him struggling in her arms while Mildred was strained on her leash, to get inside. 

As soon as the front door was shut, Brexit was on her…Oh dear, 
‘She’s in season!’ yelled Mildred’s mummy.

Too late. 

Elizabeth is pleasant enough. She and I had a nice cup of tea, while the Sausages untied themselves. It takes a while. She said both dogs had slipped their collars during the final count for the record on Sunday, and shot off down the beach. The tide was out, and the pair was half way to Cardiff, chasing seagulls in the mud of the Bristol channel, when the Jerome and Arraminta finally wrestled them to the ground and got them back on their leads. 

Brexit appears to be none the worse for his visit, so I shall let it pass, but fancy taking the bitch out in that condition, silly woman. 

What would she have done without the twins? 

Totally irresponsible.

We left soon afterwards with Elizabeth offering to send photos of any puppies. 

Under the circumstances, I didn’t think it appropriate to ask for a stud fee. 

Crichton Comments 

Hahaha! That’s our boy. O pos for you too, Brexit!

He’s back with a vengeance. 
There's a puddle by the backdoor and the chewed remnant of one of my brogues in the hall.    Pity we couldn’t keep the other sausage.