Mr Thumper tells his side of the story.

Oh my goodness. It's me, Rufus B.

I can't believe Georgia is letting me get a word in here. She must be in a good mood because her birthday's coming up. Anyway, I'm really chuffed at the chance.

Anyone reading this blog would think I'm a decrepit old dog that does nothing but fart, pee and poop in front of bakeries, dress shops and bus stops.

Well, okay, so I do stuff like that. So what? Wait till YOU'RE 90 and see how well YOU do.

I understand I've once again been portrayed as a dim-witted, incontinent, recalcitrant old grump in the last post. Oh, what a surprise.

That is so far from the truth. Here's what really happened on Sunday.

It'd been raining all night. I'm not talking one of those pretty little autumn showers here. This was like something out of Darwin, pounding down on our tin roof, keeping us awake. By morning, the ground was soaked, slugs were oozing along the soggy pavers, and Alfred was croaking so loudly, we all wished he'd croak.

It didn't take a genius to figure it'd be the sensible thing to stay indoors and sleep in. Especially since it was Sunday.

So there I was snoozing in the kitchen, when I heard The Typist bouncing down the stairs. She yelled out something cheery like, "Goo..od  mo..oo...ooorning Rooo.fus!" Then, she unceremoniously threw my raincoat over me and started to shake my leash like it was some kind of noose. I tried to ignore her. She got upset. She tried to get me to stand up so she could pull the raincoat straps on.

Now, why would I want her to do that? I had no intention of going out in the rain. I'm old, not stupid. I tried telling her that, but would she listen? No. As usual, she just HAD to have her way.

So I gave up, and followed her out the gate. And what did we see?

"I told you it'd be wet."

"Let's go back inside. How about it?"

I gave her my best Cute Old Dog look, but she wasn't buying it.

I really don't know about The Typist sometimes. She has ants in her pants about stuff like taking me for walks. I mean, is it really going to hurt for me to pee in the kitchen once twice many times in a while day?

I still can't believe she dragged an arthritic geriatric like me out in the rain. If I catch a cold, you know who I'll be blaming.

"Look at that! How am I going to get up the kerb without drowning?"

"Pull me up! PULL ME UP! What are you, some kind of weakling? I'm only 53 kilos, for heaven's sake! PULL!"

"Oh God, not another one! That's a raging torrent!"

"Give me a moment here please.""Alright. Here goes...hold on to my leash, okay? I don't want to get swept away."

"Help! Ugh! HELP! Wet! WET! urkkk."

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"It's okay. Don't panic. I'm alive. My goodness, that was hard. I think I might be ready for some sustenance now."

"Come on, don't be stingy! Give it to me.

Give it to me!"

All that water was dreadful for an old dog with bad legs like me. And yet, that wasn't the worst of it.

All through the walk, The Typist kept rustling poop bags in my face like I was deaf and blind or something.

"Poop, Rufus, poop!" she went. "Come on, Ru, you can do it.. pooo...oop!"

? ? ? Where? In the rain? On the soggy grass? In a puddle??

It was too ridiculous. So I ignored her and did what every sensible dog would have done in my situation.

I waited till I got home.

Had a nice wipe down.

Found somewhere dry and comfortable.

"Hmmm...back to bed, I think."

And THEN, I did a nice big poop. 

"Hey! Do you guys smell something?"

Seriously, I don't know why The Typist thinks I'm stupid.

And THAT is all I have to say on the subject.

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I don't know when I'll be allowed back here again, so thanks for reading. I hope you like that I made the words really big. My eyes aren't so good anymore. It's a lot easier to read this way, isn't it? :)