The follow-up to the post with no name.

In case you're one of the 6, 999, 999, 975 humans who missed that post, here it is.

I've been thinking very hard the last few days about how to write this report. I want to present My Cushion and My Typist in a fair and unbiased way, so that no one will ever guess that my favourite human in all the world is My Cushion.

I've decided to just tell you what my humans do and let YOU vote on whether I'm right in thinking that My Cushion is really the most useful!

Here goes!

The Hardworking Provider vs The  Home Cook.

 My Cushion works hard 5 days a week to feed me. He brings home the bacon [or to be precise, the chicken breast fillets and wings, lamb neck bones and beef steaks] once a week. I eat quite a lot. He goes all the way to the city to get me my meat because fresh is best. [Otherwise we'd be going to Woollies up the road].

 "Only the best for my Georgia," he always says. 

My Typist is my cook.

She can be quite slow and it's always the same recipe.

My Typist is also my nutritionist. She keeps a close eye on my weight and makes sure my meals are lowfat, nutritious and well balanced.  It's a real shame she can't be as disciplined with her own diet.

I went from this voluptuous figure...

 

...to this skeletal frame, thanks to My Typist.

Some days, I feel like Vicky Beckham.

The Obsessive Bather vs The Gentle Butt Squeezer.

I usually get bathed by My Typist. This is by default because she doesn't have to go to work like My Cushion and is also more finicky about cleanliness. 

This week, I got 3 medicated baths because my skin has started to get itchy and lumpy again. Allergies are the bane of my life.

There are no words to describe how much I hate that blue leash.

My Cushion is the only one who dares to squeeze my butt. 

 

Dr Dog taught him how to do this dirty important job. He does it without with hardly any complaint despite great personal risk [of being squirted on, which is what happened earlier this week].

Perhaps he needs to improve his technique.

The 7-Days A Week Walker vs The Occasional Carer.

My Cushion takes me out every morning. We leave at around 6 [depending on how long he sits on the potty]. He also takes me out most evenings [even after a day of hard yakka].

Sometimes, we walk to the fishmarket over the bridge. It's a very long walk.

We've never taken pictures there but we will one day, to show you.

Every Saturday, My Cushion takes me out for a phở lunch at our favourite Vietnamese cafe. It's like a father and daughter moment except that he's not my father and I'm not his daughter [being a dog]. He gets the noodles and soup, and I get the meat.

We also go to the pub off and on. 

This is where we usually go for a pint of Guinness. It was Mr T's favourite pub.

Once, a human got thrown out for complaining about the dogs in there! It's da best pub eva!

Despite the welcome sign, dogs are not welcome at this pub below.

This may be considered deceptive advertising.

When does My Typist take me out? That is a good question and one that My Cushion likes to ask too.

My Typist is my carer. Whenever I feel crook, she's the one I look for because someone has to clean up the mess. 

She's very conscientious about washing/mopping/hosing down/disinfecting the bedding/rugs/floors/yard when I have a bad tummy so that everything stays hygienically clean. She's especially useful when I get sick at night and will sleep on the couch by me all night if she has to, to make sure I'm okay. [And why not? It's not like she has to go to work in the morning.]

To be fair, My Typist does have flashes of brilliance like when she made me this E-collar out of some old plastic scrap. You can read about that traumatic experience here if you like.

The Cushion vs The Typist.

My Cushion is very good at being a cushion. 

He doesn't fidget like Someone Else [whose name I shall not mention since I don't want to appear biased]. He will not move at all when I'm sleeping on him. Not to pick up the phone. Not when the doorbell rings. Not even when Someone Else yells for him to come rescue her from a cockroach or spider in the shower. He is 100% committed to the job which is very nice.

My Cushion never complains that I'm too heavy [I'm only 43+ kilos]. He doesn't whinge that I'm hurting his knees or that he can't breathe. Compare that to My Typist who often tells me, "You're not a chihuahua, you know, Georgia Little Pea!" - a remark I find quite offensive.

My Typist also fancies herself as my cushion. Sadly for her, I don't.

My Typist is my typist. She types with 6 fingers even though she has 10, ofte makes typo erros but is otherwise, quite dependabl;e.

***

That concludes my report on my humans and their many job responsibilities! I think you'll agree that it was written in a very non-judgemental way. It's important to me that I have not in any way compromised your opinions or turned you against The Typist.

That means it's time to vote! Who do YOU think has the more important job in our little home? It's okay to be honest and say it's My Cushion.

*

psst. Want to see something scary? CLICK HERE.


Update! 11.40am My Cushion picked up TWO typo errors so I had to re-publigh this post! My Typist can;t even do that right.