ERROL’S DISPATCHES
From the Newsdesk of Goodboy Bindle Featherstone of Quirm — Head of Marketing, Roving Reporter & Stroller Enthusiast
The upshot of the visit to the vets, gentle readers, is that I need to take it easy.
Let those words sink in. Take it easy. Me. The dog whose entire existence is a masterclass in taking it easy. The dog who wrote the book on taking it easy — and then took a nap on the manuscript. I think what the vet meant is that I need to take it easier than usual. And that, readers, is pretty easy indeed.
The medicine helps. It is not as mind-bending as the stuff I got from Katie last week — no trips down memory lane to Haight Ashbury, no Phil Lesh basslines thumping in my skull, no waking up with the taste of Scooby-Doo’s foot in my mouth. This is gentler stuff. Workaday medicine. Functional. And it works. The old war wound is much less of a feature in my day-to-day life. The clicky hip still clicks, but the ache has retreated. The kneecap is staying where kneecaps ought to stay. I am, if not fighting fit, at least comfortably operational.
But the real news — the headline, the scoop, the front-page splash — is this:
I got me a stroller.
The Stroller: A Review
No longer do I have to walk on the ground like a normal dog. Oh no. Not for me. Leave that to the proles, the common hounds, the pavement-pounders. I ride in style. I am conveyed. I am chauffeured, albeit by the -ing eejit or the Goddess, depending on who draws the short straw.
Apparently it is red. Just like the Peugeot. I am told this by reliable sources. The -ing eejit says it is red. Mummy says it is red. The box it came in probably said it was red. But to my eyes — well, you know the drill by now. It is a sort of greenish-reddish-grey, a colour that refuses to commit. I take others’ words for it. If they say it is red, it is red. I am not here to argue with the colour wheel.
It is, I must say, rather nice.
No longer am I perched atop a stack of Really Useful Boxes. The Executive Perch was a fine innovation in its time — I will not diminish its contribution to my career — but the stroller is something else entirely. I have my own little room. My own compartment. Complete with Quilt No.1 (the premium quilt, the quilt of honour, the quilt usually reserved for indoor deployment). It is up off the floor, which gives a commanding view of the market. I can see the passing hoards. I can monitor the marauder situation. I am visible, approachable, but also slightly removed — like a celebrity in a VIP area, which is exactly what I am.
There is one downside. A small one. My favourite hobby — laying in wait at ground level and deploying surprise borks at passing goggies — is much harder to indulge from an elevated stroller. The element of surprise is lost. The marauders see me coming. They have time to prepare. It changes the tactical calculus.
But I shall adapt. A good journalist always adapts. And it is very nice to glide around looking down on the world. I feel like a tiny emperor. A tiny, furry emperor with a press pass and a quilt collection. If this is taking it easy, I should have taken it easy years ago.
The Journey & The Setup
Thursday. Greenacres. The old beat. The familiar turf.
We all piled into the charrabang — the new jalopy, the Peugeot, the Phantom Chariot made real — and headed up the coast. The morning was a bit cool. A nip in the air. Autumn is sniffing around the edges of summer, seeing if anyone will notice. I noticed. I notice everything.
I still do not like this new car.
It smells… wrong. The Beamer smelled of history, of a thousand journeys, of the accumulated essence of our family. The Peugeot smells of plastic and nothing. I have attempted to season it with my presence — a few well-placed rolls, a strategic shake near the air vents — but it resists. It is a sterile environment. A blank page. I am a dog who values character, and this car has none.
But Mummy’s lap is still Mummy’s lap, and that is the constant. I curled into her and watched the Welsh coast slide past the big windows. The view, I concede, is excellent. The stroller was folded in the boot, waiting for its debut. I felt a quiet excitement. A new chapter was beginning.
Setup was uneventful. A shame, really. I do so enjoy watching the -ing eejit struggle with the gazebo in the wind — the flapping canvas, the tangled guy ropes, the muttered words that Mummy pretends not to hear. It is my pre-market entertainment. But this week the weather was perfect. A gentle breeze, nothing more. The gazebo went up without complaint. The -ing eejit looked almost disappointed. He had psyched himself up for a fight and found none. I sympathised. A journalist without a story is a sad sight.
The stock was arranged. The jewellery sparkled. The robots stood to attention. And my stroller — my beautiful red (allegedly) stroller — was parked in prime position, Quilt No.1 arranged just so, ready to receive its occupant.
I settled in. The day began.
The Crowds & The Commerce
And the people came.
So many peoples. A river of them. A flood. All wanting to buy boxes and robots and the silver sparklies. The stall was busy from the moment we opened. Mummy was wrapping necklaces and chatting and smiling that smile that makes everyone want to buy things. The -ing eejit was demonstrating robots, making them walk across the table with their little wooden legs. And I was in my stroller, the centrepiece, the attraction, the Head of Marketing doing what the Head of Marketing does best: being adorable in a strategic location.
As the day wore on, the temperature rose. But not too high. Not the scorching, pavement-melting, paw-burning heat of previous weeks. A perfect summer day. Warm enough for ice cream but cool enough for browsing. The kind of day that makes people think yes, I do need a handmade silver necklace and a wooden robot, what an excellent decision I am about to make.
I cut down my walking regime, as per the vet’s instructions. Just one medium walk and one short walk. The leg feels pretty good. The medicine is doing its work. I am not limping. I am not aching. I am, dare I say it, almost sprightly. For a dog who was told to take it easier than easy, I am doing remarkably well.
The usual lunchtime slowdown arrived. The hoomans had their dinners — sandwiches from the cool bag, flasks of tea, the ritual refuelling of the workforce. I had some lunch too. And then my medicine. The gentle stuff. The not-mind-bending stuff. But still, it makes the world a nicer place. The edges soften. The sun feels warmer. The voices of the crowd become a pleasant hum rather than a chaotic din. I am relaxed. I am comfortable. I am in my stroller, watching the world go by, and all is well.
The Sausage Dog Incident
And then George arrived.
A sausage dog. A dachshund. Long, low, and confident in the way that only sausage dogs can be. He came into the gazebo. Actually into the gazebo. Past the invisible boundary. Past the velvet rope. Into my place of business.
I was cool about it. I swear I was cool about it. The medicine helped. I watched carefully from my stroller, my expression one of measured professional concern rather than outright alarm. George did not seem threatening. He was just… there. In my gazebo. Sniffing my things. Breathing my air.
It was all cool.
Until my Mummy — my Goddess, the centre of my universe, the woman I have devoted my entire existence to — got up to make a fuss of him.
Well. That is a step too far.
I let out a bork or two. Warning shots. A statement of intent. That is my Mummy. I am her dog. You are a sausage-shaped interloper. Please adjust your expectations accordingly.
But clearly my bork game is a bit off. Perhaps it is the medicine. Perhaps it is the stroller, robbing me of my ground-level authority. Perhaps George is simply a sausage dog of unusual courage. Whatever the reason, he just looked at me. A long, unblinking look. A look that said I hear your borks, small stroller dog, and I am unmoved.
Ho hum. Never mind. A nap, I think.
Sometimes the only winning move is to withdraw with dignity. I curled into Quilt No.1, closed my eyes, and let the hum of the market become a lullaby. George eventually left. Mummy returned her attention to me. The natural order was restored. No permanent damage to the brand.
The Afternoon & The Pack-Up
The afternoon passed. Lots of heats — not the weather kind, but the kind where peepels stop to pet me and say “oh, isn’t he lovely in his little stroller?” Why yes, I am. Thank you for noticing. Lots of goggies too, most of whom had the decency to stay outside the gazebo. George was the exception, not the rule. I monitored them all from my elevated position, borking only when strictly necessary.
And lots of sales. So many sales. The stock was flying off the tables. Robots marched away to new homes. Necklaces found new necks. Boxes were chosen, admired, purchased, wrapped. The till was busy. The card machine beeped its cheerful beep. Commerce was in full flow.
This is good for the DUK ONNA STIK fund. Essential, even. A well-funded treat budget is the foundation of a happy life.
But there is a downside. With all these sales, packing up to go home took less time than usual. We had sold most of the stock. There was hardly anything left to pack. The boxes were empty. The displays were bare. This is a success in market terms, but it means Mummy will be frantically busy all week making more stock. The robots do not make themselves. The boxes require her full attention, her skilled hands, her creative focus. The jewellery demands precision and patience.
I can get close to her while she works — I am very good at being nearby — but the doings of the robots and the boxes take a lot of room. And all of her attention. She will be in the chapel, bent over her workbench, and I will be on Quilt No.3, watching, waiting, being patient. She will speak to me softly from time to time. She will reach down and give my ears a skritch. But she will be busy. The price of success is temporary neglect. I understand this. I do not like it, but I understand it.
The Journey Home
As I said, we were back in the jalopy in no time. The pack-up was swift and efficient. The stroller folded away. The gazebo came down without drama (boring, but efficient). The -ing eejit loaded the remaining stock into the boot with the quiet satisfaction of a man whose wallet is heavier than when he arrived.
We hit the road. The Peugeot hummed its soulless hum. Mummy held me close. The Welsh coast slid past the big windows. I do not like this car — I have made that abundantly clear — but the journey was smooth and the company was good and I was tired in that deep, satisfied way that only comes from a successful market day.
Home. The ranch. The AIR CON Beastie (machine, not beastie, I have made my peace with this). Loki, my bruvah, a slinky shadow of welcome. Alice, the Tiger, a distant presence I did not seek out. DUK ONNA STIK at the appointed hour. The medicine, the gentle kind, making the world soft around the edges.
And so to bed, gentle readers. A perfect Furzedae. A new stroller. A sausage dog who dared to challenge me and lived to tell the tale. A Goddess who will be busy all week but is never too busy for a skritch. An -ing eejit who, despite everything, got us there and back without incident.
Life is good. Even when taken easy.
KthxBai — Errol
Head of Marketing, Stroller Enthusiast, and Forgiving Soul (George, you owe me one)
Leave a Reply