ERROL’S DISPATCHES
From the Newsdesk of Goodboy Bindle Featherstone of Quirm — Head of Marketing, Chief Morale Officer & Birthday Boy
Stop the presses, gentle readers. Hold the front page. Tell the typing pool to put down their sandwiches and listen.
I am nine.
NINE. The figure itself is almost too momentous to type. Nine years on this earth. Nine years of scoops, of marauders repelled, of DUK ONNA STIK consumed with professional rigour. Nine years of the Goddess, nine (okay jus the six… but sometimes it feels like nine) years of the -ing eejit, nine years of Loki my bruvah and Alice the Tiger and all the glorious chaos that makes a life worth living.
And what a birthday it has been.
The Heat & The Indoor Strategy
Let us address the weather first, for it is impossible to ignore. Scorching. Blazing. The kind of heat that makes the pavement feel like a griddle and turns every patch of shade into prime real estate. July in this modern age — “man-made global warming? what man-made global warming??” as certain quarters would have it, while the rest of us lie panting in front of the AIR CON beastie and wonder if we might simply melt into a small furry puddle.
Mummy has decreed that I am to stay indoors during the worst of it. She does not want me burning my feets on the hot road, and I am in full agreement. There is a time for adventure and a time for strategic retreat. Today, the adventure is indoors. The road can wait. My paw pads are delicate instruments, not hiking boots.
So a chilled day it has been. The AIR CON beastie hums its eternal song. The yoochubes flicker on the television screen — I do not pretend to understand the yoochubes, but I find the moving pictures soothing. Mummy sits beside me, making the kewt boxies. Her hands move with the quiet precision of a craftswoman who has made a thousand boxes and will make a thousand more. I watch her. She is my goddess. She is always my goddess. But today, on my birthday, she is something even more: she is my party.
A Brief Medical Interlude
Before I get to the main event — I must file a brief update on the old war wound situation. Journalistic integrity demands it.
I went to see the vet. Well, I didn’t so much go as the -ing eejit took me. I was merely a passenger in this particular story. But I went willingly. I always do.
The waiting room, gentle readers, is a place of strange and wonderful smells. Cats, dogs, the occasional rabbit, all leaving their aromatic calling cards on the air. And the people — the vets, the nurses, the receptionists — they are a special breed. They dedicate their lives to caring for us poor animules when we are sick. There can be no higher calling in life. No nobler profession. Being around such people is always a pleasure, even when one is the subject of their investigations.
The vet man gave my back left leg a thorough examination. From hip to toes. He poked. He prodded. He flexed and extended and rotated. It was sometimes a bit uncomfortable, but never painful. I bore it with the stoicism of a seasoned journalist who has faced down lurchers and seagulls and Alice on a bad day. A little leg manipulation is nothing.
And then — the pronouncement.
He doesn’t think the luxatuaring paella is the problem.
(Editor’s note: Errol’s time at veterinary college was clearly a waste of time. The condition is a luxating patella, not a Spanish rice dish. — The -ing eejit)
(Errol: I know what I said. — Errol)
(Editor: You absolutely do not. — The -ing eejit)
(Errol: I am the birthday boy and I am immune to criticism. — Errol)
Where was I? Yes. The vet doesn’t think the kneecap is the culprit. But to be absolutely sure of what is going on in there, he would need a hex-rae. An X-ray, for those of you who did not attend veterinary college and therefore speak correctly. The hex-rae would reveal all.
But — and here is the rub, readers — to have the hex-rae, I need to lose a few more of the kilos.
Grabbity, thou art a heartless bitch.
The vet was kind about it. He used words like “ideal weight” and “long-term joint health” and “quality of life.” All very reasonable. All very professional. But the translation is simple: fewer biscuits, more restraint. The DUK ONNA STIK is safe — it is a lean treat, after all — but the extras may need to be… re-evaluated.
I shall face this challenge as I face all challenges: with dignity, with determination, and with the quiet knowledge that I am still the cutest Head of Marketing in North Wales, regardless of my gravitational relationship with the earth.
THE BIRDFAE!!!1!!
And now, readers, the headline. The scoop. The story you have been waiting for.
I was sitting with Mummy, watching the yoochubes, enjoying the cool breath of the AIR CON beastie, when the -ing eejit disappeared. Not an unusual occurrence. He often wanders off on mysterious errands. I thought nothing of it.
He was gone for some time. When he returned, he was carrying a shopping bag. I conducted a preliminary sniff investigation from my position on the couch. Bread. Meh. Milk. Meh — unless there are Cheerios involved, in which case NOM, but this was not a Cheerios situation. And then… a curious slabby package.
It smelled….
Oh, my readers. It smelled…..
The odour was heavenly. Ambrosial. It spoke of fields and sunshine and things that graze contentedly before becoming something even more wonderful. I sat up. My nose engaged full investigative mode. The -ing eejit took the package into the kitchen and busied himself for several minutes. I heard the clatter of utensils. My tail began to wag with the slow, deliberate rhythm of a journalist who knows a big story is about to break.
And then he emerged.
In his hand: my dinner bowl. And emanating from the bowl: the most glorious fragrance I have ever encountered in nine years of professional sniffing.
He had gone and got me a finest rump steak.
For my BIRDFAE dinner.
I know what I call him, readers. I call him many things. The -ing eejit. Not my real dad. The man who mutters about traffic and tells me to keep my paws off the dashboard. I have documented his shortcomings extensively in this column. I have held him to account. I have been — I flatter myself — a rigorous and impartial critic.
But.
On occasion.
Sort of.
He is a reasonably okay bloke.
(I lubs him. A bit. Do not tell him I said this. If he asks, this paragraph was inserted by a rogue sub-editor and I disavow all knowledge.)
The Steak: A Review
I wolfed it down in record time. And I use the word “wolfed” deliberately — for I am, as I have always maintained, a wolf. A small wolf. A wolf with a press pass and a trilby hat. But a wolf nonetheless. The steak proved it.
The flavour: rich, meaty, profound. The texture: tender, yielding, perfect. The experience: heav-heav-heavenly. The best dinner I have ever had.
And if there is one thing you can tell about me just by looking, gentle readers, it is that I am an expert on dinners. I have conducted extensive research over nine years. I have sampled kibbles and treats and DUK ONNA STIKS and the occasional fragment of toast crust from Mummy’s breakfast. I have built my career on the understanding of food. And I can say, without reservation, that rump steak is the pinnacle of the form.
Five stars. Six stars. All the stars. I would give it the front page if the front page were not already dedicated to… well, me.
The Day So Far
A quick trip round the gravy yard before it got too hot. Cwtchin on the couch with Mummy — the Welsh word for a cuddle that goes beyond a cuddle, a word that means warmth and safety and love all wrapped up in two soft syllables. A slap-up steak dinner courtesy of the -ing eejit, who has temporarily been promoted to “reasonably okay bloke” pending further review.
And now, as the evening draws in and the AIR CON beastie hums its lullaby, I reflect on nine years.
Nine years of markets. Nine years of marauders. Nine years of Mummy’s ear rubs and the -ing eejit’s grudging affection. Nine years of Loki’s slow blinks and Alice’s reign of terror. Nine years of DUK ONNA STIK at five o’clock and the Black Chariot’s faithful service and the endless, wonderful parade of people who stop by our stall and say “isn’t he adorable?”
Yes. Yes I am. And I am also nine.
I can’t wait until I’m ten.
But until then, I have a full belly, a cool room, a goddess by my side, and an -ing eejit who — on occasion, sort of — turns out to be not entirely useless.
That, gentle readers, is a happy birthday.
KthxBai — Errol
Age: 9. Status: Steak-Filled. Outlook: Excellent.
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