ERROL’S DISPATCHES
From the Newsdesk of Goodboy Bindle Featherstone of Quirm — Head of Marketing, Roving Reporter & Part-Time Philosopher
Be careful what you ask for, gentle readers.
Last time I spoke to you all, I mentioned taking the Peugeot out for a test drive. A little jaunt. A maiden voyage. I imagined a leisurely spin through the Welsh countryside, perhaps a stop at a scenic viewpoint, the wind in my fur (but not too much wind — I am a dog of comfort, not a spaniel).
The universe, as it so often does, had other plans.
The next stage of the investigations around the old war wound arrived. And it arrived with a needle.
The Journey & The Abandonment
The dear, dear vet — Katie, she is most nice, as are all the vet hoomans — examined my old leg like her colleages had examined my leg previously. She had poked, prodded, flexed, and extended. She had pronounced that the luxatuaring paella might not be the culprit. But she wanted a second opinion. She wanted her ex, Ray, to take a look.
I have no objection to multiple opinions. Journalism thrives on multiple sources. The more eyes on a story, the better the reporting. If Katie wants to bring in an expert, I say bring him in. The more the merrier. I am a cooperative patient and a consummate professional.
So we all jumped into the new jalopy — the red (allegedly) Peugeot peepul carrier — and headed up to Tywyn. To the vet surgery there. Why Tywyn? I do not know. There is a perfectly cromulent vet surgery approximately 500 paces from our house. I could walk there. Slowly, on a good day, with the wind behind me. But no. We drove to Tywyn. The -ing eejit muttered something about “specialist equipment” and “referral protocols.” I suspect he just wanted an excuse to drive the new car. Men and their machines.
We arrived. We walked in. I was weighed.
Humiliated on the scales, as is tradition. But — a small victory — I have lost 100 grammes since last week. One hundred. The equivalent of a small biscuit or a particularly ambitious spider. It is not much, but it is progress. Grabbity, thou art still a heartless bitch, but I am fighting back. Gramme by gramme.
So in we went to the consulting room. All is good. Katie is smiling. She seems a decent sort, calm hands, kind eyes. I am on the table. I am being fussed. I am feeling, if not entirely relaxed, at least professionally receptive.
And then I turn round.
And Mummy and the -ing eejit are leaving.
LEAVING.
I mean, I like the vets and all. I have said this before. They are dedicated professionals. They are healers and carers and all-round excellent hoomans. But where is my Mummy going? And why am I not with her? This was not in the briefing. This was not part of the assignment.
The door closed. I stared at it. The door did not reopen. Katie made soothing noises, and adjusted some equipment. I allowed myself to be calmed, but my internal editor was filing urgent queries: Mother absent. Situation unclear. Awaiting instructions.
The Trip (Down Memory Lane)
They put me on a table. A nice table. A warm table. They made a fuss of me, which was appreciated. Professional courtesy goes a long way.
Then there was a buzz. An electric razor, trimming some of my fur off my front leg. I watched this with detached interest. My fur is magnificent, but it grows back. No permanent damage to the brand.
And then a pinch.
A small pinch. Barely noticeable, really.
But something about that pinch — the sensation, the brief sharpness followed by a spreading warmth — made my mind drift back through the years. Back, back, back to the dim distant past. Back to when I was a hippy puppy on Haight Ashbury in Frisco. It was a different time. A happier, more innocent time. The sun always seemed to be shining. The music was loud and free. And I decided, in the spirit of the age, to “turn in, tune out, and drop off.” or something.
Let me tell you, folks, those were wild times. Me and the pack, hanging out at the Pigeon-Toed Orange Peel — a club so underground it didn’t even have a floor, just vibes. We’d stay up all night listening to Phil Lesh’s bass from off of the Dreadful Grate, that deep thrumming groove that shook your bones and rearranged your thoughts. The pack was a mixed bunch: a beagle who fancied himself a poet, a poodle who could dance like nobody was watching (everybody was watching, she was magnificent), and a dachshund who claimed to have been at Woodstock but was probably born in 1969. We didn’t care. We were young. We were free. We had no idea what a luxating patella even was.
Ahhh, my misspent youth.
The Waking
And a couple of hours later, I woke up.
Or what felt like a couple of hours. Time works differently when you’ve been on a journey to the centre of your own mind. I opened my eyes. The world swam gently back into focus. Katie was there. The table was still there. My leg was still there (good news). But my mouth…
My mouth felt like I’d slept with one of Scooby-Doo’s feet in it.
You know the foot I mean. Those great big comedy paws, slightly dusty, tasting faintly of mystery and kibble. That was my mouth. Dry. Furry. Wrong. And somewhere, deep in the back of my consciousness, Phil Lesh’s bass was still thumping. Thump. Thump. Thump. From off of the Dreadful Grate. It would not stop.
I had a sudden urge to check the marble pouch. A primal instinct, forged in trauma. Because the last time this happened — the sleeping, the waking, the woozy disorientation — there were some major changes down there. Spheres were… reallocated. I will not dwell on it. The memory is too painful. But I checked.
All was… okay. Well, unchanged from yesterday, anyway. The spheres are accounted for. I repeat: the spheres are accounted for. This is not a drill.
The hoomans were all so nice. They fussed me and stroked me and told me I was a brave boy. I accepted these tributes with sleepy dignity. And then — oh, readers, the relief — Mummy showed up. My beautiful Goddess, with the -ing eejit in tow. She scooped me up (gently, always gently) and I buried my face in her arm and breathed in the familiar smell of her and thought never leave me again, not ever, not even for a minute, I do not care about specialist equipment or referral protocols, I am your dog and you are my Mummy and that is the only fact that matters.
I was still a bit wobbly on the pins. The old war wound was giving me some gyp — a deep ache, a reminder that things had been investigated, that secrets had been sought in the hidden places of my knee. Back into the new jalopy we went. The Peugeot. Still not a huge fan. The smell is all wrong and the seats are too firm and nothing is where it should be. But Mummy’s lap was there, and that made it bearable.
The Prognosis & The Potions
Here is what the vet found, gentle readers. Prepare yourselves for medical terminology of the highest order.
Apparently, I have acquired some livestock.
Not, like, actual livestock. Not sheep or cows or anything useful. But smaller. Microscopic. The kind of livestock that moves in uninvited and sets up camp and refuses to pay rent. My usual regimen of “orrible stuff on the back of my neck” — the spot-on treatment, for those not versed in veterinary parlance — was not working. So there was a mahoosive pill to curb the critters. A great pink cake of a thing dripping with medicinal intent. I took it with cheese. The cheese helped.
Then there was some other weird fishy-tasting stuff that was for my joints. And some even fishier oily stuff that went on my food. Speaking of food — the special food I have, the stuff with the teeth-cleaning crystals in it? Still on the menu. And finally, the squirty tube of weird stuff the -ing eejit squirts in my mouth after dinner that makes me go all gooffy. The gooffy stuff. A highlight of the daily routine.
This getting old, folks. It comes with so many pills and potions. Pills for the livestock. Potions for the joints. Oils for the coat. Special food for the teeth. Squirty stuff for the gooffiness. I rattle when I walk. I am less a dog and more a small furry pharmacy.
Not great when a pooch is trying to lose a few more grammes. Every pill needs a treat to hide it in. Every potion adds calories. The battle against grabbity is fought on many fronts, and some of those fronts are disguised as medicine.
But the prognosis is pretty good. The vet thinks it might be a luxuriating paella — a luxating patella, for those of you who actually attended veterinary college — but only a 1 or a 2 on the scale of kneecap mischief. It needs to be a 4 before they cut me. And nobody wants that. Least of all me.
There seems to be no arthur-rightis. Arthur Rightis sounds like a blues musician from the 1930s, but apparently it’s a joint condition and I don’t have it. Good news. There is a bit of a clicky hip, but no biggie. I click. I am a clicky dog. It adds character.
And the best part? The scripshun. The prescription. Wait for it, readers. Are you sitting down? You should be sitting down.
NO. EXERCISE. FOR A WEEK.
The vet lady Katie was sooooo nice. She said it with such gentle concern, such professional compassion, as if she was breaking difficult news. “Only slow walks,” she said. “Nothing strenuous. Let him rest.”
I didn’t have the heart to break it to her. Slow walks is the only exercise I get. My entire life is a slow walk punctuated by naps. The idea of “strenuous exercise” is a theoretical concept, like time travel or the bottom of the food bowl. I have never knowingly exerted myself in nine years. I am not about to start now.
But I accepted the scripshun with a solemn nod. If the vet says rest, I shall rest. It would be irresponsible to disobey medical advice. I am committed to my recovery.
The New Ride (Errol’s Version)
And so, gentle readers, here is the twist. The happy ending. The scoop that makes the whole ordeal worthwhile.
Just as Jon and Mary’s Curios got a new ride — the red (allegedly) Peugeot — I get one too.
A brand new doggie stroller.
I know. I can hardly believe it myself. A chariot of my very own. A perambulator for a pooch of distinction. The Goddess and the -ing eejit have recognised that my old war wound requires a gentler approach to the craft fair circuit, and their solution is to wheel me about in style.
Details are still emerging. I have not yet seen the stroller. It is on order, or being collected, or being constructed by elves — I do not know the specifics. But the principle is sound. I shall be pushed. I shall be conveyed. I shall glide through markets like a tiny furry emperor, surveying my domain from a throne of quilted comfort.
The Executive Perch was good. The Executive Perch was a revelation. But the Executive Stroller? This is a promotion. This is a corner office with a view. This is the pinnacle of a career in marketing.
I shall report further when the stroller arrives and I have conducted a full investigayshun. Expect detailed reviews of suspension, upholstery, and borking vantage points. This is the kind of product testing I was born for.
Signing Off
So there it is, gentle readers. A vet visit. A trip — both literal and pharmaceutical. Livestock eviction. Fishy potions. Clicky hips. And the promise of a brand new set of wheels.
Life is good.
The old war wound is being managed. The pills are being hidden in cheese. The gooffy stuff is being squirted. And somewhere out there, a doggie stroller is waiting for me, ready to carry me into my tenth year in the style to which I intend to become accustomed.
Tonight, I rest. Vet’s orders. Loki is nearby, a slinky shadow of solidarity. Alice is elsewhere, which is for the best. The AIR CON Beastie — machine, not beastie, I have accepted this now — hums its cool benediction.
And soon, DUK ONNA STIK. The constant. The ritual. The reward.
I shall take my medicine. I shall lose the grammes. I shall master the stroller. And I shall continue to file these dispatches, because the news never stops, and neither — despite everything — does this small dog.
KthxBai — Errol
Head of Marketing, Connoisseur of Slow Walks, and Soon-to-Be Stroller Enthusiast
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