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The Cavalier King Writes Again

Published March 13, 2012 by henrythebrave

Dear Diary,

I’m on tenterhooks, awaiting news of the Queen’s Jubilee. Each morning, when Cook leaves for the day, I switch the channel on the telly to the BBC, in hopes that I will learn more about preparations for the festivities. I pray I soon secure my passage to Britain, so that I, too, may partake in the most anticipated event of the century!

In the meantime, my birthday milestone is quickly approaching and I have not as yet heard what is planned for me. My own Jubilee, perhaps, replete with fireworks and a basket of tennis balls, procured for my enjoyment? A new cashmere bed? Or, a platter of delicious morsels to indulge my palette? Or maybe, Cook has finally commissioned my portrait to be done, with the expectation that someday it will hang at Buckingham Palace. What a fetching swath I will cut when my likeness adorns the palace walls!

To be certain, I can only assume that, as I am turning five, Cook and Valet have something keen in store. No doubt a surprise, in which the who’s who of London will be on the A List, including the Queen herself! But please, don’t let the Kardashians or the Salahis crash my soiree! Most unbecoming!

In order to prepare for my portrait sitting, I am determined to get into shape. Which means, as of today—no, make that as of tomorrow—I will increase the number of my daily constitutionals by four. Generally, there are three types of constitutionals I enjoy: The ones in which I’m escorted by Cook, the mid-day strolls with Nanny, and the rather frolicking ones in which my valet accompanies me.

Of course, the first line of duty, when I begin my walk, is to allow my fellow canine brethren, to greet me by permitting them to sniff my, ahem, never mind. No need to go into all that. Suffice it to say, it’s an obligation that comes with the royal throne. I am a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, after all. Noblesse oblige, I say.

Each morning, Cook takes me on my first walk of the day. ‘Tis a brisk one and quite exasperating, actually, because it is my desire to stop and smell the flowers, the trees, the fire hydrants and the lamp poles, but Cook is soon annoyed by my lackadaisical demeanor, as she is often in a rush to leave for the day, continuously mumbling under her breath something about wanting to “beat the traffic.” Whatever that means.

Cook rarely allows me to romp in the grass as the carefree lad that I am. She’s concerned about my knees. A few years ago, I had to have surgery for a luxating patella—a slipped kneecap—and the royal vet recommended I rest my knee. I believe he meant during the recovery phase, but Cook took it to mean, for the rest of my life. As I plan to live forever, that would indeed be a long respite.

The walks with my valet are much more to my liking. He allows me to take the reigns while I pull him full throttle, leading us willy-nilly into the bushes, circling around trees, and changing paths as I see fit. Luckily, I have convinced him that my knees are fine and have told him that if I am to get any exercise at all, he must always bring along a tennis ball. Happily, he is an obedient servant.

I just adore fetch, and the heart wants, what the heart wants. There’s nothing more capital than a good game. Of course, I only run in order to catch the ball. It is beneath me to bring the ball back to my valet. If he wants it that much, he must come to me to retrieve it. Indeed, all dogs should know, that this is far more fair than making us do all the work.  After all, we are not heathens. We are dogs, hear us roar!

Lastly, Nanny takes me on my mid-day stroll, along with my friend and canine companion, Lord Shack. The three of us have a merry time and I make sure to nibble at the berries I encounter in the bushes. It is lunchtime, after all!

Diary, that is all for today. The noble life can be exhausting, filled as it is with so many obligations, including walks, and barking at trucks. Speaking of which–here comes one now!

Cheerio!

A Dog’s Diary

Published January 20, 2012 by henrythebrave

It’s a new year and in honor of it, I, too, have made a resolution. I would have told you sooner, but this is the first time this year that Cook has permitted me to post. Rather cheeky of her, I’d say, seeing how she knows I am a dog with much on my mind. And a royal one at that!

Mind you, my resolution is not as daft as Cook’s plan to read 50 books and see 50 films. From my vantage point, about 12 inches off the ground, her plan is quite over the top. Fifty Fifty? More like Ten Twenty, I’d say, for I don’t think she can handle reading more than 10 books in one year–and even that’s a stretch. After all, Cook does have to see to my needs.

Now, my resolution is much better because it is more realistic. I have decided to keep a diary. I’m calling it, “A Dog’s Diary,” and with any luck, this diary will convey my life story in a fashion suitable for a king.

Day One

Dear Diary,

I am writing from my perch on the sofa, one I rarely leave except to eat or to take my daily constitutionals. It’s a lovely sofa, done up in regal red, most suitable for a dog of my stature. For I’m a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and I aspire to the highest of callings: To one day sit in the lap of luxury, and by that I mean, on the lap of the Queen.

And speaking of the Queen, did you know that this is the year of her Jubilee celebration? Isn’t this splendid news? I am beside myself with glee just thinking about it! Indeed, I could jump for joy, but first I must take my nap. Writing really is such exhausting work.

There! I’m back from my four-hour nap, which was rather delightful. When I awoke, I was hoping it was time for dinner, but Cook has yet to return from…from…well, wherever she goes when she’s not here. So, I’ll just write in my diary until she does—hold on a minute! I hear a truck approaching, which can only mean one thing! Trouble. Must go bark at it at once!

Okay, I’m back. The truck has pulled away. Crisis averted. Now, where was I?

Oh, yes. I was about to tell you how there are few indignities a Cavalier suffers more than that of being made to look, well, ridiculous. After all, as a King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, I pride myself in my appearance.

Which is why I insist on going to the groomers once a month. After all, I do not like looking natty. If it were up to me, I’d be visiting the groomer at least once a week. But when I conferred with Cook about this, she muttered something under her breath that, when I start working and earning my keep, then I can go to the groomers as often as I want. Imagine that! A king with a day job. Well, not on my watch!

So, for now, I must undergo the indignity of not looking my best everyday. Most recently, I was humiliated when I was forced to wear this:

I ask you, is this any way to treat a royal? Cook says I must wear this mac when it rains, so I don’t get wet. Pshaw, I say! Until they invent boots that stay on a dog’s paws while he saunters about, there is no avoiding getting wet. Worse yet, Cook is on the prowl for a cap for dogs with a built-in umbrella to protect a dog’s head from the rain. I cringe and dread the day she finds one and makes me wear it. She has shown me a photograph of one that is designed for humans and it looks like this:

I ask you, is this anyway to treat a–oh, dear! For goodness sakes! Another truck in the vicinity. I must get into barking mode, stat!

Cheerio!

And They Call it Puppy Love

Published December 30, 2011 by monicastangledweb

A Guest Post by Henry

While Cook is distracted with the holiday festivities, and not showing an iota of interest in blogging, I am coming to the rescue. As fortune would have it, I get to write another post. Herewith, is a list detailing how we’ve been spending the holiday thus far.

1. I have been catching up on the news. It goes without saying that there are few things far cuter than a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Except, maybe, one sitting upon your lap. I know this because, as you no doubt recall, I am a Cavalier and, as you know very well by now, we, Cavaliers descend from royalty.

Poor Charlie, caught in the middle of a custody dispute. Photo, courtesy of The Daily Mail.

Which must be the reason that Playboy mogul, Hugh Hefner, and his ex-fiancée, Crystal, have been fighting, according to the London Mail, over the custody of their Cavalier, Charlie. Poor Charlie. I suppose that’s what they mean by “puppy love.” Glad it’s not me, for I’d hate to be in the middle of any disagreement, even if it is between a tycoon and a bunny.

2. And now for some pleasant news: I’ve been enjoying good home cooking of late. Cook baked some rather tasty cinnamon rolls and my Lady-in-Waiting made and decorated fancy Christmas cookies. I ate one that looked like a candy cane. Scrumptious!

3. And now, the bad news: Cook broke out in hives this week. She says she was minding her own business, browsing the internet, when suddenly she was overtaken by a burning sensation spreading over her scalp and face and down through her arms. My Lady says she was hot to the touch. To me, she looked like a red tomato with the complexion of a dried sponge. Rather blotchy, if you will. Wish I’d had a camera to snap her photo while she scrambled like a mongoose, pouring cold water on her head and wrapping ice in the kitchen towel to cool her face. Luckily, the Benadryl took effect rather quickly and soon the rash and hives subsided.  All’s well, I suppose. Cook says it was a new medication she’s taking that nearly did her in. I say, what goes around, comes around. Not sure what it means, but it sounds rather clever to me.

Cook baked this cinnamon bread. A tasty morsel, indeed!

4. Everyone went to the cinema–twice–leaving yours truly minding the abode. Luckily, I am good at this, for I am very brave and prepared. Though, I must say, I slept through their absence and, if truth be told, when I’m in a state of repose, I hear virtually nothing. Cook says I’m like a teenager in that way, and can sleep the day away if responsibilities—and Mother Nature—didn’t get in my way. She is quite right.

In any case, the household took the night off and went to see The Adventures of Tintin, which they seem to have enjoyed greatly. My valet said the film was memorable for a dog named Snowy, who absolutely stole the show. I’m not surprised, really, as dogs do like being the center of attention. The other movie they saw was Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. Cook said she liked it a lot, that it was exciting and funny, too. But I’m not partial to any film that doesn’t have at least one dog in it.

5. My Christmas gift left much to be desired. All I asked for was something to remind me of home. Which is why Cook gave me a box of crumpets and a DVD titled, The Lost Prince. While I enjoyed the crumpets very much (they were divine, with a hint of liver), I was utterly disappointed with the DVD.  Turns out, it wasn’t about a Cavalier at’ll, as I had been led to believe. Instead it was about a human prince who suffers from hemophilia. What was I supposed to do with that, I wonder? I watched it from beginning to end, hoping for a glimpse of my peeps, but there was nary a Cavalier to be seen in any of the scenes.  I prefer last year’s gift of Young Victoria, starring Emily Blunt. Clearly, Queen Victoria was fond of Cavaliers for there were several frolicking in the film. And we do look rather sprightly when we frolic. Which is what makes us so irresistible, I suppose, and which is, no doubt, why Mr. Hefner and Miss Crystal are fighting tooth and nail for the possession of Charlie.  Well, buck up, Charlie! Chin up and all that. Be strong, mate!

6. We have big plans for New Year’s Eve. Cook says she’s going to prepare a sumptuous meal of boiled chicken and rice for me. I am quite beside myself with joy.

My Lady-in-Waiting's holiday cookies. The candy cane cookie was delightful!

Happy New Year, Friends! That means you, Roxy, Bassa, Bongo, Lola, Charlie, Uptown Dog and all my canine friends, wherever you are!

To the rest of you, cheerio!

Henry the Blogger

Published December 13, 2011 by monicastangledweb

If you ask me, my dog, Henry, is getting kind of uppity.  Sure, he’s a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, which means he descends from royalty. And, yes, he also expects a certain lifestyle, one befitting a king. Some might even say that Henry is a high-maintenance dog. But that would be an understatement.

Does this dog deserve a blog of his own? Hmm...

Recently, Henry noticed that there are many dogs out there with a blog, and now he has decided that he wants one, too. But here’s the thing: Henry can’t type to save his life. I don’t know how the other dogs do it, like Lola, Bassa or Uptown Dog. They have great blogs. But, when it comes to typing, Henry is all, ahem, thumbs. I’ve tried to teach him the basics. I figured, if he could type with just one paw, he’d be ahead of the game. But he refuses to even learn, and often ends up just pawing at my desk.

Clearly, this is one dog that cannot learn new tricks. Which is why, last night, during dinner, he asked me to be his secretary.  I nearly choked on my peas.

“I beg your pardon, Sir?” (You need to use words like  “pardon” and “Sir” when addressing royalty.)

Henry then said that what he really means is, he wants me to take dictation for his new blog.  But he doesn’t understand that:

  • I’m pretty busy as it is, and can’t take on yet another project, even if it is for a good cause.
  • He barks his thoughts rather slowly, which in turn, would take me forever to write down.
  • Sometimes I can’t figure out what he’s trying to say. Learning bark language isn’t the easiest, you know.  Like one time, when he said, “Cavaliers make amazing….and that’s how I lost my dignity…if only they fed me better.”

That’s all I could get out him. “Make amazing” what? Crocheted sweaters? Annoyances? And what’s this about losing his dignity? I’ll never know.

So I asked Henry, what he would call his blog if he had one.

“Untangling the Web,” was his immediate reply.

Apparently, he’s under the misguided impression that I’ve been successful with my tangled web of a blog, and so, he wants a crack at untangling it.

“After all,” he added, “Your readers have yet to hear my side of the story.”

His side? “What exactly is your side of the story?” I boldly asked. He shrugged and told me I could read about it in his blog, if he had one.

I then said, “A year ago you didn’t even know what a blog is.” He curtly countered that, a year ago, I didn’t have much of a following, and suggested that it is only when I’ve used photos of him that my readership has seen a spike.

“Not true!” I cried. “You haven’t seen my stats lately!” I then reminded him that he cannot have a blog, simply because he cannot type. To which, Henry said, rather miffed, that it was rather unseemly of me to remind a king of his flaws.

Henry retreats in a huff.

Feeling guilty, I said, “Cheer up, little man. I’m happy to write about you in my blog, now and then.”

He, cheekily replied, it’s the then I’m concerned about. The tall person allows Bassa to blog everyday. With you, I’ll be lucky to get exposure twice a year. I pointed out that he likes Roxy and she doesn’t have her own blog.

Which is when he gave me the stink eye, and retreated to one of his many plush beds, looking a bit despondent.

“Well, Henry,” I said, “Is there anything else you want to add in your defense?”

“Blogs about dogs are trending now, you know,” he said, wagging his tail.

Shaking my head, I went to wash the dishes. Oh, Henry, it seems we are at a standstill.

For a royal dog, he’s quite good at laying on the guilt. In fact, you could say, he’s got me feeling rather sheepish these days. Still, I’m not ready to give in and will have to think about this some more. After all, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.

Henry’s Medical Pickle

Published October 7, 2011 by monicastangledweb

Quick! I need to figure out fast how to put Henry on my health insurance plan.  Apparently, in my ongoing effort to maintain the standard of living in which this Cavalier King Charles Spaniel has become accustomed, he’s costing me a fortune. So I’m wondering, can I claim him as my spouse or partner?  After all, he does tend to nag me a lot.

Yes, my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel is high maintenance and très demanding when it comes to matters of health. The way I see it, if I can’t figure out how to add him to my plan, then I may need to take out a second mortgage on my home.

One recent Saturday morning, while Henry and I were on our usual morning constitutional, I saw red. And by that I mean, I saw blood in his stool.  Naturally, I panicked, pretty sure it was a sign of impending doom.  Driving like a mad woman to the veterinarian’s office, I was sure the end was near. Luckily, the receptionist knows just how important this little fellow is to me, so despite being completely booked, she squeezed Henry in right away.  Which means, about two hours later, it was Henry’s turn to see the doctor.  After all, time was of the essence.

Poor Henry took it on the chin. And on the rear, too, as he was made to endure an intense examination as well as a series of blood tests, feces sample, and X-rays. Not to mention the questions that I had to undergo. They sat me in a corner, in a dimly lit, windowless, exam room, with one lamp dangling over my head, and asked:

“When did you first notice the problem?”

“How long has he been acting lethargic?”

“Is he getting enough sleep?  Enough water?”

“What have you been feeding him?”

“How did he seem to you last night? Last week? Last month?”

“Where were you on the night of the 28th?”

“When exactly did you realize you had failed Henry?”

The vet, leaving no stone unturned in his attempt to discover what was wrong with Henry,  determined that my dog was 10% dehydrated.  Ten percent. How could I have let it get this far? Not sure, but I figured that the lack of water must have gone straight to his tail, because it was slumped down like a wet pig down his backside, curled underneath him with no plans to wag anytime soon.  Not wanting to take any risks, for the next hour, Henry was put on IV, with a special supply of liquids that resembled Gatorade.

I was sent home with a case of veterinary approved dog food, to keep him “regular,” and three different medicines—including antibiotics—to be taken for the next two weeks.  The cost for all this?  A mere $469.

And when the results came back what did he have?  Not much, but a momentary lapse in good health.  Turns out, my Henry is a survivor!

Fast forward three weeks and it’s time for Henry’s annual physical and shots—Distemper/Hepatitiis/Parvo, Bortadella and Rabies.  Overall, Henry gets a clean bill of health, although the doctor does see telltale signs of gingivitis, tartar and, perish the thought, periodontal disease.  Which is why, the doctor says I must bring him back early next year for an all out cleaning, which involves having to put him under. Projected costs for a teeth cleaning? About $300.

Cost for the physical? $160.  It would have cost an additional $80 if I’d said yes to doing a blood panel, but I figure we’ve seen enough blood for one month.

I know some people have two or more pets, and frankly, I don’t know how they do it. It’s all I can do to stay afloat with just Henry.

Which is why I’m in a medical pickle.  Next time open enrollment comes along at work–and I think it’s coming up soon–I’m going to sign him up. Maybe, I’ll list him as my dependent, which technically is true, for I’ve yet to see the boy nail a job. Yep, that’s what I’ll do.  He’s my son. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

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