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For Christmas, Gareth gave me (among other things)... a dog!

Well. Technically, Kenco is not my dog. He lives in England. He belongs to the Dogs Trust. I am but his humble sponsor. But my £1.50 a week gives him food, chew toys and an old couch to sleep on. And I can get the train to Darlington and visit him any time, and even take him for a walk. He also sends me newsletters, just like those starving kids in Ethiopia.

Gareth said he chose Kenco as he was looking for the dog with the stupidest face to make me laugh. Sure enough I fell for the blank expression and slightly manic eyes. He reminded me of Harry, my former mad wee dog who provided years of Blogging Gold until he was snatched away in the Evil Landlord Saga of 2002.

I'd been pining for a furry friend since our trip back to Australia. I'd dropped by Harry's house, hoping he'd greet me at the fence with his usual acrobatics. But that's the problem when you piss off overseas then swan back a few years later, expecting your old life to be frozen in time. It isn't. Harry's house was long abandoned, the gardens overgrown and mailbox choked with catalogues. But still, I stood there in the driveway bleating pathetically, "Harry? Harry?", as the chilly September rain hammered down.

It was so tragic and romantic. Just like the end of Breakfast At Tiffany's! Except Canberra instead of New York. And Trackysuit Shauny instead of Givenchy Hepburn. And mutt dog instead of ginger cat. And Gareth and Jenny waiting in a Nissan Pulsar instead of George Peppard waiting in a yellow taxi. ALRIGHT. Not like Breakfast at Tiffany's at all. But my old dog and his new owner were gone and I had no way of finding out their fate. It was a dud finale to my wacky years of pet ownership.

So when Gareth presented me with Kenco on Christmas Day I was ecstatic and teary. He'd been a little worried I'd think it was a dorky gift and that perhaps he should have just got the perfume and Thornton's chocolates from UnimaginativeHusband.com, but I thought it was the sweetest thing ever. Owning a real dog just isn't an option when you live in a poky wee flat, so sponsoring an unfortunate English mutt was a brilliant substitute.

I carted Kenco's photo to all our Christmas gatherings and showed him off proudly. People seemed rather bemused and bewildered by Gareth's choice of gift, just as they were when he gleefully told them I'd given him (among other things) a copy of Don't Pee On My Leg And Tell Me It's Raining by Judge Judy. It was the first time I ever felt like the dreaded Smug Married (okay, Highly Defensive Married) because what seemed stupid to everyone else just made perfect bloody sense to us.

Later on Christmas Night I was browsing the Dogs Trust website and was surprised to see that My Kenco was still listed as an Available Dog. In fact, it was just the same dozen or so hounds in the gallery for everyone in the whole of Britain to choose from.

"I just realised," I announced to Gareth, "That I don't have exclusive rights to Kenco!"

"Well yes. Each dog really needs more than one more than one sponsor. It costs £9 per month for their food alone. So the sponsorship money goes towards all the dogs at the shelter. You didn't realise?"

"I'm like a part owner of a racehorse."

"Has that taken the gloss off the gift a little?"

"Oh no! Not really." I sniffed. "I'm sure that if he were to meet all his sponsors, he would love me the best."

There are many advantages of having a virtual dog. Unlike Harry, Kenco doesn't shed hair, howl at the moon, or pee on the couch when he gets nervous. And even though he's not a physical presence you can still use him as a scapegoat after hearty Christmas dinners.

"Jeeeeesus... did you fart?"

"Nooo!"

"Well somebody did."

"It was that bloody Kenco."

"KENCO! You dirty bastard."

"Get back in your basket!"

I barely recognised the little bastard, sitting up straight there on the footpath. It looked like Harry, but the Harry I knew never sat still like that.

But it was Harry, and apparently these days if you ask him to sit, he will sit. And he shakes paws. And he swims in the lake. For about five minutes til he has some sort of canine panic attack and thrashes his paws wildly.

He didn't recognise me at first, maybe it was the stupid blonde in the hair (hey, Jen didn't recognise me at first last night, ha ha) but then he came bounding over in his idiotic way.

His New Mum told me proudly about all the training she's done with him, how far he's come, how he doesn't jump in the car unless he's told to anymore. Hmmph. She may as well have said, "I am making up for the years of indulgence and gross neglect when he lived with YOU!".

But being in my presence, he instantly reverted back to his old brattish behaviour, the wacky hound that used gnaw on my friends or threaten to pee on the couch if you tried kick him off. New Mum asked him to sit, asked him to shake, but he barrelled around, nosed through puddles then sat on my feet, leaning his head on my knee like he used to.

It was all I could do not to start blubbering, That's my disobedient boy! But I was off to Electric Shadows to watch some insane anime (chicks that turn into cars... cool!). I said goodbye and walked off. New Mum commanded Harry to sit but Harry came bounding after me, just like in the movies! Except it was a grotty petrol station instead of an open meadow. I must admit I got a lot of satisfaction from the fact that he disobeyed New Mum. Sure she adores him and is wonderful for taking him when he needed a new home, but he still loves ME dammit.

Finally he got into her car and she put on his little doggie seatbelt and he stared out the window with his trademark goofy expression and slobbery tounge. Blink blink. Like a goldfish, you could tell he'd already forgotten he'd seen me.

That's all anyone ever wants, isn't it? Not to be forgotten? If you can't be with someone, whether it be man, woman or a dumbass little dog, you just want them to miss you, to wish sometimes you could still be around.

I am not doing that well. I keep writing horrible insane entries then deleting them. So here is something Amusing™. I saw a tiny puppy that looked like Harry outside All Bar Nun last week. I thought I'd had Harry's bits lopped off but perhaps he has a son? How many weird skinny dogs with spindly legs, cow spots and dalmation daubs can there be in this world? He even yapped in the same irritating fashion.

Advice needed: should I get a little loan for a new puter NOW and get double my memory for free (if you purchase by June 30) OR do I stick to my original plan of no new puter until I have a new job?

You see, I've had this master plan for months now, as soon as I get a new job, I will use some of my leave payout (I have almost 5 weeks of annual leave accrued) towards buying a laptop. Why do I want a laptop? Coz I just freaking DO. Well, mostly for this dorky reason: it makes me write like the clappers.

My boss nicked off to Spain last November and I borrowed her laptop for Nanowrimo. I wrote in the garden, in bed, at the library, by the lake, and I just couldn't stop. I felt so writerly and alive. Ever since I handed it back to her, I haven't written a freaking word more aside from this here blog.

So yes, my plan was to get the laptop as a reward to myself for finally finding a new job. But new job has not eventuated yet, and every day I find myself sitting at work doing data entry or photocopying and almost in tears coz I just feel so freaking miserable and grumpy, wondering if that dirty bitch Fate has me destined to be a secretary.

(Speaking of which, I truly stink at being a secretary. The job wouldn't be so bad if I possessed an ounce of organisation skills or attention to detail. That part of my brain must have been in the finger that got lopped off.

I sat in a meeting this afternoon and listened to folks bitching about the legions who hadn't shown up. When I got back to my desk, I saw sitting pretty in the Outbox the email that I was supposed to send out today reminding people about said meeting, and also the email I was supposed to send out yesterday informing people that the meeting existed in the first place. Shoot the messenger!)

Anyway, I have this element of Catholic guilt or something, that prevents me doing anything nice for myself unless I have earned it somehow. Like if I am eating dinner, I won't eat the nice thing (like lasagna or mashed potatoes) unless I have eaten all the yucky things (like broccoli or squash). If I don't do the yucky, I don't deserve the nice. Or I don't let myself have a bubble bath or watch that movie until I've vacuumed the house or cleaned the loo or other appropriate toil.

I don't know where this deranged logic originated, but either way, I feel like if I go out and buy this stupid new puter now, I will burst into flames for being so reckless and as punishment, I will never get another job. But another part of me says, it's a good deal, get it now, do whatever you need to do to make you feel like writing again, whatever it takes to make you a little happier.

Do you SEE what a fuckwit I am? Do you SEE how I spend my data entering photocopying stapling days torturing myself with these BIG issues? Hasn't anyone noticed lately that I am completely losing the plot? Well I am, dammit! You should be paying attention!

And I miss my puppy.

It's Harry's birthday today, he's 3. Which is 21 in dog years. So it makes sense in a way that he's not my dog anymore. Most 21 year olds are off seeing the world and having all sorts of adventures. Then again, many are still at home sponging off the folks.

As soon as we moved to our new apartment, everyone said to me, "Well good, so the Saga is over." Perhaps meaning, finally she will shut up about it. So I've kept quiet and made sure I'm busy. But jeez... I miss that little bastard.

Blogging is just not the same without Harry around to provide content. I have to keep ringing up The Mother and saying, "So, have you done anything funny lately?"

Our garbage bin always stinks because there's no Harry to eat all the leftovers.

My clothes always look clean coz there's no pawprints or bits of fur from being attacked.

We had trouble getting our compensation money. The court ordered they pay us by a certain date, and whaddya know, the day came and went without payment. So we marched up there the next day. The Agent known as Hambone J (due to her upper arms resembling a bulging pink christmas ham) said, "Where's your receipts?"

"What?"

"Well I'm not paying you any money unless you give me receipts for your moving costs. Besides, if it adds up to less I don't have to give you the whole amount."

She fully expected us to agree with this bullshit. Instead we caused a big scene in their office, demanding she hand over the money. My sister had to madly shake the court order in her hand and shout, "IT'S RIGHT HERE IN THE COURT ORDER!" before the bitch finally backed down.

Then we had great battles over getting our bond money back. They called me up with an extremely petty list of Things That Were Wrong in the house, such as "cleaning product residue left on the kitchen sink". We all met up there and went around with a bottle of Spray N Wipe until they were satisfied.

I just wanted to scream at them, they were just so fucking smug and evil. Did they not bloody comprehend the crap they'd put us through? Because of their evilness I LOST MY DOG, dammit, yet they still put us through hell when we moved out.

Here he is the night before he left, sitting on Q magazine with the most retarded expression.

And this was just hours before he went, sulking in the garage after I gave him a bath.

A few weeks back I went up to visit him for the last time. The little bastard didn't seem to recognise me at all. He ignored me and jumped all over his new mum. He wouldn't come over for a hug or anything. I felt so crushed. Rhiannon kept telling me "he's just a dog, and not the smartest one you must admit, of course he's going to forget."

Everyone else keeps telling me to get over it and that I should be greatful that he's liking his new home. But it just hurt so badly when he didn't even come over. I felt like kicking him, "You little turd! I rescued you from the pound when you were all manky with fleas. You're supposed to love me!"

It's such an empty and pathetic feeling, but I hate not being needed anymore. A big part of my life is over, just like that, and it still hurts.

Some people asked so I should explain, I don't get Harry back. We couldn't find anywhere to live with a yard. So it's a bittersweet kind of victory. I went over to visit yesterday and he basically ignored me, and wouldn't stop jumping all over his new mum. It's been two weeks now and his memory is bloody short. I admit to getting slightly cut up about that. Bah. That's the male species for ya. Outta sight, outta mind!

I always thought Judge Judy couldn't be for real. I didn't think there could possibly be such a collection of deranged people all in the one place. That was before last Monday, when Operation Nail Those Bitches™ went to the courts.

Our hearing was scheduled for 10 o'clock, but we didn't realise that half a dozen other cases were also scheduled for 10 o'clock. Our nerves grew worse when we discovered were second last on the list. But we got to witness the very entertaining craziness of others. The first two cases hadn't been paying the rent and came up with all manner of excuses.

Then it was time for the main attraction, a guy who I'll refer to only as Mr. Crazy Bastard. His case was called, case number xx of 1999. Which meant he'd been in and out of the Tribunal for three years on the same matter. He was wearing a red baseball cap and clutched his car keys in one hand, and a bunch of papers and a bottle of orange juice in the other. He stood menacingly over the table, hands on hips.

"Sit down please, Mr. Crazy Bastard," the Tribunal Judge chick said.

"Do you have to sit down? Why do I have to sit down? I don't want to sit down."

"Sit down please!"

"FINE! Fiiiine." He yanked a chair out from under the table, plonking his keys and other paraphenalia down.

Over the next 45 minutes he attempted to explain why he hadn't been able to pay his rent. Quite simply, he just made no bloody sense at all. He didn't have any of the documents that proved his so-called case, firstly because his son or the dog had hidden it, and then because Those Bastards At Centrelink refused to give him another copy of it. Then he said his brother had borrowed his keycard so he couldn't withdraw the money to pay the rent. Then he told us about a conspiracy between ACT Housing and Centerlink to get him evicted.

"You're just not making any sense," the judge said, trying to hide her impatience and bewilderment.

"AND YOU ARE SMIRKING AT ME!" Mr. Crazy Bastard starting screaming at the ACT Housing lawyer across the room. "You give me no respect!"

"Be QUIET Mr. Crazy Bastard!"

"No! I will not be quiet! I have my right to be heard!"

"You only speak when I say you can speak."

"I want to speak NOW! I've got a VIDEO CAMERA! And PHOTOS! I have EVIDENCE! Don't think I won't call A Current Affair!"

During all this, he'd get up every five minutes or so, kicking the chair and cursing, saying "This is riduculous! You give me no respect!", picking up his keys and orange juice and papers with a great clatter, and heading for the door, before the Judge chick reminded him that if he left his eviction would still stand.

After his sixth aborted exit, Rhiannon nudged me wrote on her notepad, I think we're going to be juuuust fine.

Harry's gone now :(

I'm now going to rant and rave and be completely self-indulgent and pathetic so if you don't want to read that, go and make yourself a cuppa or something.

Please don't email me to say we didn't try hard enough or we should have held on to him or we're heartless wenches. It was the hardest decision we've ever had to make. The owners were threatening legal action against us, and we've had no luck finding a new place that's dog-friendly after four weeks of searching.

The real estate agents got their copy of our application to terminate the lease today. They promptly called me up and said sure, we can break the lease, but they want to advertise it on Wednesday and start showing people through immediately. I told them we didn't have a new place yet and that we preferred to deal through the Tribunal. They told me there was no need for that, they were going to let us out of the lease, all they needed from us was a vacation date.

Obviously they don't want to be dragged through the Tribunal process. Obviously they want to get new tenants ASAP because tomorrow is only 6 months til our lease is meant to end. Obviously they wanted to try and quietly screw us over again.

I got Rhiannon to call them back to tell them no deal. We're going to do this through official channels. They were spewing, telling us the Evil Agent in question is on leave for four weeks so she couldn't go to the hearing to defend herself against the "serious allegations" we made.

Well they'll just have to bloody work around that. After everything we've been through, there's no way we're going to let them intimidate us and back down. We never would have been in this mess if they'd just been honest with us. So we want our hearing, dammit.

But they did intimidate me...

(I was feeling pathetic as it was after Harry left yesterday. We took him over to his new house and he was running around the new yard looking quite happy until we shut the gate. Then he jumped up and wrapped his paws round my arm and started whimpering. That little bastard!

Before he left our house, he refused to sit still so Rhi could take a photo of us together. He headbutted me and put his dirty paws all over my skirt. Then licked my forehead in the car. But when we went to leave he went all wimpy and I felt so heartbroken. The little bugger stood there staring mournfully as we drove off.

I was okay til later that night til I saw some leftovers in the bin and wondered why they were in the bin when Harry could eat them. Then I started bawling like an idiot coz I realise we didn't have our four-legged garbage disposal anymore.)

... so yeah, today was okay til the agents called me and tried their stand-over tactics. They're so good at rattling me, at making me feel like I'm the one at fault, like we're causing trouble. Boss Helen asked me if I was okay and of course I chose that moment to start howling again at work in front of everyone most pathetically.

I dunno why it hurts so bad, I thought I'd handle it all better. I am scared about all this, about finding somewhere new to live. And I am angry at those bastard agents who just think we'll let this slide on the quiet. They have no idea of the shit they've caused for us and they don't give a flying fuck. I am trying not to panic but it's all so bloody overwhelming.

All they had to do back in October was say "the tenants don't want pets on this property". We would have said cool, no worries, we'll keep living at our other place. But they were so eager to get a tenant that they decided to deceive us.

I am so sick of this shit. I hate coming home now the yard is empty. There's noone sitting at the kitchen window watching us cook dinner, standing outside the toilet window staring you down, no little paws scratching at my bedroom window at night asking for a pat. Noone to kick me in the head or to bite my toes at the clothesline. And where the hell do I get cuddles now? The source of cuddles is gone.

I don't care if those bastards find my site and see this. I just wish you could comprehend how shitty and pathetic and achy and sad I feel right now. I hate feeling like this. I hate not knowing where I will be living. I hate being such a whiny shit. And I want my dog back, dammit.

I just lodged our application with the ACT Magistrates Court to have our lease terminated.

We now have to wait up to 14 days for the Tenancy Tribunal to read our application and send a copy to our real estate agent. 14 days? It's only been 14 minutes and already I feel violently ill. My mind is churning over the possibilities of how the agent will respond. What if she manages to tear down everything we've said?

We're going to have to have a hearing and everything. If we win, will we be able to find somewhere to live? If we lose and have to stay, will she make our life hell until the lease ends?

I just have to keep reminding myself, we've got a strong case and I'd never forgive myself if we didn't try. I've never done anything so official before, it's scary. Aarrrgh. I feel so sick with nerves that I want to hide under my desk, for up to 14 days.

I just feel sick inside. Everything seems to have turned to shit all at once. Why does that always happen?

I am terrified that we don't have a case. I'm terrified the agent will find a way to tear down our evidence, or that the tribunal will say we have no proof, or that we win and won't find somewhere else to live, or we'll lose and be stuck in that horrible house. I'm terrified that the agent will get away with snuffing out my doggie. I know we have to try though.

Update: Your comments are brilliant and really firing me up! I just read them all out to my sister. We will FIGHT! FIIIGHT, I tells ya!

The latest exciting update has been moved to the Harry Saga page.

But first have a look at Harry wrestling a giant dog with a mullet.

I don't know about you, but I was getting weepy seeing the dreaded Harry Saga™ every time I looked at this page. So I decided to move the whole mess over here for awhile. That is where I'll post any further developments. The page features the most pathetic photo ever:

Tonight the little bastard barrelled across the yard, leaped into the air, nipped my earlobe and put a pawprint on my shoulder. Considering he is a shrimpy one foot high and I am 5'8", he is quite the show jumper.

So I found the lease and the lease says "No pets allowed unless written consent from the owner." We did not have written consent. But after the real estate agents supposedly checked with the owners and got a Harry reference from my old landlord, we made a verbal agreement on the owners behalf, since the owners are overseas.

Turns out despite this agreement, the owners never wanted for the tenants to have a pet and they are pissed off beyond belief. The neighbour tattled to the owners about Harry and now the owners want him gone.

The real estate agent calls this a "terrible misunderstanding" between agent and the owners. I call it "tenants get royally fucked in the rear."

Before we moved I was living in one of the oldest and loveliest suburbs in Canberra. Our backyard was approximately the size of half a football field, and full of trees and rocks and bushes and even a pond for Harry to play in. The landlord thought we were great tenants, so when Miss E needed a place to live, we only agreed we'd move out with her if we could find a place that was good for Harry. We thought our new place was perfect, but doesn't seem the case now.

I had my little cry but now I am just fucking ANGRY! I would never, ever have moved if I'd known Harry wasn't welcome to the new place. There's been nothing but shit since we moved, starting with me accidentally plowing my car into another neighbours vehicle on the very first day we moved in, to the general inconvenience of the new house, now to the Harry Situation.

And all the agent can do is apologise endlessly and says she'll try help me find somewhere new for Harry to live. She also said, "Hey I have a dog, I know it's devastating. But gee your hair is looking great! What have you done to it?"

What!?!

My sister's trying to call the Tenancy Advice Service as we speak. I don't know what rights we have here but it sure feels like we're being screwed over.

Harry is completely oblivious to the current situation. I was feeling quite sad and went outside to sit with him. When he saw I had no food for him, he stuck his nose in the air and ran off to chase some birds. So I hauled him back over and made him sit on my lap. I gave him a scratch behind the ears and he rewarded me by leaping off and kicking me in the head. As I sit here rubbing the tender spot on my noggin', I begin to wonder why I am bothering to save his unaffectionate arse.

Anyway, thank you all for your advice and encouragment. I shall explain the lease situation. Well, I am not 100% sure until I find the freaking thing, but from memory the agents said we were allowed to have the dog, as long we had a reference (the agent from our last place gave Harry a glowing report) and that he didn't go inside (claws are no good for polished wooden floors).

I fear the actual lease may say no pets, because we got permission for Harry afterwards, and that was more of a verbal agreement I think. This was only October but do you think I can remember? The last quarter of 2001 is a blur for me :-( Anyway, we passed our house inspection with flying colours, the agent said the house looked lovely. And Harry was there at the time, bouncing around, so there wasn't any problem with him.

So legally, I'm not sure if it needs to be in the lease or whether the verbal agreement is valid. All I know is we did have permission to have the hound.

Our first move is going to be to find the lease, and then I am going to ask the agent for a copy of the letter that was apparently sent on December 18. It should surely have some explanation of why I am being asked to get rid of my beloved hound. Also, I am going to call the Tenants Advice Service once I find the lease (ta Matt for the link) and ask what they think.

I'm not confident I'm going about this the right way, I'm not used to being practical as my head is always in the clouds but I'm feeling feisty about the issue so we'll see how it goes.

In other news, Bitch Daniel has deserted the pack. After a year of cosy living, he's moved to his own domain, tinyplace.org. He's been a great mate and endlessly generous with his technical assistance so I am sad to lose this bitch. So have fun, chooky, and I hope you find some bitches of your own to kick around. It's fun.

Update: Can you believe this? Harry Aid™! Mwahaha. But please, don't send any money. A can of Pal is okay, if you insist.

Okay, I am crying like a big baby here. Got home today to find this letter in the mail:

Dear Tenants,

Further to my letter of 18th December, please confirm that action has been taken regarding the dog and that alternative arrangements have been made.

What?

So I rang the agent, looks like we did not receive the 18th December letter asking us to make Alternative Arrangements™ for Harry. Turns out a neighbour has complained to the owners of this house (who are currently in Vanuatu). What could they possibly have to complain about? He's only a little dog, he doesn't bark, he just jumps up and down like a dickhead. And he's never out of the yard.

I can't understand who complained either. Was it the Smug Bastards across the street? The only neighbours I know for sure that definitely know the owners are the ones who have Monty, Harry's former girlfriend. I asked them to please make sure Monty didn't come over anymore because she is a big dog and was wrecking the garden. Surely they wouldn't be pissed off enough about that to tell the owners of our house?

Whatever the reasons, the owners are not happy, and I have to find Harry a new home ASAP :-(

I don't know what the hell I am going to do, noone I know here in Canberra has the yard to have a dog. It's just not fucking fair. It's coming up to two years since I rescued him from the RSPCA, and I don't want to have to send him back there to certain death. He's not a smart dog, he can't do any tricks, he doesn't come when he's called but he's my Harry Pup and I love him to bits.

Really, this does not sound fair. Surely they have to give me an explanation.

Anyway. I better go tell Harry :-(

There's a stand-off happening in our backyard right now.

It's Harry...

... versus the Blue Tongued Lizard.

So far they're just lookin' at each other. I'll let you know if there's any developments.

When I lived in Reid, our yard was more like a jungle, and we had two storeys, so we could go days without seeing Harry. But now we're in a plain old house, and the windows are often at Harry eye-level. He sits opposite the kitchen window and stares at you while you're cooking dinner. You bitch, he says as he raises his doggy eyebrows, how dare you cook all those gourmet delights while I sit out here starving? He has very dark eyes and a steely gaze. I've tried staring contests with him but he always wins.

The low windows also mean that when one is trying to go the toilet, he sits on the grass outside the window basically staring you down. More than once I've heard Emily or her boyfriend shouting "Stop it! Just stop it!" and then run screaming from the room. But he just stays there with his piercing eyes. Sometimes he even wags his tail a little. It's most unsettling.

On the Harry Walk tonight I walked past a house with Christmas carols pouring out of it. On closer look, there were a bunch of grey geezers inside, standing in a row and singing their hearts out while one of those zany ladies conducted wildly. You know those zany ladies. Big hair, big earrings, big hand gestures and bright red lipstick.

The very next house had another open window and a handsome man sitting at a piano. He was playing some Christmasy tune and he had glasses and dark curly hair and a serious expression. We stood there listening as he played and I sent him ESP messages. Hey, Dark Curly Piano Guy, look at me. Look up at me and I'll smile then you'll smile back, then you'll invite me in and you can keep playing while I lay on top of the piano drinking wine and feeling the notes hum under my belly and it'll be loverly...

But the bastard didn't look up though. Bah humbug. So I told Harry to pee on his mailbox. That dog can urinate on cue, I tells ya.

It's hard to stay crotchety about Christmas when my flatmates are all spirited. Emily's done all her shopping already and is playing her Bing Crosby CD and making almond bread. Then on Sunday we bought a real live Christmas tree at the markets. I've never had a proper tree before. It looks beautiful. Except it makes me sneeze.

As if that wasn't Christmasy enough, Rhiannon then had the bright idea of baking our own tree decorations. I was actually entrusted to make the cookie dough. Half a kilo of flour landed on the floor but it worked okay. The fun part was the decorating. We had pink icing and green icing and those little silver ball thingies. Rhiannon's looked perfect, like the ones in the picture from the magazine (above) but mine looked a little mutated. But it has personality.

Harry's got a new girlfriend already, her name is Monty. We spent last Sunday constructing this wacky little fence so Harry couldn't escape, then came home Monday afternoon to find it completely destroyed. Monty had caught the good word that there was a new hot hound in the hood, and she'd been jumping over the fence all day to visit. Harry was all puffed and starry-eyed. I'm glad we got him desexed.

Friday afternoon I took Harry for a walk. We were just setting off when Mr and Mrs Smug Bastard emerged from their house with their perfect jogging outfits and their perfect dogs. They strolled with style up their perfect cobbled driveway, past the perfectly manicured garden with the perfect flowers sitting up straight and polite like kindergarten kids. I started to walk the other way when Mr Smug called out to me in the smuggest of tones.

"Hello, do you live in that house?"

Of course I bloody live in that house. How could they forget me smashing my car into their friend's car? It was less than a week before. "Yes I do live in that house."

He fixed his smug, patronising stare on me. "Did you know that black dog over there keeps coming over to see your dog?"

"Yes I know about that." Not only had Monty called in, the Smug Bastards dogs had been over too. Harry is a charismatic canine and very hard to resist.

"But do you realise she's been jumping over the fence? Running around in your yard?"

It didn't even occur to ask him how he knew about that, as he couldn't possibly see unless he'd right walked over to investigate. Or maybe he just sat around with a gigantic zoom lens, observing us a la Rear Window. Instead I just said, "Yes I know about that, and it's fine."

"But do you realise..." he asked with a dramatic pause, his lips curled with distaste, "Do you understand... that they have been getting... rather animated? If you know what I mean?"

There was many things I could have said to that nosy, smug, arrogant twat of a man:

"Animated, eh? I'm afraid I don't know what you mean?"

"Animated, eh? Well YOUR skanky hounds were over here last night and they seemed just as keen on Harry's hot ass."

"Animated, eh? Looks like he takes after his owner. Wink wink!"

"Animated, eh? You mean they were SHAGGING? You mean they were GETTIN' IT ONNNNN? You mean he was SINKING THE SAUSAGE LIKE THERE'S NO TOMORROW? Am I offending your religious sensibilities?"

"Animated, eh? Did they do it doggy style so they could both watch X-Files?"

But instead I could only mumble feebly, "Oh really? Cool!" before fleeing round the corner with my little tart of a dog.

We're moving. Just took Harry for a walk to see his new digs. He was running around peeing all over everything when I noticed the neighbours in the very posh house across the street watching us from the window. I could have smiled and waved and established a nice friendship, but instead I pretended not to see them and peered into windows and looked over my shoulder nervously as if I was casing the joint. Then I walked away very quickly. Maybe they've phoned the cops by now. I really need to find some proper hobbies.

Many happy returns and birthday huggles to the one and only Miss Fran for Friday. And also turning 29 today and not all worried about heading for thirty, is Tony!

Does anyone else suddenly feel terribly clingy and pathetic and afraid and hating to be alone? My sister is always asleep early and noone seems to be around. So I watch too much and read too much and worry and worry and worry. I am running up a ridiculous bill of international and long distance, just calling and asking if so and so is okay, just to hear voices, just to be reassured, just for the distraction. I know I am being annoying.

Here's Harry giving me the stink eye after his bath today.

We've solved mystery as to why Ollie keeps "climbing aboard" poor Harry every time they meet in the street. Ollie's Mum has revealed that Harry bears a strong resemblance to Jess, Ollie's old flame from Sydney. Ollie's getting old and a bit blind so I guess it's plausible he could make that mistake. Or maybe deep down he just thinks Harry has a really hot ass.

Speaking of which, we encountered the ACT Health Minister and his dogs on a recent walk. One very old and very fat golden retreiver and two yappy types. The yappy ones took a shining to young Harry, sniffing his butt repeatedly before declaring him indeed "quite healthy".

In other news, our black and white hero had been off his food lately. I'd been serving up delicious treats but all he did was sniff half-heartedly and give me that withering, "Is that all you got?" look. He turned up his nose at the usual PAL and Chum and Lucky Dog, so I bought him some expensive My Dog (Guaranteed To Tempt Fussy Eaters, apparently) and very frou-frou Good-O's. Again he wouldn't touch them, but Gordon from across the street jumped over the fence and very obligingly finished it for him.

In a last ditch measure I took a trip to Supabarn and bought some Chappi. And would you bloody believe it, he scoffed it down in ten seconds. He's had it four more times since and goes wild at the sight of that tacky green can. He even went for the Rex. And last night, I gave him a wee can of Bounce for an evening snack and he wolfed that down too. All along I've been trying to give the hound quality meals when what he really wanted was the crappy Chappi. Then again he's a white trash mutt from the local pound, what do you expect?

To create wacky blur effects with your camera, just get an weird little dog with a penchant for attacking his leash. No Photoshop required!

The hound is feeling the cold.

It's cold here. So cold that Gordon, the (female) dog across the street, has taken to wearing socks.

Harry nearly got flattened just now. By a Hyundai Excel of all things. If my little puptart is going to be mincemeat, I'd rather it be beneath a classier vehicle.

I often take him to a little park that's plonked in the middle of a cul de sac, surrounded by trees so he can't be distracted by the major road. But now all the trees are bare. He was sitting on the park bench beside me and I had just leaned over to hook his leash back on when he looked up and saw another dog up on the road. Before I could react he was barrelling onto the street and the Excel came speeding by at way more than the 50km/h limit.

Brakes screeched and horn blared but Harry just sauntered over to me so nonchalantly. I didn't know whether to hug him or kick his scrawny little arse. Arrrgh! I looked into his dopey eyes and said, "Do you realise you nearly JUST DIED!?!" I was rewarded with a blank stare and a lick on the nose. Bloody hell.

Some of my favourite autumn pics so far:

My lil sister Hollie. I love this shot coz it shows her shyness and also coz you can see Harry's nose in the bottom right corner.

On a tree outside my house.

Harry trying to destroy his leash.

It's Autumn!

Harry's tongue is so long it reminds me of one of those soup spoons you get at Chinese restaurants. His huge head, however, is only so because he was shot from above :)

Just now I was staring blankly out the window for the longest time, watching Harry sleep. He's very brown looking at the moment, coz he's dug up so much of the yard there's no grass left, so he just sleeps in the dust.

Here he is dozing with the remains of an ugly as fuck faux-Aztec rug that Mum gave us ("I can't believe you gave that rug to the dog! Do you have any idea how much that cost?"), and his new "pet", a big stick he seems to be carting round everywhere.

Then he heard the camera fire and woke up.

Then he comes up to the window and plops his big paws on the windowsill to glare at me.

Long-time stalkers may recall When Harry Met Olly, the fat fluffy dog from two doors down. They met again this eve when Harry took Shauna for a walk. Olly was looking much trimmer, he'd been to the canine hairdressers for a shave. It's amazing what a bale of fur lopped off can do for ones waistline.

Their fateful encounter went as follows: Olly sniffs Harry's snout. Harry licks Olly's nose. Olly nudges Harry's front paws. Harry runs underneath Olly. Olly runs around Harry. Leashes become entangled. Shauna leans down to untangle leashes. Olly steps on cord dangling from Shauna's headphones. Shauna loses balance, trips over Harry. Harry yelps and tries to run away. Olly tramples over Shauna and scratches her arm. Shauna swears profusely. Harry's leash wraps around Shauna's neck. Just as Olly's Mum says, "Well, looks like they missed each other!", Olly climbs aboard Harry... in the primitive sense. Harry is most indignant at this attempted invasion. Olly's Mum looks most embarrassed. "Keep your filthy mutt away from my dog's ass!", Shauna wants to say, but doesn't.

Olly and his Mum hurry off one direction. Harry and Shauna flee in the other. Harry is strangely quiet for a long while. Shauna wonders what Harry gets up to while she is at work.

It's April Fool's Day and my little furry April Fool turns 2 today. Happy Birthday, Harry Pup!

The little bastard shredded it!!! He can just freeze his fur off now, for all I care.

It's turned cold here all of a sudden, I got home to find drama queen Harry sitting by the gate trembling and whimpering and making me feel like a bad parent. So tonight I gave him another old lounge cushion to sit on. The first Great Lounge Cushion Experiment was in July 2000, and it was pure carnage! He was chained up for bad behaviour and sulked for hours (illustrated below). Please cross your fingers for me that he has grown up since then. If not, if anyone's free tomorrow for a Pickin' Up Foam Party, it'll be huge!

Shauna can't come to the blog right now. Please direct all correspondence to me.

Harry at the window this morning, whining for food.

Odd thing happened this afternoon. We opened our front door to let some air in, and a dog walked inside our house. Just like that. He stopped to let us give him a pat, then plonked himself down on the rug. We offered him a drink of water, coz he was a big fat dog and he was huffing away and he must have walked a long way in the scorching heat. But he didn't want a drink. He just rolled over and lay there with a little doggie smile. We didn't know who he belonged to so I told him he'd better go out, coz his mum and dad would be looking for him. But instead he wandered into the loungeroom and parked himself in front of the television.

My sister and I just gawked at him in shock. I mean, he was just sitting there like he owned the place, so quiet and lazy. We're used to our dog Harry, who never wanders around, he bounces. He's never quiet, he's constantly making whimpery "talking" noises. The only time he sat still was on New Years Eve, when he ran inside and hid under a pillow while the fireworks rattled the sky like gunfire.

So we sat there talking to Mystery Dog, while Harry threw himself at the window to make sure we were still aware of his presence. We talked about how cool it would be if this quiet old dog could be ours, a friend for Harry, maybe then Harry would settle down a bit! We tried to get it to roll over so we could see if it was he or she, but it was so fat and covered in thick fluffy fur, we couldn't find out. It took us about 20 minutes to convince the dog to get up and come outside and meet Harry. They sniffed each others' arses for awhile, then Harry became his usual annoying self, pouncing on the dog, wrapping his paws around its neck, nibbling its ankles. Then they chased each other all over the yard, and ran through the sprinklers. Mystery Dog would put its mouth right over the jet of water and snaps its jaws as it gulped the water. Harry stood back and watched in awe, coz Harry's a bit of a pussy really, and stays far away from the sprinklers.

We watched our new little family play while we made plans to renovate Harry's kennel, worked out how much extra it'd cost to feed another dog, decided the new hound needed a haircut, and I suggested if it was a girl we should call it Holly, coz it reminded me of my little sister, kinda sweet and serene. We had it all worked out when we heard a female voice yelling, "Olly! Olly? Where are you?"

Nooo! This could not be! We were tempted to stash the dog in the garden shed and play dumb, but Olly ran up to the gate and wagged its tail at his mum.

"So there he is! I've been looking everywhere..."

"He just walked into our house," said my sister. "So it's a he, eh? We couldn't tell coz of all that fur."

I was pretty proud that I was only one letter off guessing its name. But was pouty that we had to hand it back over. We walked him back through the house and out to his Mum, but he sat on our doorstep and started howling, and of course Harry joined in. It was a most pathetic chorus.

"Looks like they've become friends," said Olly's mum. "I only live three doors down, maybe Harry can come over and play some time?"

Three doors down? So much for the dogs great pilgrimage.

So there was much barking and howling and goodbyes and we parted company. The three us sulked about it for hours. Harry missed his new friend, we missed how much less annoying Harry was when Olly was around. So if anyone's got a fat old dog they want to rent out, let me know, eh?