Well. Sunday means two things in our house. Breakfast in bed and a walk on the beach. Mum's had her USA cookery book out and today's breakfast looked DIVINE. It was french toast with bacon. Then mum went and poured maple syrup on top. VOMITROCIOUS! Whatever next? Honey on my Chappie? Pigs ears dipped in Golden Syrup?
Mind you, I'd have still given it a go, despite the maple syrup. Mum came back upstairs to bed with the plate, a huge mug of tea and the paper. Cyril and I did our best to look like those starving, bedraggled mutts you see on the RSPCA adverts. Look at me, sucking my stomach in! Look at Cyril's beseeching 'Oliver Twist' eyes. Mum was not fooled, she booted us off the bed and we didn't get a crumb. Wouldn't happen in Rolf Harris's house. I told Cyril we should ring the Dogs' Trust and report mum for neglect.
Because of all the snow and ice mum hadn't managed to get to the beach for weeks. Cyril had never seen the sea before. I hadn't either, until I moved in with mum. At first I could tell the shaggy, yellow-bellied wimp was terrified. He just stood there, frozen, while I ran around. He said he was worried the sea air would turn his hair to frizz. He's very vain.
What was I saying about vain? Look at this. Mum had her camera and Cyril just couldn't help posing. I mean, who is he trying to impress with that one-ear at a jaunty angle stance? Where does he think he is, in the Pets at Home catalogue? He truly is the Warren Beatty of hounds.
NO brother of mine is going to stand around looking cute all day! He's not the bloody Andrex puppy after all! I wigged my wag straight over there to give him a bit of Hetty's tough lurcher lovin'. That got him moving! Run Cyril! Run like the wind!
All that running got us thirsty. Cyril tried to drink the sea-water. He's got a lot to learn, that boy. I just cooled my paws. When we got home mum went and left us. She was going to the pictures to see Up in the Air with George Clooney. Mum says George Clooney is proof that a man can be drop-dead gorgeous and totally asexual and unfanciable. She prefers Walter Matthau. I asked her what he looked like. 'He has a face like a chewed toffee and has joke-store eyebrows', she said. Yikes! Sounds like some kind of bulldog. Sometimes I think our mum is a bit strange.
While mum was out I gave Cyril a lesson in kitchen work-top scavenging. Last week we snaffled a whole packet of raw spaghetti. Yum! We even ate it on mum's bed. Mum was complaining about little pricks all night.
Today we found a huge box of dog biscuits. Mum had forgotten to put them away! There was a month's supply in that box you know. Cyril and I polished them off in no time. I feel a little sick now, to be honest. But, it was worth it. That'll teach mum for not sharing her breakfast (burp)!
If only every day was like Sunday. It truly is the best day of the week. That sounds like a song, don't you think?