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Terry's Stories about his Bull Terrier Morris from Dogs Today Magazine



Ticking..Ticking.. Ticking

READ THIS ONE BECAUSE I AM IN IT!!
Time spent worrying about Morris is part of the natural order 
of things around here. Herself and I have our worry schedule just 
about sorted these days - kids, places, Morris, various techy 
in laws, Morris, England's sporting prowess(Herself refuses to 
subscribe to this one), Morris, menopause's male and female,
and when that lot are suitably worried about, we fill our spare 
time with more concerns about...well Morris mainly.

Morris-based worries are built upon two foundations First, we
fret about the things he does to himself, and then we are forced
to consider the threat he poses to the world around us. Self 
damage is frequent and very seldom cheap to repair. He's never
gnawed his own leg off or anything (cue chorus of "yet") but the
headfirst, bang-crashity-boom approach to life that all bull
terriers employ has left him with a repertoire of structural
damages rarely found in a single dog- or at least one that is
still alive.

Mere annoyances like chair leg splinters in his lips, sunburn 
on his fat belly and the countless bric-a-brac items he's scoffed
and blocked up his bum with over the years, would be two a penny
if only they didn't end up costing 50 pounds and upwards.  Major
catastrophes of the home wrecking kind, which is Morris's
specialist subject by miles, can run to hundreds of pounds each
but as I point out to Herself at least three times a week, how 
many times has Morris saved us from being burgled?

How many flannel footed scumbags have thought better of it, after
casing our joint only to witness the terrifying phenomenon that
is Morris head butting the side gate off its hinges to get at a
passing earwig? Once, after being taunted by a particularly
disrespectful woodlouse, Morris made it clean through the gate,
snapping the jaw eroded timber bars with a mighty crack and 
scattering a posse of nearby dustmen like ninepins."Bleed'nell
Mate', quoth the first refuse technician able to draw a coherent
breath,'You can't lend me yer dog could yer-I've got the Muvverin
Law coming over next week.'

Normal worries apart, this time Morris is reeeealy caused us concern. You see, it's been over three weeks since his last
disaster, and the suspense is killing us. It's like living with
an unexploded bomb. The way things are going it'll be a 
blessed relief when I waddle into my office to find that Morris 
has eaten my briefcase again or pee'd on something essential.
At least this awful waiting will be at an end.  I'd even consider
a mangled briefcase covered in slobber a bit of a let-off,
compared to some of the unspeakable crimes Morris could be 
gathering. What if his on going resentment at being excluded 
from flopping out on the posh chaiars finally erupts? I'd trip
lightly down the stairs to greet the new day, only to find 
myself thigh deep in stuffing, sofa springs and designer fabric.
I'd be instantly murdered in a hail of hysterical screaming and 
flying spittle and for days afterwards, every time a fragment 
of soft furnishing appeared in Morris's poo, Herself would 
totally re-kill me because of 'what I'd allowed him to do'.

Considering that there are at least 30 potential catastrophes
contained within every room of this house and that's not counting
the traditional standby's of plague, pestilence, famine or 
drought all of which Morris can conjure up without breaking sweat
is it any wonder that sleep is at a premium these days?

As a welcome diversion in this time of impending trauma, Morris 
and I have contributed our entire technical incompetence to the 
Internet. Yes folks, the World Wide Web now has a bemused beardy 
bloke and a brainless bull terrier caught up in it. We campign
under the banner of terry@wordbender.demon.co.uk and it's all 
thanks to  an email Morris got from a fan in Calgary- that's
Calgary, Alberta. The Canadian Calgary. The one that's a very 
long way away but it's still heard of us. How very important we
are these days.

Mrs. Marty Schacht emailed Dogs Today and said kind Canadian
things about Morris's exploits.Unable to reply e-mdiately, I
enquired of a wired up colleague as to how many degrees in 
electronics one required to exploit the Internet. 'Er, s'easy
Tel. You jus' click fings wiv the mouse an' that.' And do you
know, he's absolutely right. In fact, the only fear I now have
about the Internet, is how much my enjoyment of it is eventually
going to cost me in phone bills.

Of course! That's what Morris's next great disaster is going to
be. I'll log off the 'net after surfing a riveting web site
devoted to hanging baskets or something, whereupon Morris will
plonk his stupid nose on my keyboard and by the luck that has
cursed me all my life, he'll connect me to
'pennyplumpthighs@thrashrubber.uk'. It'll be three days before
I notice it and by that time I'll be 200 pounds down. What fun
I'll have explaining that little lot to Herself.

Oh God, please let Morris wee on the bloody carpet-just once more.

END