Kennels

You might have noticed, if you've been reading my lady's blog that last week she and her sister took off to someplace called France. I've never been there. The week before that she went to someplace called TheWedding. I've never been there either. She goes all over the place. She flies up in the sky, and crosses water on boats, and I've never done either of those things either. When my lady goes to these places, I get to go to The Kennels. The kennels is a place with a lot of dogs, basically. There are cats, too. And horses. When I get to go out for my run at the kennels, I get to roll in horse-poo. Fun!!! It's not the worst place in the world. I'm warm and fed. And I get the occasional cuddle. But know what? It's not home. It just is not home.

Now, I know I shouldn't be looking for too much sympathy. It's a cross of my own making in many ways, because if I could bring myself to enjoy travelling in the car - or to simply tolerate it without making a horrendous din - then I'd probably be brought on some of her trips. I'd get to visit the Dad, who loves dogs, and would love to have me visit. I'd probably get to go to the pub with him, sit under his table and get fed tidbits from the barman. But I can't tolerate a 5-mile journey, never mind a 220-mile journey, so I get to go to the kennels, while she traipses off all over the country for her weekends, her workshops, her family "things".

I'm only writing this, because I've been brought home (out on some kind of temporary parole) for a few days! Really! She collected me yesterday, and now I'm hearing mentions of Thursday travelling. This is ridiculous! Am I, or am I not, her companion-animal? What kind of companionship is that? Will someone please let her know that I'm not happy about this?