Sick as a dog
This is my fifth day of the flu. I have literally been lying on the couch for the past four days – except for this morning when I went on the Million Paws Walk to raise money for the RSPCA. And to dog watch. I saw the cutest whippet wearing a black turtleneck.
Of course, Mooshi was the cutest. Plus her little sausage dog friend Frankie.
Mooshi is my pug in case you are wondering — and if you are from Germany or speak German you would be wondering, because it sounds like the word for female genitalia… I know. Remind me not to take Mooshi to Europe. She was ACTUALLY named after my favourite take away — Moo Shi Fried Rice. Fried Rice is her middle name.
It seems like writers are traditionally supposed to have cats — think Edgar Allan Poe, Charles Dickens, and Ernest Hemingway, who owned about 30 cats and now has a breed named after him. Mark Twain (pictured below) was also a fan of the feline and wrote: If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve man, but it would deteriorate the cat.
I used to have a cat, but we disagreed — I wanted him to be an indoor cat and he wanted to be an outdoor cat. He now lives with my mum. But he left me with a scar on my wrist as a parting gift. Mooshi is half cat though. She likes to curl up in the washing basket. She HAS to be in your lap — especially if I have my heated blanket on, like now. And of course her face looks more like a cat than a dog.
I think that means I am technically a cat person. I just cheated by getting a pug.