Reports of my death

 are greatly exaggerated.

Just having a snooze in the sun with my head resting on an old clay pot.

Not unlike Grimshaw and Grandma Grimshaw using rocks as pillows on White Sands beach.

More worrying news

from London this time.  Check it out here .  Paws and reflect.

New York New York

Check it out.  I could make it there.

Humouring Grimshaw

It's Mothers Day.  I say no more.

Gladstone-Bag speaks

I speak from the Head Perfect's Chair.  I must correct a misapprehension.  She is Miss Grimshaw.  Nothing Ms about her.  She does not hold with new-fangled ideas and likes to keep bloodlines pure.  I fear she will be amiss until the day she dies.  For a while I thought there was something going on with her and Sam the Useful, and then the Artist in Residence but I see no recent evidence.  I hold some hope for Mr Google - I believe they met on the internet.  I have heard his server is often down so that must be awkward.  Mr Firefox apparently finds this embarrassing.  I like the sound of him.

Back with a v

Some of you may know that, sympatico with Grandma Grimshaw, I was a little pawly over Easter.  The lump on my elbow suddenly got larger and Sam the Useful had to take me to the vet, who kindly removed it. Then last Friday I had what Mr Google describes as a 'vestibular event'.  It took me a cuppla days to recover.  Yesterday Grimshaw took me back to the vet to have my stitches removed - all is ok.  I am recuperating.  The acute observer may notice the ears of Samhain the Fox behind me - little vixen.

Christmas Treats. Not.

Grimshaw drives past here everyday.  And did we get any for Christmas?  No sirree.

Not a Happy Hound, John.  Or Jack.