I have instructed my scribe and general factotum to write this communication to you even though he’s a fool. Albeit a good-hearted, well-meaning fool. Let me explain.

I think you already know I greatly respect Queen Elizabeth and the way that she and her family have stolen so egregiously from the British public. I think it’s fair to say I model myself upon her. (Still not got that paw-waving thing going right, though.)

Anyway, my scribe and factotum, knowing my admiration for the Queen thought it would be a good idea for me to dress like her. Unfortunately, he didn’t get it right. No frumpy dress in some bright colour. (Canary yellow would have been good.) And no matching hat. No, he goes and gets me a ruff. It’s Elizabeth II I want to be like, not Elizabeth I! I just look ridiculous.

Princess Rye and the Virgin QUeen

It was quite a fuss getting the ruff made and fitted. My factotum took me to an establishment specialising in providing dogs with ruffs. And I had to stay there for several days whilst it was done. I think the tailor wasn’t very good though. He must have slipped and cut me on my tummy whilst I was asleep. He then sewed a few stitches there, perhaps thinking I wouldn’t notice what had happened.

I’m really surprised that my factotum doesn’t know the difference between the Virgin Queen and Brenda. After I remonstrated with him, and as he walked away, I’m sure I heard him mutter “you may not ever be the virgin queen, but now you’ll always be the virgin princess”. I wonder what he meant?

Princess Rye


Yesterday I took puppy Rye to the vet for a routine vaccination. Before administering the injection the vet took her body temperature in a most ignominious fashion. The temperature was high; she had a fever. No vaccination; I was asked to bring her back the next day.

And today when I took her back, she was still running hot.

She’s going to spend a couple of nights at the vet.

Whisky and Rye have never seen eye to eye. He snarls at her when she comes close, whilst she loves to jump on him and bite his legs.

Now Whisky is sitting, looking at Rye’s empty crate and whimpering.

As Jodi Mitchell sang

“You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone”.

And I too am grieving with a sense of senseless loss for a different reason.

As Tolstoy wrote

“Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”.


I have instructed my scribe and general factotum to write this communication to you. After all, to put paw to keyboard would be below my station in life. I don’t “do” manual work because I’m a princess: Princess Rye.

Princess Rye

Princess Rye

I was born on my father’s estate a little over two months ago. I’ve never met my father. He must be far too important and busy to see me, but I know his name because the estate is named after him. He’s called “Industrial”.

I model myself on the British Royal family. I can’t wave my paw like Queen Elizabeth yet, but I’m very good at wagging my tail. I also can’t purr like her. (Scribe tells me it’s strange that she purrs. He doesn’t believe that blood-sucking, alien lizards purr – even shape-shifting ones.)

Unfortunately I have to share my palace with a very common dog called “Whisky”. I’m not sure why he’s here. He’s a most unpleasant, low down cove, born on the wrong side of the highway. In fact, quite literally born at the side of the highway. He really doesn’t understand his position in society. When I steal his chews or eat from his dog bowl he gets most aggitated, growls and snarls. Such terrible manners and a complete lack of respect. Doesn’t he understand that it’s perfectly acceptable for royalty to steal from poor people? After all, the British royal family has been doing it with impunity for centuries.

The only respite I get from Whisky is when I retire to my bed chamber at night. My factotum locks the chamber door to keep him out. Whisky sleeps on the palace floor as befits a common cur.

My scribe and general factotum isn’t the smartest puppy in the litter. I often need to bite his ankles to make sure he’s paying attention to me, and sometimes I need to wait several seconds after I yap for him to open the door to my bed chamber. Such laxness is not appreciated.

Anyway, time for me to inspect the palace grounds. I feel the urge to perform a royal pee.

Princess Rye


silly master Whisky Portrait
he doesn t know that
he s acquired a puppy

he thinks it s a rhinocerous

whenever she starts chewing the sofa
or bites his leg he calls out


perhaps master wanted a rhino
because they make
enormous quantities of pure

greedy master

anyway she s a puppy
not a rhino
but she does make lots of pure
nine pieces in one day
that must be a record

i think she s just showing off
to impress master
so he doesn t get rid of her
after all
she s an abject failure
in so many other ways

consider her art work
the best she can manage
is tearing up newspaper
soaked in her own urine
so derivitive
i m pretty sure tracy emin
has done that already
more than once

and as for frog killing
absolutely useless

after she failed to kill
the first training frog
master got her another one
even smaller

it s still alive

she tried to drown it

Frog Drowning

Frog Drowning

stupid dog
doesn t she know that
frogs are ambiguous

that means they can live on land
and in water

that s the only certain way

she s also so stupid that
she thinks i want to
play with her

doesn t she understand that
my snarls and growls mean that i
like greta garbo
just want to be left alone

and i really hate it when
master gives her treats and tummy rubs
he should only do that for me
for is it not written

the lord your dog is a jealous dog


you shall have no other dogs before me

i ask once again
how much longer will master
put up with this waste of fur




29. August 2014 · 1 comment · Categories: Rye

I thought it might be a good idea to find a companion for Whisky, and at the same time get another dog off the streets and into a good home.

A friend learned of a litter of 10 puppies living on an industrial estate close to the side of the road. There was every possibility that some of them would get run over.

Mother and litter

Mother and litter

An attempt was made to relocate the litter and mother to a safer area. However, mother had different ideas, and took them back, one by one, to the roadside.

It really was important that the puppies be adopted if they were to be safe, despite their only being 3 weeks old and not yet weaned. (Puppies should normally be separated from their mothers at around 3 months old.)

But which one to pick? They all look so cute.

Pick of the Litter

Pick of the Litter

I left that to a friend who picked her from the litter, took her to the vet for a check-up, and then brought her home to me.

To be honest, there’s more than a little guilt in making the choice. I’d said I wanted one of the spotty ones, not a plain white one. I wanted a puppy, rather than adopting an adult dog. I was making choices based upon appearance, cuteness, which seems wrong.

That was a week ago today. Since then I’ve been bottle feeding her every three hours, though now she’s also started to eat semi-solid food. Every day I see a change. She ranges further around the house. She’s learnt how to climb up a small step between kitchen and sitting room. She’s learned to run and how to bound over objects. What she hasn’t yet learnt to do is to poo regularly. I sometimes have to rub her with a warm, wet cloth to stimulate her, as a mother would do with her tongue.

The only dark cloud (other than sleeplessness) is that Whisky doesn’t like her (yet, I hope). He mostly ignores her when she’s in her crate, but will come and growl at her if she’s outside. He’d almost certainly attack her, given a chance. A few days ago he bit me on the arm whilst making a frenzied attempt to get at her. It’s the first time he’s bitten me since he was a puppy, and the first time he’s bitten me not by accident. (Once he bit me on the big toe and drew blood.)

And today I heard the good news that all 10 puppies have now been adopted.