Archive for the ‘The Diary of Bruce the Labrador’ Category

Friday 25th November:

I’ve given it two weeks. Two weeks. I’m a dog, my memory doesn’t even last that long but I cannot get this frustratingly glorious man out of my head. It’s not even like it’s just his voice in my head. It’s his everything. I mean that’s obviously why I’ve been named after him. We’re both pretty amazing.

It’s not like I haven’t been keeping busy. I’ve achieved a lot in the last two weeks. I mean, Nick wouldn’t agree, but what does that idiot know about…well, anything? The guy doesn’t even chase squirrels, what an idiot. He wouldn’t agree because apparently completely digging up the front garden, tearing the heads off the flowers and depositing them in the holes isn’t an achievement. He called it bad behaviour. I call it landscaping. But there we go. And that’s not everything. I managed to catch seven flies that wandered past my nose, eliminate a flea in an awkward area and next door’s cat and the post man’s leg will never be the same after the incident with me yesterday. I showed them.

But despite all of this noble work, I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. OK, that’s a lie, I can eat, and I sleep quite a bit too but I feel like if I didn’t want to enough, then I wouldn’t be able to. He’s all I can think about. Him and whatever Nick’s cooking right now anyway.

I decided that I must meet him. But unfortunately, travelling opportunities are sparse for us canines. A man wants to take up and wander the world, he’s called a traveller. A dog wants to, and he’s called a stray. But I suppose a synonym of stray would be lost, and I haven’t been this lost and confused since I was neutered. And I feel, just like then, like I’ve lost my marbles.

But meet him I must, so I came up with a rather cunning plan. And considering most of my notions are pretty brilliant (eating the entire nativity display in the school where Nick works went down a treat) and tend to go as I planned if perhaps not well appreciated. But most brilliant minds are ahead of their times I suppose.

Anyway, Nick’s been seeing this girl right? Typical sort, not good enough for him obviously. I mean what can she do for him that I can’t? OK, there’s that, but perhaps a quick trip to the human vet and snippity snip Nick won’t think about it anymore? Worked for me. Anyway, he had her over for dinner last night, she tried to scratch my ears as she came in, pfft, I gave her the underside of my tail and sat in between her Nick on the sofa. It’s like I’m jealous says she. Not jealous you massively simple homosapien, you’re just not right for him. No one is, we’re quite happy thank you, so just leave. But she doesn’t. But that’s fine, I have more important things in store for this evening, and I don’t just mean her reaction when she sees the little gift I’ve bestowed upon her shoes.

As Nick babbles along about himself and his life to this ridiculous excuse for a companion (who’s man’s best friend again Nick?) I decide it’s time to my make move. I remove myself from the comfortable seat of Nick’s feet and cease drooling on this unsuspecting girl’s handbag and make my way casually over the desk. Here I discretely paw the remote control on the seat causing the stereo to come on. No prizes for guessing what album was playing.

As Nick discusses his love for the Boss of which it seems she also shares, (as if they know what love is, spend the last two weeks in my paws and then they’d know) I saunter along and place my head in his lap. It doesn’t take him long to realise I have something in my mouth, and not a sock or a dead bird this time. A newspaper. Yes Nick I realise that it’s funny that you can’t teach me to bring the newspaper from the door at breakfast time when  you want it. Yes I realise that I shouldn’t have it now. Please just take it from me you fool, I won’t even play tug of war. He takes the paper and sees what page is open. A certain someone is touring the UK, yeah he is.

As Nick stumbles in his conversation with the hitherto unaware girl, I wait for him to process what he’s just read and how much of a fantastic date this might make. Come on Nick, it doesn’t take a genius. There we go, and we’re in. Date is signed, sealed and delivered. They’re going to watch Bruce Springsteen, live, in Hyde Park. Park. That’s right. What does park mean? I’ll tell you. It means one simple sentence: Dogs Allowed bitch.


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After a tweet from an old friend, I was given inspiration to write something about a dog who was in love with Bruce Springsteen. A challenge I know! But one I have decided to rise to and produce in the form of diary entries. By stringing the story out it allows me to ramble a bit more which I do love to do and gives me an ongoing project. Shouldn’t that be your dissertation I hear you ask? Shut up.

Friday 11th of November

This morning was just the same as any other. My master Nick came downstairs, I was even happier to see him than usual, the idiot forgot to let me out last night so I had all four legs crossed and was ready to cock a leg. After this was successfully taken care of; breakfast was the next thing on my mind. The normal routine, I receive watery biscuits that apparently we canines just adore whilst Nick makes himself a bacon sandwich, idiot. Which would I prefer? Let’s have a guess my dim-witted pedigree chum, the begging that you tell me off for so regularly? It doesn’t take a dog doctor to identify how excited I get at the prospect of your nourishment over my own. Idiot. Still, the you’re the one with opposable thumbs, therefore you have the power, c’est la vie.

So like I said, a pretty average morning. After my unsatisfactory breakfast I wait for Nick to go and get the post, a perfect opportunity to finish off the bacon sandwich that he definitely does not deserve. Ha, he never learns, idiot. Besides, you can tell me how much of a bad boy I am Nick, but that sandwich is full of calories, and when we walk together, you don’t see me throwing that stupid stick for you to run constantly around the stupid field burning off all of the rubbish I eat that you don’t know I eat. In short, I’m doing you a favour you idiot, that belly is not getting any smaller my portly prince.

After my scolding Nick sits to read the newspaper, probably the time that I should make amends. So after cleaning the more delicate parts of my undercarriage (Nick don’t look at me with such disgust, if you could reach there you’d never leave the house) I saunter over and deposit myself on his feet and glance up at what is so terrible today in the world of my simpleton rulers. The normal: war, terror, poverty and economic disaster; sucks to be you guys. At least you don’t have a compulsive and irrational phobia of the damn hoover. It is at this point that Nick flips to the Lifestyle section, oh great, let’s all see what the media has to say about how we should live our lives and how we should model ourselves on celebrities. As if there are any decent ones out the there to model ourselves on. Idiots, that’s what they are. Situation normal.

However, Nick turns to me at this point and says, “Hey Brucey, wanna see who you’re named after?” You didn’t. You just couldn’t have. Tell me please, you idiot, that you did not name me after one of these pathetic parasites that rule your world, I could not bear it. A singer? Bruce Springsteen? Brilliant. If I did not have this innate compulsion to love and adore you I would hate you so much right now. What’s that? You’re in the mood to listen to some of “The Boss” now? Brilliant.

Yes, by all means put it on, I’ll wag my tail and do something that amuses you and causes you to think, wow he actually likes it! So on it comes, hmm, I suppose it’s not as bad as it could be. I’ve definitely heard worse tripe coming out of those speakers. What’s this album called? Born to Run eh? Not bad, not bad at all, just shows how good I am really doesn’t it?

That afternoon was unlike any I’d ever had. OK, rolling in that badger faeces and chewing up Nick’s iPad was all in a days work but there was something else. I noticed that, as I felt that satisfying crunch in my mouth as £399 worth of plastic tends to impart, I had a strange tune in my head. Something about some girl called Mary and “one last chance to make it real”? Yes, I, a dog, have “Thunder Road” stuck in my head. I have the attention span alike to a toddler, and I have this song in my head.

After chasing one of the more persistent fleas I’ve had in my 33 years (or 5 to you) I trotted over to the stereo and pulled down the conveniently placed tea towel which had Born to Run placed upon it. After chewing to pieces the plastic that protected the CD (no thumbs okay?) I casually browsed through the leaflet within the recently deceased CD case. It was then that I came across him. Bruce Springsteen. “The Boss”. He’s not an idiot. He’s glorious. All of a sudden I realise my tail is thumping against the side of the table and cutlery is falling off. As the single black strands of my hair descends gracefully across my vision, it hits me. I am in love.

But I can’t be in love. I’m a dog! I can’t even see what colour hair this idiot has, I’m colour blind! But still the rest the day found me constantly wondering what life would be like if Springsteen was indeed my owner, I could summarise in just one word. Paradise. Come on, shake it off Brucey, go have a nap, I’m sure this’ll be another bad dream that Nick laughs at as he sees you twitching and moaning on the floor. Yeah, that’s what this is, a dream.

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