Pigs

My lovely dog Job *cough*
Likes for some reason to stand on the picnic table (when I let him on the verhanda – of course when Dad is not around). I honestly think he’d rather play than eat, has a passion for anything thats squeaks, likes tennis balls, does not like sticks. Dad continually threatens to get rid of him as I’m “not home often enough”.

Talking about pets. Laura reminded me of something quite funny the other day.
There was a bird stuck in the flew of our Canarra. We talked about it and then forgot it. The next night we heard it again, I was pretty insistant that Dad ‘get it out’ as I felt sorry for the poor thing. It turns out that it managed to claw its way back up the chimney. No bird.

When I was about 7 (or so) we had two guniea pigs. Terminator (don’t ask) and Punky. We had this Barbie car as pink and hidious as they come. So we thought it’d be cool if the guniea pigs could drive. So I put one of them into the car – it crawled straight down inside. Soon we realised that it was stuck. I entirely freaked out, like really freaked out and started crying for the guniea pig, Laura started crying for the car as I was saying, “Smash it Dad, smash it!”, Em was crying for some reason and Hannah was crying simply because the rest of us were.

In the end I think Dad unscrewed the car, after we unsucessfully managed to pull the guniea pig out by it’s hind legs or shake it out. And calm was once again restored.