Daniella hates me

Why are you doing this to me? Haven't I always been good? I never bark, and I always go to my bed when you shout "a la cama" at me. I even spin round in a circle when you say "spin", even though it makes me look like a prize tit.

Ok, I know I beg for food and that really pisses you off, but I can't help it. And yes, I'll admit I scratch the hell out of the big white cold food box. But that's when you've both gone and I'm just bored. Can't you leave me in the room with the talking picture box instead?

You know I hate water. That's why I refuse to go in for a swim when you take me to the lake. Those other dogs who gallop in there in pursuit of sticks are just morons. There could be anything in there and it's just not nice.

So why do you insist on putting me in here every once in a while and spraying me with it and covering me with soapy stuff? You can see I'm not enjoying myself. Even when i cry you don't let me out.

You just wait till I get out of here. I'm going to do my special fat wobbling shake and cover you in dirty water.

And your whole house is going to STINK of wet dog. Ha ha.

Basically she shat the bed

What is it about talking on the phone at work that always puts me on edge? Am I worried that it'll be someone talking to me in Spanish and I won't understand what they're saying? Or am I more concerned it'll be someone talking to me in Spanish and I will understand them, and I'll have to talk back to them?

Both cases mean I'll have to speak in my second language and my co-workers will hear me, and that makes me feel shy. It's something unexplainable, this silly little spider of worry spinning non-sensical webs in my ear. I'm not shy, why do I act like this?

My Spanish is fine. Not drop dead amazing with a capital MAZE, but it's fine. And my co-workers are nice. They wouldn't cuss me, laugh at me or ridicule me or put me down in any way for making a mistake. Yet still it remains. Kind of like a misplaced pride - the sort that kept me saying si, si si, for my first few years in Spain rather than admit I didn't know what the person was talking about, and ask them to repeat themselves.

Anyway, I don't know why I'm so worried about it, as the only person who really seems to call me at work is the bloke, and our conversations are usually so dull it's not worth listening in to. Well not usually, anyway.

A particular one this week really broke the mold. And I know my colleagues were all listening in, as they howled with laughter - like demented banshees - in the appropriate place. Can you guess where it is if I lay it out for you, as they would have heard it - one sided?

"Hola, fine yes…. Well basically she shat the bed… Yes, I put it in the washing machine… I don't know… runny…. a bit…. I don't know, did you feed her anything weird?… Well I didn't… she was fine this morning… I've got to go anyway… see you later… te quiero."

I was talking about our little dog Daniella, and you kind of get the idea from the conversation above. I don't have to clarify it do I? Really no. I've never really managed to talk quietly on the phone, that's why I usually leave the office if my mobile rings. But on this occasion I just threw caution to the wind. Guess I'm just still in holiday mode.

Or is 2011 going to be the year for caring less about what people think?

Things I like part five - Daniella

With Daniella it was love at first sight. Which sounds ridiculous, but it's true.

Long before the bloke and I got back together he would send me the occasional email telling me bits about his life. And I would do the same. But of course it was only the good parts - the bits that made me sound extra fun and just that little bit wild.

After all you don't want to tell the person who once made your stomach tie up in knots (and still did a little) about your moments of self doubt. The times when you really scratched your head and looked at the years stretching off ahead, wondering where they would take you.

One of these emails came with a picture attachment. "I've got a cocker Spaniard," wrote the bloke. "Take a look at my bitch Daniella."

After I'd had a little chortle to myself about the Spaniard/Spaniel confusion I opened the attachment. The bloke's brown eyes hit me like a brick. But before I could start to dwell to much on the ghost of relationships past, I looked at what he was holding in his arms - the cutest white little dog I'd ever seen.

After I'd decided that she seemed to be smiling, I stopped to check out the bloke's messy Seventies-style kitchen. Then I started to think about who would have taken the picture. Not for one minute did I ever think that I would one day make dinner in that kitchen. That I would effectively walk right into that photo.

But I did, and Daniella was part of the bargain. All of a sudden I was part of a ready made family of three. Constantly picking white hairs off my clothes, out of my shoes, and even out of my own hair.

By rights, she should have hated me, an intruder stealing away attention. Because of me she was instantly demoted from sleeping in the bed to her own basket on the floor, and was banished from the furniture. But she didn't.

Maybe it was because I took her on nice long walks, unlike her master. Or maybe it was because I made said master happy just by being around. Or maybe it's because - for all I love her - she's really not that bright and couldn't connect my arrival to her new rules.

There were new rules for all of us, after all. I couldn't play the radio really loud in the morning - you can't really do that in a duplex apartment to your poor sleeping partner at 5.30am. He couldn't play the TV really loud till the early hours of the morning - you can't really do that in a duplex your partner who needs to get up at 5.30am.

Deep fat fried anything wasn't on my menu. Salad wasn't on his. We found a middle ground - as eventually did, both habitually and culturally I think. And Daniella was there through all of it.

I like her for this and more. How she barks in her sleep when she'd never dare do that in real life. For the way she'll bustle happily up to any living creature she finds in the street - where it's a rotweiller or an angry mangy cat. How she's so loving with the bloke's nephews, even when they pull her ears and poke her in the eyes.

There is nothing bad about my dog and all the memories I have connected with her are good ones. How many things or people can you say that about?