Greetings my most beloved Pals! Gather round the fireside and ready yourselves to hear of what larks occurred last week on my therapy dog visit to the local care home. I have been registered for a little while as a therapy dog and as far as I can see it is a win win situation for me. It consists of me receiving a type of gentle adulation that I have begun to become very much accustomed too.

Muvver and I arrived in the morning, me gently nursing my recent dew claw injury and her getting into a tangle trying to put her mask on. I am not sure whether this is a Covid precaution or that they have heard about her unsettling beaming grin. Hector has suggested she wears one all the time at home…or a balaclava – on backwards… 

Anyway, I was sufficiently excited to soon forget my injured paw as I was going to see my good pals there. We folloloped through the front door and met lovely Kate, the activity coordinator who excitedly informed us that it was…BINGO MORNING! Apparently bingo wings were not obligatory, but Muvver had bought hers along anyway so that was ok. 

I am sure you are all feeling the heightened sense of anticipation that we were currently experiencing. Muvver remembers playing bingo on family nights out in a working mens club in the land of t’North, many many moons ago. She got all misty eyed as she recounted the heady, atmospheric cauldron of a Shadows tribute act, high octane bingo and her Britvic orange and packet of crisps. Heady days which she remembers fondly. To this day Apache remains still one of her favourite go-to tunes to vogue about the kitchen to when she is giddy on coffee.

I myself was no stranger to bingo, having played it whilst I was touring my notorious Nana Mouskouri tribute act on the cruise ships. What wonderful days and the tales I could tell about it all – although I would probably be in a great deal of trouble if I did.

I had to end these halcyon days sadly in some part due to an unexpected zip malfunction during an encore one evening, but mainly as I kept falling off the castors I had to attach to my paws to drift around the stage, in the magnificent way she used to effortlessly glide. I still have the frocks though…and the specs and wig, although Hector borrowed those for some unknown purpose.

Anyway, back to the now. Having made my customary circuit of the lounge, happily greeting my pals and receiving treats and ear scruffles, we finally settled down and play began. We were keen to see what would happen today as we had been warned that the last time bingo had been played, tempers had flared, competitiveness overflowed and walking frames were wielded with menace. High drama indeed!

I must say it was tremendous fun and they allowed ME to choose the numbers out of the knitted bag!  The best way I found of doing this was to let a little dollop of snot drop gather on the end of my pointy nose (normally one would of course quickly wipe these away with a silk handkerchief) and then when I fully plunged into the depths of the flourished ball bag, said ball would adhere to my excessively sticky Spindle jus. Genius I think you will agree. 

Muvver contributed in her own way by shouting out her version of the rhyming number calls – some of which I won’t repeat but they did make one resident snort his sherry out of his nose laughing. Here are the less contentious ones:

22 – Don’t catch the flu

44 – pressure sores

85 – I’m still alive

38 – enlarged prostate

10 – got gout again

66 – arthritic hips

74 – fell on the floor

It was going terribly well until they played a round of bingo which involved playing a cd of animal noises (this was a new one on me but I thought it could be worked on and debuted in the Velvet Marmoset on ‘vets and pets night’).

One minute I was there, splayed across the carpet as an impromptu draft excluder/trip hazard, when all manner of meows and moos began to circulate my ear lugs. I was partially drunk on the attention I had been getting and sated by all the treats I had hoovered up, so it was alarming to hear this farmyard cacophony whilst in my drowsy state.

It was the lion roaring that really was the last straw and I shot out the open door like a greased ferret, trailing a surprised muvver behind me. We went to see my mate ‘downstairs Derek’, who was sat in the garden contemplating nature and his stocks and shares. He is a smashing chap so we chatted with him for a while and then one of the other residents who had sneaked out for a crafty cigarette and to recount some bawdy tales of yesteryear – or in one case, last week, and indeed I had no idea that Mary was like that!

Some time later my ears began to droop and this was an indicator that a Spindle needed to resume her accustomed abandoned bagpipes/discarded prawn position on the bed, so we left to a clamour of waving and cheerful goodbyes.

Back at Spindle Towers, I spent the afternoon digesting and then deflating as a result of all the treats I had snaffled, and before you ask I did not steal Mary’s digestive biscuit this week. 

I must say pals that we love the therapy work and us hounds seem so suited to it. It is such an easy process to be assessed, and it really is a joyful and special thing to be part of. 

https://petsastherapy.org

Me and the infamous ball bag