[Dailydrool] French Sticks, Christmas Pudding and Turkey, OH MY!!

[rebecca stanton]

Morse's weary momma here.  Well, we cannot compete with Rolph OEBE in the turkey and chocolate crusade in their own home over Christmas, but outside of home is another matter.  I am going to write to our local paper and have a good old rant, as this Christmas has just about topped the bill when it comes to leaving food outside, presumably for birds - (eating turkey? I cant see that myself). First of all, we had a walk on Christmas Eve to our local store, the Co-op, Morse's idea of the Star of David.  I was busy in my own thoughts, probably along the lines of My Dog Its Freezing, How Long Before We Are Home?, when I felt a wrench at my arm, and Morse is up on his hind legs and retrieving something from the shop's bin (customers walking past, oh the embarrassment).  I had to chuckle when I saw him.  It was a whole French bread loaf, the stick kind.  An entire one.  Soggy, from being in the bin and where a mist had come down.  He started to back up, knowing
 that I had other ideas for it, which didnt include being choked down his gullet in 0.5 seconds, and I tugged at it.  He gets a small chunk and I think well, I'll let that go.  My  gloves are now covered in spattered bread and butter, which somebody had kindly provided.  Christmas Day, we are walking past the flats on the way to the field, and I am thinking that maybe he has got past the flats phase, and we can walk on into the field.  But oh no, he takes a sharp right and is up the bank and heading towards an area known for rich pickings.  Today's feast is Christmas Pudding.  I try dragging him away but he is definitely not keen so I decide to pick it up and bag it so he can't eat it.  By the end of it, my hands are not only frozen to the bone but are covered in sticky currants and pudding.  If the neighbour in question had only opened her window and asked me, like she did before in her humourless way, why my dog is on 'her bit of garden' (which is not
 fenced and therefore entirely accessible from our walk, a nightmare as she leaves her dinner out frequently), I would have had a very good answer for her, and it wouldn't have included any Christmas wishes. Finally, yesterday, we ventured into the cemetery.  Now what can possibly be lurking there?  This surely must be the only place free of discarded food.  But no.  Within seconds, his snooter is going into overtime, and we both see at the same time the object of desire.  Discarded turkey, obviously left for a fox, or maybe a rat.  Filled with giblets and sausagemeat.  Morse cannot believe his luck, I cannot believe my eyes.  We have a good tug of war, every time I breadk pieces off he grabs at them and tries to wolf down, but he does actually allow me to prize his jaws open with no growling.  The offending article is finally marched off into a bin.  I am now coverd in turkey, sausage, grease and giblets.  I wipe my hands on the frozen grass to get some
 of the smell off, which kind of works, but cant put them back in my pocket, so when I return home half an hour  later I still smell of giblets (gag), and my hands are just frozen blobs, glowing red. 
Drool to all in need

Becky, Morse (where we goin today mom?) and Pumbaa ATB (sausages)
xxx