Naughty George does his stuff....... as always

I was just filing the pics from my camping holiday, when I noticed a picture of Naughty George in the melee. It was a picture of him sitting atop a cliff looking all innocent as though butter wouldn't melt in his snout. On his face he had that placid expression that he generally adopts to lull would-be petters into a false sense of security.

Pic.No.1. Naughty George looking all innocent

Naughty George looking innocent? That's akin to Paris Hilton living in a convent.

Day One of Camping

It was 6am on the first morning of the camping trip, and Steve, Izzy and I were asleep in the tent after a cold and restless night. All of a sudden, the peace was shattered by a low-pitched gutteral sound. I covered my head with my duck down duvet and carried on sleeping, but the noise didn't abate.

After several minutes, Steve whispered, "I think the sound is coming from Naughty George."

I groaned under my duvet and begged Steve to investigate. I heard him unzipping his sleeping compartment before exclaiming loudly; "UGH, he is properly wretching, in that he looks like he is going to seriously puke at any second!" 

"Shit, just let him puke outside," I replied sleepily.

I heard Steve unzip the door of the tent and beckon Naughty George to follow. The next thing I heard was Steve shouting to me; "the little bastard has immediately recovered and run off!"

"Christ," I mumbled, climbing out of bed to see what was going on. Everything quickly became abundantly clear. It turned out that NG had smelt someone cooking bacon and had used his wretching as an exit strategy. The evidence being that he was already on his hindlegs at someone's picnic table, trying to pull the sandwich off the plate, whilst the oblivious campers were inside tent putting the finishing touches to their breakfast.

"Quick, get him back," I hissed to Steve. The next thing I saw was Steve (in his Superman underpants), holding Naughty George under his arm, wrestling to remove the bacon sandwich from his terrier jaws. Mission accomplished! The bacon sandwich was back on the plate and Steve (with NG still under his arm) scuttled back and was safely ensconced in the tent once more. I had already returned to bed, and drifted off again, hoping that the campers wouldn't spot the teeth marks in their bacon sandwich.

Day Two of Camping


It was 6am on the second morning of the camping trip, and Steve, Izzy and I were asleep in the tent after another cold and restless night. All of a sudden, the peace was shattered by a low-pitched gutteral sound. I covered my head with my duck down duvet and carried on sleeping, but the noise didn't abate (see where this is going?!).

After several minutes, Steve whispered, "It's Naughty George doing that puking thing again."

I groaned under my duvet and begged Steve to investigate. I heard him unzipping his sleeping compartment before exclaiming loudly; "UGH, he is properly wretching, and this time his whole body is convulsing!"

"Ignore him," I whispered, "he has learned that if he pretends to wretch, he can go outside and steal people's sandwiches."

"Are you sure?" Steve asked dubiously, getting back into his sleeping bag, by which time I was asleep.

Less than five minutes later, everyone was awoken again by an almighty BLARRRGGHHH sound.

"I think it's Naughty George," Steve whispered to me as I blinked myself awake.

"Shit, can you go and check on him?" I asked sleepily, hiding my head under my duck down duvet.

I heard Steve unzipping his sleeping compartment before exclaiming loudly; "The little bastard has puked in the tent!" 

Awww, crap. Why is it always my dog at the centre of these palavers?

I begrudingly pulled myself out of my bed, and mumbled, "don't worry, I'll clean it up."

"No, you don't have to," Steve interjected, "NG has already eaten it all back up."

Jeez, Naughty George never fails to deliver on the gross front.

Day Three of Camping

After a long climb, we were finally on top of a cliff called Harry Rocks and Naughty George had gone AWOL. After frantically searching the undergrowth, I found him rolling around on his back in a great dollop of fox shit. Have you ever smelt fox shit? I can categorically tell you that it is the most pungent, nose-hair-shrivelling, rancid aroma on the face of the planet. And NG was covered in it. Not only was he covered in it, but once he was 'discovered', he broke free and ran at breakneck speed out onto the clifftop, making a beeline for a group of three pensioners who were sitting on the grass eating their packed lunch.

After nearly keeling over from exhaustion in pursuit of him, I arrived to find him sitting (with his placid butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-snout expression on) in front of the elderly picnickers.

"Naughty George, you little bastard!" I shouted, much to the shock and chagrin of the old ladies. But then they made their fatal mistake. They assumed that I was some Cruella Deville type person trying to kidnap an innocent dog, so they grabbed NG and drew him close.

"Noooooooo!" I shouted, but it was too late. The elderly lady had been fox-pooed. It didn't dawn on her straight away, in fact it took her ten seconds of nose-twitching and dog-looking before she realised where the smell was coming from. At which point, she revulsed and flung NG from her lap, lifting her hands up to her nose, a grimace slowly spreading across her face as she realised where the stench was coming from.

"I'm so sorry," I said, scooping Naughty George up in my arms, and edging backwards. The last thing I saw before I turned and ran off, was the pensioner's friends frantically trying to clean the fox shit from her hands using the tissues that had been residing up their respective sleeves (all old ladies seem to have tissues stored up their sleeves).

So all in all.... that's my dog.