Merlin the Promo-dog

You know sometimes you get enthusiastic about something and your owners just assume it's the same thing that they're keen on? That's what it was like last weekend. I had spent the whole week with a cone on my head. Why? I don't know. They kept telling me to ‘leave it alone’, but when you've got an itchy patch on the top of your head you’ve no choice but to try and scratch it with your back paws.
I did my best to get rid of the cone, bashing it against doorways, legs, steps, cupboards. I sighed and moaned. I sat in the flower border and sulked. When I went on walks and tried to sniff the ground I ended up with a scoopful of gravel falling around my neck. I tried playing in puddles, and muddy water washed around my ears. Worst of all everyone laughed! Even strangers out on walks laughed!
My mistress didn’t notice the looks I was getting from other dogs. It was embarrassing, especially with the girls who used to flirt with me before I recently lost my best assets. I could see what they thought. ‘Can’t believe I ever fancied that clown. What does he think he looks like?’
Each time we got home, my mistress wiped the mud off the cone and stuck it together with parcel tape.
‘You should've seen him running through the woods’, she told my master. ‘It's as if he enjoys the challenge.’
At the end of the week the cone was so dirty, scratched and taped-up that it took all my concentration to manage the funnel vision. But I must admit I got quite good at managing. I could get up the stairs without tripping, I could back out of the crowded office without knocking things over, I could jump into the boot of the car, and I could run through the Forest almost as fast as normal. This is not to say I was enjoying wearing the cone, but the running gave me a better chance of destroying it completely.
Anyway, I reckon my keenness to go out in the stupid cone was seen by my owners as enthusiasm for dressing up, because no sooner had the cone come off than I was dumped in the bath, shampooed, rubbed down, brushed, trimmed and then dressed up!
‘You’re coming to the Beaulieu Boat Jumble’, my mistress said, ‘and you’ve got a job to do. Won’t that be great?’

Next morning they got up really early. Usually this means they are going out and won’t be back for a long time, so I was so surprised when they said, ‘you’re coming too. Come along now. SLOWLY!’ (They always say ‘slowly’. I don’t know why.)
We didn’t go far, just down the road to Beaulieu, and we drove into a field. ‘Great’, I thought. ‘They do mean ‘out’!’
We parked up and I was tied to the jeep. There was plenty to watch and the smell of bacon drifted across from the burger bar opposite. Now, I'm quite a lean dog for my type. I do a lot of running, and I mean serious running! I reckon I can look as hungry and starving as the best of them, but no one gave me a bacon butty, not even a taste! I couldn't understand why they had brought me. It certainly didn't seem to be for a free meal.
My mistress noticed me at last. ‘Come on’, she said, ‘we'll put on your costume. You’ve got a job to do.’
Being an obliging sort of chap, and as I had nothing better to do, I let her put it on me. The hat was awful. It fell around my ears and covered my eyes. (Don't know how humans can wear hats without going mad.) Luckily my mistress saw sense and only made me wear it for a couple of minutes at a time so that people could see ‘how cute’ I was!

The coat though, I must admit it wasn't that bad. I'm not being boastful when I say that most people like me, (I am a friendly fellow) but they seemed to like me even better with my coat. They stopped and talked to me, patted my head and put their faces near for kisses. I consider this a Royal duty and one that is always interesting. I can distinguish the difference between Rimmel foundation and Yardley powder, I can tell what children ate for breakfast, and there are even some aftershaves that I can name.
I've heard that dogs like me work at airports. I wonder what they taste there? I began to picture myself in a smart new uniform, wandering around an airport, sampling those exotic smells that come home on my master’s suitcase. That would certainly be something to tell the girls on the heath!

My friend Oliver and me with my www.TheBoatJumble.co.uk uniform

‘Come on,’ said my mistress, ‘one more walk with your hat on.’
Off we went, me following my nose (this being the only useful sense left to me by the hat) and she tugging at my lead saying, ‘this way, this way, heel!’
It was very confusing. I could only hear people’s voices saying ‘Where did you get that coat?’ ‘www.TheBoatJumble.co.uk’ ‘Did he organise the show?’
And my mistress said ‘Good boy. You’re doing your job well. Now you’re a promo-dog!’
I’ve never heard of that type of dog before. Pyrenean, yes. Poodle, yes. Pomeranian, yes. ‘Promo’ no.
Sometimes people ask if I’m a ‘flat coat’. My mistress always answers, ‘No, he’s a working Cocker.’ Now she was calling me a ‘Promo dog’! Never could fathom humans!
Anyway, my mistress seemed pleased with me and told me I had done a good day’s work. When she had taken off the hat she got me some chips and chicken from the bar before it closed. The chips were good, but the chicken was horrible. (The fox has brought better to the end of the garden). I rolled my eyes and ate it all up so as I wouldn't offend. You never know I might not be offered it next time and I need to keep up my strength now that I have a job to do!