I Am Dog, Hear Me Snore

Pilates for Dogs

2009-10-23T15:47:00.003+02:00

Here, I demonstrate the exercise known as Thawing Out The Grape Vine.

On Getting Your Poles Confused, Gloves, Michael Jackson and Quick -vs- Slow Death

2009-10-21T17:37:00.020+02:00

So I've been away for a while. I needed a change of scenery. Summer does that to a Boofhead.

I travelled. How does a Boofhead travel? On a budget. I wrapped all my worldly goods - my signed fan photo of Lassie in her lingerie, a brisket bone, and €2 for bus money - in a spotted handkerchief, tied it to a pole, and set off.

The Pole promptly returned to Warsaw, leaving me with nothing more than my boofy hairy overcoat for my journey of discovery. Such is the way with Boofheads.

Anyways, the world was my ostrica and I knew it.

So where first? I'd've tossed a coin except it was in Warsaw.

So I picked up a copy of Boofhead Weekly. Words of no more than one syllable and a crossword already filled in to save you the trouble. I subscribe. I read that Michael Jackson was making a comeback to the tune - so to speak - of 248,487 concerts in London. How did I know about Michael Jackson?

He wore a glove:

A man after this Boofhead's heart. It's a little-known boofy fact that I'm into gloves too:

Except I wear two. And mine ride up my boofy legs.

My boofy mind was instantly made up. A get-together with Jacko to shoot the boofy breeze, compare gloves, and even the delights of snuggling up with pre-pubescents. Heck, I remember snuggling up to pre-pubescents:

That's one of my boofy little sisters on the left. That's my boofy little botty on the right, sticking out from under Mum while I guzzle a warm milk before bed, with one of my boofy little brothers - who never had an original thought in his boofy brain in all the seven weeks I knew him - copying me. We used to snuggle up together. Those were the boofy days.

So Los Angeles was the go.

I travelled Boofhead Class. Which is to say, I dog-paddled.

It wasn't hard to find Jacko. I asked at the local glove shop. They didn't have anything in my boofy size.

Jacko was at home. He asked how old I was. I told him I was nine. His eyes lit up. I told him that, in Boofhead years, nine equates with about fifty-five human years.

His disappointment moved me.

I asked him how his rehearsals for his comeback concerts were going. He said he was tired. He only wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep. He craved sleep. All he wanted to do was sleep.

I told him to watch The English Patient.

He said he thought a needle might be quicker.

It was. The English Patient would just have bored him to death.

Vale Barbara

2009-10-20T15:23:00.006+02:00

I did my best to offend her over the years. God, how I tried:

She bore it all.

Occasionally she complained:

And she was entitled. Always.

Some things you take for granted. You expect them always to be there.

Little things can leave big, gaping, unfillable holes.

And she has.

Barbara, my accomplice
1/3/92 - 1/10/09

Normal service will be resumed.

Yes We Can Plagiarise

2009-03-12T10:38:00.008+01:00

So I stirred from my boofy winter hibernation.

What had changed in the world?

I was hungry. In other words, nothing had changed.

But lo. No, that's not a typo. That's a Boofhead waxing lyrical.

But I digress. But lo, something had changed on yonder shores. There's some more lyrical waxing. As distinct from bikini-line waxing, which I'll be attending to shortly.

By yonder shores I mean a place called America. Never been there myself, though the two-legged dogs have, and they reckon it wouldn't be a bad place if only they'd learn to spell. I mean to say - color. Puh-leeeeeeeze!

But I digress yet again. Apparently, while I was hibernating, there was somewhat of a changing of the guard in said America in terms of the leadership of the joint. Some cove called Obama slipped into the carver at the top of the table while I was snoozing and took over as boss cocky. That's Australian for head honcho. I might have been trapped here in Italy for nearly four years but I haven't forgotten my radici. That's Italian for roots.

Anyways, I was about to let this snippet of news sail way over my head, as I let everything sail way over my head when my tummy's rumbling louder than a Swiss avalanche, when I stumbled across this while I was Googling for a topless photo of Lassie:

And, I'm here to tell you, I fair choked on my dog biscuit.

If this isn't the most blatant case of plagiarism since some cove called Shakespeare took my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather's - give or take a great - play called Boofhead and Juliet, changed its name and passed it off as his own, then I'll go hee for tiggy.*

Now. Years and years ago, I stood for election as Obedience School Boofhead. Every Obedience School has its idiot - the clown who sits up the back gazing out the window; distracting the conchy, teachers'-pet Pugs sitting down the front by flicking spitballs at them off your ruler; you get the general drift.

I was up for it. I campaigned hard. I even licked babies.

But this is what hauled me over the line:

My campaign poster.

Which someone on a yonder shore obviously saw. And pinched.

If this cove Obama wants to shove a couple of trillion bail-out brisket bones in my direction, I'm willing to forgive. Which isn't to say forget.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll get back to Lassie.

... that has to be silicone ...

* hee for tiggy = an old expression, now sadly fading from the Australian lexicon, rooted in the childhood game of "chasey" also known as "tiggy-touchwood", abbreviated to "tiggy". If you were tigged - or touched - you were deemed to be "hee" and became the chaser. Obviously, to say that you would go hee voluntarily means that you're so sure of your argument that the dire possibility would never arise.

Nella Cucina con Dermott IV

2009-01-19T16:38:00.012+01:00

So I had some of the local cani over the other night. Just to catch up, shoot the breeze, and stick pins in our cat dolls.

Yes, Cosmo, that's why you've been feeling those aches and pains.

There was one vegetarian. Imagine that? A vegetarian dog?

Boys will be boys. After we'd overcome our shock, we pulled the pins out of our cat dolls and stuck them in him.

Obviously the Boofhead* was Home Economist-less. Barbara was on the phone to a lawyer seeking advice re wrongful dismissal.

What to feed a vegetarian? The Boofhead* rooted around in the frigo and the cupboards in search of something to satisfy the lunatic.

This is what the Boofhead* came up with:

A cauliflower that the Boofhead* cut up into florets, getting rid of a lot of the tough stems; a roughly-chopped tomato; some roughly-chopped Italian parsley; a couple of peeled cloves of garlic; a couple of dried chillies; a glass of white wine and some Extra Virgin olive oil.

And this is what the Boofhead* did with it all. Tossed the oil, the garlic and the crumbled chillies into a padella over medium heat and let them share their flavours for a couple of minutes:

Then the Boofhead* tossed in the cauliflower, stirred the lot around for about five minutes, partly cooking the cauliflower and letting it take up all the lovely flavours. Till it looked sort of like this:

Then the Boofhead* poured in the white wine, put a lid on the padella, and let everything cook for about another ten minutes. Then the Boofhead* added the roughly-chopped tomato -

- and a good lashing of salt and pepper, gave everything a very good stir, before putting the lid on again and letting it cook for another seven or eight minutes.

At which point the Boofhead* checked the seasoning, stirred in the Italian parsley, and put this in front of the vegetarian:

He was chuffed.

Less so when we put one of Barbara's frocks on him, tarred and feathered him, and tossed him out into the street.

Boys will be boys.

*I've noticed more and more pompous, self-important types referring to themselves in the third person. I've joined the club.

Nella Cucina con Dermott III

2009-01-15T12:35:00.023+01:00

So the boofy opposable thumbs got itchy again. They needed a workout.

I tried cards. No one would play with me after I kept producing extra cards from my various boofy orifices.

Hence the boofy opposable thumbs got even itchier.

So back into the cucina we went.

We, of course, as regular readers of this boofy bilge will recall, means me and my Home Economist - aka Barbara Cartland nee Barbra Streisand.

When I say we, that's how it started out. That's how it was on the way to the cucina. But, halfway to the cucina, Barbara had what she obviously thought was a better idea:

440,440 winks.

You can't get reliable staff anymore. Not for love or money.

Anyways, it was down to me. The Boofhead flying solo.

What to cook today? I rooted around in the frigo and what did I find?

Two nice, pink, juicy nodini. That's two nice, pink, juicy veal chops to the uneducated amongst you.

Now, in an earlier life, prior to my boofy opposable thumbs, I'd've done my usual boofy thing and, without hesitation, swallowed them whole, raw, as they sat. And eaten the plate for dessert.

Now, guided by my boofy opposable thumbs, I was led to do something much more interesting with them.

First, I tossed a knob of butter and a boofy pawful of rosemary needles into a pan on the stove. Over gentle to moderate heat, I let the butter melt and take up the scent of the rosemary. Then I tossed in the nodini:

And I left them there. Undisturbed. For 7 or 8 minutes. I was letting the underside get nice and golden brown and caramelised.

Only then did I turn the nodini:

At which point I sprinkled some boofy salt on the cooked surfaces. The salt helps the nodini release their juices into the pan.

They got another 5 or 6 minutes cooking time, undisturbed, in this fashion.

Then I whipped them out of the pan to rest on a handy plate, leaving the pan looking like this:

Boofhead Tip: That's where the real flavour is when you're pan-roasting like this. That's bits of caramelised veal stuck to the bottom of the pan, browned butter flavoured by the rosemary and caramelised veal, and crusted rosemary needles.

And it was going to be the basis of the sauce for the nodini.

I tipped a glass of white wine into the pan, grabbed my patented Boofhead Wooden Spoon, and began scraping up all the bits of stuff stuck to the bottom of the pan:

Note to sensitive readers of this boofy bilge with delicate stomachs: I have framed the above photo in order to avoid seeing a boofy hairy paw in close proximity to the food. You can also nick off, you cloth-eared milk-sop softies. My boofy hairy paws are spotlessly clean and germ-free on account of I lick them thoroughly every day.

But I digress. I simmered the liquid for a couple of minutes, stirring and scraping, while it reduced in volume and gained in flavour.

Then I returned the nodini - and all the juices that had accumulated on the plate - to the pan:

I let them simmer gently for another couple of minutes, taking up the flavour of the sauce, turning them two or three times.

At which point, they were done.

At which point, Barbara woke from her slumbers.

She gazed in awe and admiration:

And I sacked her as my Home Economist for sleeping on the job.

Applications for the position of Home Economist to the Boofhead should be emailed to me in plain brown envelopes.

Nella Cucina con Dermott II

2009-01-01T11:06:00.029+01:00

Opposable thumbs. How did I survive without them for so long?

Now, the thing is, my opposable thumbs have meant more than just that I can now knit. Though, ensconced in an easy chair, boofy hind paws up on a comfy pouffe, the old knit-one-purl-one does have its therapeutic benefits.

Just as therapeutic - and less likely to have the local cani whispering behind their Italian paws that I'm a Friend of Dorothy - has been cooking.

Those who recall my Boofhead masterclass in the deceptively tricky knack of boiling water - and who have been waiting with bated breath for my return to the cucina - can now relax.

Yesterday I ambled my boofy frame back into the cucina. Of course I needed an assistant. On TV cooking shows they're usually credited as the Home Economist. That's the person who actually does the tedious work of peeling things and cutting them up while the hero - in this case, io - takes all the credit.

Many of you will recall that I share lodgings with Barbra Streisand. Well, these days she's actually more Barbara Cartland but that's another story. Of gruesome old age.

Be that as it may, I appointed Barbra/Barbara my Home Economist and we headed into the cucina. Posing for this publicity shot on the way:

The first task was to decide what to cook. Barbra/Barbara argued for anything she could eat through a straw on the basis that, these days, she's got fewer teeth than the back end of a teasing comb:

Of course I won the day. I'm ten times her size.

I opted for Tuna Patties. Now I'm not normally a fancier of tuna, mainly on the basis that, in domestic pet culinary terms, it's considered the province of that soulless sociopath, the cat. In fact, I hear tell that my feline nemesis Cosmo is more than fond of a tin of tuna but only if it contains at least 50% dolphin.

Anyways, Tuna Patties became the go.

And here's the Dermott drill.

Boil some potatoes in their skins in enough salted water to cover them. Test for doneness - but not too often - with a thin skewer or even a cake tester. Test them with a knife and you'll let water inside.

When they're done, take them out of the water and set them aside just until cool enough to handle.

Then peel them. Then cut them up and push them through a potato ricer into a bowl:

If you don't got a potato ricer, get one. This Boofhead opines that a potato ricer is the only way to make perfect, lumpless mashed potato. Not to mention gnocchi.

Next, put your Home Economist - in my case Barbra/Barbara - to work grating some carrot, mincing some onion, garlic and celery, and crushing a couple of dried chillies:

And you can add spring onions (scallions to the American cousins) and, really, just about anything else that takes your fancy inside a Tuna Pattie.

Tip everything into the bowl with the potato and mix and season well.

Next, drain a can or jar of tuna under olive oil:

In this Boofhead's experience, tuna under olive oil is vastly superior to tuna under brine. Break up the tuna into flakes and add it to the potato mixture, mixing thoroughly to distribute the tuna evenly.

If Greenpeace burst in the door, immediately scoff any bits of dolphin you might have picked out of the tuna.

Finally, roughly chop some prezzemolo and add it:

And mix thoroughly.

Now comes the gorgeously gooey bit. The seasoned flour-egg-and-breadcrumb routine:

I'd like to be able to say that I learned this routine at my mother's knee. I didn't. She was too busy being an Australian Dulux Dog:

Not that that's her. But all us Boofheads look alike anyway.

Anyways, in her pursuit of stardom, she neglected me. Hence my more than several personality disorders. Actually, my uncle was a Dulux Dog, too. Chalk up another couple of psychoses. Not that I'm bitter that I didn't follow in their pawprints. Not in the slightest -

M-O-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-T-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-H-E-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R!

But I digress. Now, surely everyone knows how to seasoned flour-egg-and-breadcrumb.

But, for Cosmo's benefit, you use wet paws to form the dolphin mixture into the shape of a pattie before rolling it in the seasoned flour to coat it all over. Shake off the excess, then roll it in the beaten egg. Drain off the excess egg, then roll it in the breadcrumbs. Shake off the excess breadcrumbs, press the stuck-on breadcrumbs lightly with your paws to make sure they're well attached, then set aside.

In the blink of a boofy eye, this is what you're looking at:

Now, you cook the beggars. You can shallow fry them if that's the only means available. This Boofhead prefers to deep fry:

For starters, deep frying lets the patties cook evenly all over. For seconds, you can set the oil temperature high enough to seal the outside quickly, minimising oil absorption. Deep frying, five or six minutes at 190C does the trick before draining any excess oil on kitchen paper:

Hot, golden and crunchy on the outside, velvety and chockers with flavour on the inside.

You can make a tartare sauce to serve with them. Or you can accompany them with a dollop of home-made spicy tomato chutney from last summer's tomatoes from the orto:

Of course, if you're a serious pig - and this Boofhead makes no apologies for his pighood - you stop and think to yourself. "Hang about", you think to your boofy self, "there's the deep frier, the oil, all those potatoes left over ... "

What you do, if you're a truly ruly serious pig, is this:

You garnish the plate with hot, golden, crunchy, double-cooked chippies!

For when too much starch and carbohydrate isn't enough ...

... but isn't that all the time for a Boofhead?

*Cuoco's Note: Any out-of-focus photographs are the fault of the Home Economist who was as crap at photography as she was at Home Economisting.

One For The Boofheads Of The World!

2008-12-31T17:22:00.006+01:00

It has been brought to my boofy attention vis-à-vis my most recent post - here's a link to it if you can't be buggered scrolling down - that I have come to the attention of artista Katherine Tyrrell before.

In fact, last year. In her Making a Mark awards, to be precise. The same awards in which I featured this year. Only twelve months ago. Just to clear up the timeline.

It transpires that not only was I nominated in the same category for which I was mentioned this year - losing out to a damn cat!, the horror! the horror! - but I was also, in fact, the actual recipient of an award!

Indeed, the 2007 Amusing Musings Trophy was mine.

I only wish I'd known. Do they forget to tell the Coen Brothers when they've won an Oscar?

I can only put the problem down to the machinations of artista Tyrrell's cat - the despicable Cosmo - who more than likely intercepted the email carrying the tidings to me.

How often does a boofhead get to make an award acceptance speech? Ask Sally Field.

Unlike Sally Field, I'm only a boofhead, not a boofhead and a slapper, so my acceptance speech wouldn't assume anyone liked me and certainly wouldn't go as far as to thank the single-cell thingy that crawled out of the primeval swamp without which I wouldn't be here.

Instead, with every ounce of sincerity I could muster, and beg and borrow and probably even steal, I would simply say that This Is One For The Boofheads Of The World.

Excluding Sally Field.

Modesty

2008-12-31T14:10:00.010+01:00

No, it's not a new brand of perfume. Or even a new brand of that wonderful advertising euphemism "feminine hygiene product".

Don't you love euphemistic advertising? Take those ads for nappies. Or diapers as I think the American cousins call them. Just as they pronounce aluminium nothing remotely like it's spelled. Yet, paradoxically, they pronounce the word colour exactly as it's spelled - or, at least, the way it's properly spelled, which, in a further paradox, isn't how they spell it.

Color. Color isn't a word. It's very nearly a word. One more vowel and it would be. So near, so far.

But I digress. Ads for nappies. I've never seen blue wee-wee in my life. Mine is either clear or pale yellow or other varying shades of yellow depending how much yellow cordial I've drunk. Yet take any ad for nappies that purports to show their absorbency. The liquid is always blue. Blue wee-wee? Has the bub swallowed a bottle of blue ink?

But I digress yet again. Modesty is, in fact, a virtue. Which, come to think of it, sounds like a new model of car.

It's something you're either born with or you're not.

I was.

And I'm not too immodest to admit it.

Praise me and I blush. Though you'll have to take my word for it on the basis that my blush is buried beneath a couple of feet and half a stone of boofy hair, thus:

This week I was given cause to blush. Trust me I blushed.

This week I was awarded a Special Mention in artista Katherine Tyrrell's Making a Mark Awards on her Making a Mark art blog. Scroll down to '"The Moose" Award for the best animal in an illustrated blog' and you'll find me. Adjacent to a whole feast of cats - a feast of cats is my collective noun for the soulless sociopathic creatures - but beggars can't be choosers when it comes to fame.

Katherine describes me as "rather charming if somewhat gruff". It's somewhat of an achievement to be both right and wrong within the space of five words, Katherine.

But I thank you from the bottom of my boofy heart.

As for spelling my name wrongly, two can play that game, Catherine.

Baaaaaaaaaaah Hummbugggggggggggg!

2008-12-24T10:09:00.004+01:00

The only thing worse than Christmas is a collapsed lung. A collapsed lung is said to be the most painful condition imaginable. Apart from pleurisy.

Okay, so there are two things worse than Christmas.

At Christmas, for some reason, the two-legged dogs suddenly mistake you for a Christmas tree.

Come questo:

The only consolation is that Barbra Streisand looks worse. Like a €0.10 Parisian streetwalker:

Bah humbug!

Roll on pleurisy.

The Boofhead Guide to Bling

2008-11-25T16:05:00.001+01:00

'nuff said.

Summer Summer, Wherefore Art Thou Summer?

2008-09-22T14:20:00.006+02:00

Yes, I've been on holidays. Reading Shakespeare. He's some English coot fond of a bit of a scribble. English? It's not like any English language this boofhead has come across before.

Be that as it may, as I set off on my holiday, my change of undies and a clean hanky tied up inside a spotted cloth tied to a pole slung across my shoulder, two euros and my name and address in an envelope pinned to my boofy chest in case I got lost, someone gave me a Blackberry. It's the latest, coolest thing, they said.

I ate it.

On the whole, as soft fruits go, I prefer a Strawberry. You don't end up picking bits of silicon chip out of your boofy teeth.

But I digress.

I returned to this Italian village with the unpronounceable name to discover the temperature had dropped verging on 20 degrees. What happened to summer? What happened to my leisurely days and nights bludging food from the neighbours?

My cisterna was there, their summer dining table was there. But they weren't:

The sudden onset of autumn chill had sent them inside to eat. So who, now, cleans up their leftover panini, pizza, pane and other assorted boofhead delicacies?

That's something for me to contemplate over the winter as I thumb through Shakespeare's latest offering. I'm told it's due out soon, something about some Prince of Denmark or somewhere.

A Boofhead Guide to Coping With Global Warming

2008-07-17T12:08:00.008+02:00

Antarctica melting? Pffft. Polar Bears overheating? Pffffffffft.

Selfless Boofhead that I am, global warming only enters my consciousness when it impacts on me in general and my stomach in particular.

Aside from the two-legged dogs, my most important food source is the neighbours, Marina and Lorenzo, not to forget their figlio, Vittorio.

Luckily, thanks to the foresight of some long-dead Italian architect or builder, I have my own dining table between the two properties:

That's Marina and Lorenzo. That's me standing on the dining table. What's a Boofhead to do when no one thinks to supply a chair?

Anyways. The dining table is the metal lid of a very old cisterna, a very deep water receptacle. The difference between a cisterna and a pozzo (Italian for a well) is that a pozzo has its own natural water supply while a cisterna is filled with water from another source, like drained rainwater. But enough of the semantics of water receptacles.

The Modus Operandi is simple. I sit on the cisterna and look hungry. The neighbours feed me.

Last night it was Chianina beef from the BBQ. The other day it was fegato (liver) and a mortadella sandwich. Sometimes it's even pizza.

Let not the words overweight Boofhead enter your consciousness!

Which is okay in Spring. And Autumn. The metal lid of the cisterna is a bearable temperature. Not in Winter. The cisterna lid is - 26 C in Winter. Too cold for even a Boofhead's botty. Particularly one paranoid about piles.

Summer? Summer is an altogether different case of burnt Boofhead botty when the temperature of the cisterna lid climbs to more or less 197,000 C.

It's okay at night, after the sun has gone down:

But at lunchtime? In the blazing heat of the middle of the day?

I park my Boofhead botty in the cool of the garden bed in the shade of the olive tree.

Is my middle name Ingenious?

So there you go, Polar Bears. There's your answer to Global Warming.

Find a garden bed in the shade of an olive tree and quit grizzling.

The Boofhead Guide to Art I

2008-06-13T15:16:00.008+02:00

On account of it's about to rain, thunder and lightning outside - yes, in Dog, lightning can be a verb - I've shelved plans to torment this fat lump who lives next door -

- who happens to go by the name of Lampo, which happens to be Italian for Lightning, which has to be the most most nonsensical piece of naming since Condoleezza Rice. I mean, did Ms Rice's parents enter a competition to see how many double vowels and consonants could be fitted into a name?

Be that as it may, Lampo is saved from trauma by his namesake, and I'm free to unburden myself of my accumulated wealth of knowledge of that most mysterious thing called Art.

I know of what I speak on the basis that, thought she won't want to see this fact wafting around the ether, I'm actually on bum-sniffing terms with an artist. I sniff hers. It ain't mutual. Just for the record. Elsewhere in the northern hemisphere, I'm involved in an ongoing war of words with Cosmo whose Kitty Litter, I'm led to believe, is changed by yet another mighty fine artist. Give Katherine a break, Cosmo, try lifting your skanky leg against a tree.

Anyways, between pawing - yes, that's the Dog word for poring - over these two artists' blogs, and my frequent trips to the various Italian churches, museums and art galleries, not to mention my perusal of my tattered copy of Art For Boofheads, I've come to a simple conclusion.

The secret to great Art is in the eyes.

Not the artist's eyes. The eyes of the subject of the painting.

Now, someone once said that it's great Art when the eyes follow you around the room. Pfffft. Pompous undergraduate waffle. The secret to great Art, I'm here to tell you, is when the eyes follow you around the room, out the door, down the street, into the car, home, into the toi-toi, into bed, and into your dreams.

Cupping one oversized paw to one oversized ear, I hear you say, "What if the subject of the painting doesn't have any eyes?"

Simple. It can't be great Art if it ain't got eyes in it.

On which basis, great Art can only feature people. Or animals. Or potatoes.

You read it here first, fellow great Art aficionados.

Reason To Get Up In The Morning #2

2008-06-05T16:16:00.004+02:00

Thursday mornings especially.

Gina comes on Thursday afternoons.

She's married.

Not for long if I've got any say in the matter.

Reason To Get Up In The Morning #1

2008-06-04T11:47:00.004+02:00

When a visitor arrives and he hasn't caught up with the edict about Boofheads not being allowed on the couch.

And, natch, I'm not about to update him.

*Snigger*

Mm? What? Time to get up?

2008-05-22T13:27:00.009+02:00

Yeah yeah, so I overslept.

What does any sensible boofhead do when it's colder than Condoleezza Rice's smile and the days are shorter than Danny Devito? He hibernates.

So I did. I jumped into the cot and set the alarm clock for March.

Only I slept through it.

Dreams? I had a few. But not too few to mention. Best of all was the flying dream. Yeah, everyone has flying dreams. Mine was special. I was flying a Harrier Jump Jet launching missiles at a Cat Retirement Village. To paraphrase some bloke in some movie: "I love the smell of singed cat hair in the morning ... it's the smell of victory".

And a very special cheerio to Cosmo.

Be that as it may, I jumped out of the cot, took a look in the mirror, and fair pooed my jim-jams in fright. Five months in the cot can take a toll on a boofhead's appearance. So I said to the two-legged dogs, I said, "This boofhead needs a makeover".

Lo and behold, we're straight into the macchina - that's Italian for car; I hibernated with my iPod loaded with Italian language courses jammed into my oversized ears - and we're barreling down the road to see Paola.

Here I am, straight out of the hibernation cot, with Paola:

Paola's great. She kisses me every time I drop in. I try to kiss her back. She ducks. Maybe it's the big pink flapping tongue.

Paola and I usually shoot the breeze while she works her magic. She teaches me Italian, I teach her Dog. I'm winning.

So a couple of hours later, Paola's done her job, and I'm ready for summer. Even if I'm looking like Bjork with PMS:

So how did Barbra spend her winter?

Where she belongs:

Behind bars.

Lie Back And Think Of Vesuvius

2007-12-31T19:00:00.000+01:00

Remember this?

The two-legged dogs' attempt to turn their bathroom from a sanitary relic of the Middle Ages into something which left you vaguely cleaner after you left than before you went in?

Yet again, they've outdone themselves.

Now when I pad into the bathroom for a spot of wallowing in the beauty suds and a brisk bit of bikini-line waxing, this is what confronts me:

Something out of Pompeii circa 78AD.

I'm currently hunting e-Bay for a toga fit for a boofhead.

I've circled the Ides of March on the calendar.*

The only good news is that Castigleonfia Firuntinaro - or whatever this village is called - is relatively volcano-free.

In fact, the closest thing to Vesuvius around here is any peto of mine.

* Yeah yeah, history pedants. The original Ides of March fell about 134 years before Vesuvius blew its proverbial cork. Even boofheads are allowed dramatic licence.

Small But Perfectly Formed

2007-12-30T14:24:00.000+01:00

Notwithstanding the crushing disappointment that was Christmas - vis-à-vis the absence of the boxed-set Lassie DVDs (see post immediately below) - I did make a fascinating discovery over the Yule season.

I have no idea what Yule means. I imagine it's a misspelling of you'll. As in, "If you're expecting the boxed-set Lassie DVDs, you'll be bitterly disappointed".

Be that as it may, I came in contact with a couple of Small But Perfectly Formed creatures.

They belonged to two very nice Australian two-legged dogs - Cathy and Chris - who were renting the same cottage in which we stayed when we first came to this place with the unpronounceable name. They were here for three months. They left today.

I can only guess that these Small But Perfectly Formed creatures are puppy versions of two-legged dogs:

That's one. Called Bella.

Here's another, smaller one:

That's Olivia.

And that's me hiding under the table.

These Small But Perfectly Formed creatures are welcome back here any time they like. Because I like their priorities in life -

Making a fuss of me!

Bah Humbug!

2007-12-30T12:33:00.001+01:00

I have very few heroes.

Savonarola, the Mad Monk who ruled Florence in the late 15th century, is one. A cove after my own flinty heart. What he didn't know about making people's lives miserable could be written on the head of a match. A match used to light a bonfire under such fripperies as fun. And pleasure.

That he himself finished up having a bonfire lit under him himself is an irony that has always escaped me.

Scrooge is my other hero. At least until C. Dickens copped out and turned him into a namby-pamby, do-good wally. Damn wimpy writers catering to their audiences!

You'll never catch this boofheaded scribe catering to anyone bar himself.

Take Christmas.

Please! Take it away!

This is what the two-legged dogs made of Christmas:

Savonarola would've had a 15th century bonfire under that little lot quicksmart.

Scrooge would've been apoplectic. Until he turned into a milk-sop.

And noi? Which is to say, in inglese, us? Barbra and me? What did we find for ourselves under the tree amidst the SatNav devices, boxed-set Pirates of the Caribbean DVDs, books, et al?

Two each of the above.

Not two packets. Two Schmackos. Each. Gift-wrapped.

Same as last year.

And the year before.

The same - not to put too fine a point on it - as every dang year since I joined this circus they call a family.

Now I'm a boofhead with principles. Never let it be said that I'd compromise my passionate beliefs for a mere piece of frippery.

But I'm here to tell you - I'd call Savonarola for the 15th century fruit loop that he was, and Scrooge for the shining example of the possibilities of human redemption that he was -

- for a boxed-set of Lassie DVDs!

Barbra, of course, would roll over for a second-hand VHS copy of Yentl.

Is There No End To The Madness?

2007-12-04T09:26:00.000+01:00

You're not voted Best Groomed Boofhead at the local parco without effort.

It takes time. It takes care.

It takes a bathroom.

Yesterday I padded into the bathroom for a relaxing wallow in the beauty suds followed by a spot of eyelash tweaking and nose-hair extraction.

What did I find?

The two-legged dogs had destroyed the place!

They've gone mad. First it was painting, now they're ripping the place apart.

This place is rapidly going to the, um, dogs!

Boofheads And Painters Don't Mix

2007-11-27T11:29:00.000+01:00

The two-legged dogs can't leave well enough alone. Now they've decided to get the place painted.

End result?

My ordered world reduced to chaos.

Worst of all, my beloved snoozing spot has been taken from me:

Where, once, this was the order of the day:

I'm now reduced to this:

And to think that my mother and uncle were both Dulux dogs, used in advertisements to flog Dulux paint in Australia.

They're out of my will.

1001 Uses For A Hamster

2007-11-22T18:37:00.000+01:00

1. Use him to dust your venetian blinds:

2. And when you're bored with a hamster, turn him into a rabbit:

3. And when you feel like a bacon sandwich, turn him into a little porker:

4. And when you're in need of cheering up, turn him into Groucho Marx:

Send one brisket bone and a stamped, self-addressed envelope to yours truly for the other 997 uses.

Hamsters: The Versatile Pets

Etiquette for Boofheads #1

2007-11-10T14:38:00.000+01:00

Remember: they didn't buy the couch for you

Nella Cucina con Dermott

2007-11-01T17:35:00.000+01:00

Yeah yeah, it's cold outside again, the heater's on inside again, the computer's free again, and this, sorry to say, is becoming a habit.

Food. Love it. Couldn't live without it. And I don't mean that in the obvious biological way. The Italians have an expression: "mangerebbe sporco". "He'd eat dirt".

That's me. I make Homer Simpson look like a picky vegan.

Except! Here I am in Italy - a country in which food is one of the great priorities - and this is what the two-legged dogs serve up to me:

While they stuff their gobs with things like this:

I'm told that's Bucatini con spinaci, pomodori, aglio, peperoncino e rosmarino.

Big fizz. It never finds its way into my oversized gob.

Or they grow these things in the backyard:

And turn them into this:

I'm told that's Insalata Caprese.

Big big fizz! I'm force-fed rock-hard pellets of dry, flavourless gunge supposedly choc-a-bloc with chicken, beef and vegetables. The truck delivering the bags of gunge to the supermarket might have run over a chicken, bounced off a bullock and ploughed through a paddock of vegetables, but that's the extent of it.

So, I'm here to tell you, I finally made a stand.

I empowered myself.

This boofheaded Old English Sheepdog stamped all four oversized paws and spat the culinary dummy.

Henceforth and hereafter, I announced, in Dogspeak with subtitles, "I'm cooking for myself".

Barbra, ever supportive, Ms Positive, sneered. "You can't even boil water".

Mmmm. She was right.

So I slipped out and bought a copy of a little-known paperback called Cooking for Dummy Old English Sheepdogs.

A couple of days and a singed beard later, I'd mastered the boiling of water.

Barbra slunk away.

Anyways, here and now, exclusively, for all you frustrated cooks who keep telling yourselves you can't even boil water, I give you the drill:

1. Put water into a pot. Took me a while to get this bit right, so don't be discouraged.

2. Find a source of heat. This stumped me for a while too. I say again, don't be discouraged.

3. Put the pot on top of the heat source.

From this point, physics takes over. Unless, of course, the gas goes out and you don't notice. In which case, you're in for a slow death. Or a quick one if you light up a smoke.

So there you have it, fellow wannabe cooks. Dermott's Culinary Masterclass #1. If a boofy Old English Sheepdog can do it, so can you.

Oh, and I also learned something else along the way to boiling water. You know what? A cliche can also be a truism:

A watched pot never boils.