I need to talk about my dog. I slipped a disc working at the comedy club and I can't get to my mum's house to see him, and I miss his floofy face.
Barney, Barney Bear, is a goldendoodle. He's a cross between a poodle and a golden retriever. The name goldendoodle is daft but it was either that or Poo Retriever, and he hasn't learned that trick (thank god).
When we went to look at puppies at a lovely lady's farmhouse, Barney was one of six gorgeous little fluffballs. Barney was the fluffiest, with the lightest fur. He was the first puppy I held and I was adamant that he was the one. He was also deceptively mellow, and when him and one of his brothers ate a poo off the ground whilst the breeder wasn't looking, I covered for him. He was my little comrade.
Me and Bear have an understanding. I get to sit, plait his fur and grumble and in return he gets an unending supply of treats. And braids.
He's mental. He's great with the kids and babies in the family. He has claimed sole ownership of my sister. He doesn't like potatoes but if you offer him one he'll act really happy about it then dispose of it when you aren't looking. He's a polite dog. He is also so fluffy he absorbs water, mud and smaller dogs like a sponge. And he does a world-class impression of Davy Jones when he's wet (will dig out a picture at some point).
And his fur smells of biscuits.
Je t'aime, little cookie dog!
