Run. Forest. Run.

Today we went to the forest. I love the forest. Mr Moussaka loves the forest. The forest is marvellous.

There are other creatures in the forest, pheasants, rabbits, squirrels, badgers plus our deer friends. The forest is magical.

The forest is magical because … when I am there I forget I am disabled. I just run. Up hill, down hill, mainly off piste, leaping fallen trees in pursuit of all those beasties lurking in the shadows. Excited doesn’t even cover it. Mr Moussaka, my bestie, keeps up with me, yet as the good chap of the comedy duo keeps an eye on the parents (I don’t bother), who stumble over roots and brambles in their own pursuit of me shouting WAIT to no avail. Tis the best fun ever.

On our eventual return to our disabled dog access automobile we came across another family out for a similar jaunt. A muttley crew of allsorts who were equally excited including one chap who was as old as the forest itself with a greying coat and floppy legs. His very own Mama was pushing a buggy for this very chap to get into once his ancient legs could walk no further allowing him to still enjoy the magic of game birds.

Mama looked at Papa, Papa looked at Mama, then they both looked at me whilst considering how much a gym membership would cost because … when I am old and withered I too would still like to visit the forest. Yet when Mama or Papa push me in my wheelchair they will have to run, very fast, up hill and down hill, whilst I whimper and waive my walking stick in the air shouting FASTER as we continue our hot pursuit of all creatures great and small.

Life is magical.

10570428_1495172777366921_3566254134521004392_n Editor’s comment: Chase me and lose another limb buddy boy.

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A little Christmas message from that darned cat

We don’t do family portrait Christmas cards but if we did …

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Le Miaow. Peace on earth, goodwill to all men, or these days more batteries not included and gluten free cookies for Santa. Bah humbug.

My predecessor, Felix the Cat, was a super ninja feline chap that once brought home a very special gift on Christmas Day. A whole freshly cooked chicken which he dragged over a six foot brick wall, after stealing it from an unsuspecting family, and then proudly placed it on the back door step. Mama was mortified and secretly wrapped the warm dead beastie in newspaper before burying it at the bottom of the dustbin. Should you happen to know of a family who were once bemused by the disappearance of their Christmas meal circa 1987 in Barnham, West Sussex, Mama says she is truly sorry.

The true meaning of Christmas is simple, love. We are a bit of a motley crew, this oddball family made up of misfits from around the rock, but a family we are. Marketing madness and materialistic nonsense doesn’t really do it for us. Yes, we will all have a little gift to open on Christmas morning, because it is exciting to unwrap a present that someone else has taken the time to think about and give to you. And just as exciting to see the ones you love open a gift that you have chosen for them. But no credit card bills will be rocking up in the January post because you can show someone how much you love them by your everyday actions which are far more valuable than anything money can buy.

The ultimate gift … there are 365 days to the next Christmas, be humble, be kind, and be caring, for every single one of them.

And in this household on 25th December there will be no arguments over left over pigs in blankets, mainly because we are not allowed them after a nasty vomiting episode in previous years.

Final thought, Merry Christmas to my little mate Rudy Moose, aka Mr Moussaka. God bless you little chap. First Christmas dumped in the hound pound as a puppy, second Christmas still in the hound pound, unwanted, third Christmas … one of us young man.

Oh, and he will be spending his first family Christmas sharing the love by visiting the old folks next door on Christmas morning.

A top banana Mr Moose and much better than sitting indoors unwrapping socks, even Jesus never got socks for Christmas, not a good look with sandals.

(And as for three wise men, well that really would be a miracle. Just saying.)

28176020_190037684926141_658578104_n The boys comment: Merry Christmas from all of us to all of you, big love  from the motley, and not too shabby, second hand misfits xxx

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Mr Moussaka monthly … meant to be

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It’s a harsh planet where the worst things happen to the best folk, be they two legged, four legged or even three legged. (Eight legged are quickly relocated to live a more natural outdoor lifestyle).

However, good things do happen too.

There is my big brother, Ouzo the Greek, a three legged beast with limited social skills, run over and left for dead in Greece. Plus me, aka Mr Moussaka, a four legged beast who just loves everyone in the entire world, yet was handed over to the pound on Christmas day in Cyprus. Mrs D, the cat from the dark side, a no-eared beast who is mighty fierce, and spent a year in a pen as she was overlooked because of her looks, from just up the road (although she likes to tell everyone she is actually French and to be fair pulls off a pretty good Le Miaow accent). And finally Mama and Papa. Mama was made in Sweden and born in England, and Papa, whose Mama is French and Papa is English, was born in Nairobi, Kenya.

Le Meow

And somehow, with the love and kindness of others on this massive rock, we all came together. A motley crew who despite our immense diversity are basically summed up in the words of Papa as ‘not too shabby’.

We have our ups and downs, as everyone does. We have family and friends who are facing the hardest of times and all we can do is support and listen … then quietly go away and shed a few tears for them whilst wishing we could do more.

But that is how this life works. You give, you get, but most importantly you care. And if you can’t make a difference in one situation you sure can in another, as my big brother has taught me, we are only here once so make the most of it and share the love.

Me, Mr O, and even that darned cat, have just randomly rocked up and begun a new life in The Edwards family. And yup, it is pretty good. Even the no-eared creature has accepted us into her life and rubs up against Mr O’s chest whilst he sits patiently waiting for his supper (she-devil). As for me, I may well be a tad sound sensitive and taken the odd tinkle on the worlds most expensive rug, out of fear, yet forgives you English oddballs celebrating your Guy’s religious fanatics as at least you are supporting the Chinese economy. Fair play. Diversity my friends.

A random family, from all over this rock, whose bizarre paths have come together, continue to rock. Mama has quit her job and is off to work for an animal charity and as for Mr O, that aloof enigma, well … he has just signed a book deal with an American publisher.

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Life my friend’s is truly barking, or just maybe, meant to be.

10570428_1495172777366921_3566254134521004392_n Editor’s comment: Theresa May can do one.

Ouzo CEO’s comment: Ouzo the ‘Enigma’ Greek, a three legged second hand dog and international author. Who’d have thought.

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Angels

Trust me. They exist.

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Never be impressed by money, titles, professions, possessions or how many followers. Be impressed by kindness, integrity, humility and generosity.

Meet Dorian.

Just another street dog.

Yet one which has touched my heart. Because … we share a guardian angel. Ermioni Giannakou.
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Everyone has their own story to tell, their own reasons to maybe help out a good cause, and this one is mine.

Little Dorian, from the very same streets I used to loiter, rescued by my very own saviour, will now follow in my own three legged footsteps … once his leg has been amputated. And maybe, just maybe, with the love and care of Ermioni, he could well get his very own ‘golden basket’ ticket. A forever home. Like me.

Sitting here, in my humble abode, sharing a tripe stick with my bestie, Mr Moussaka, we read Dorian’s story. I looked at Mama, Mama looked at her bank account. The news was grim. 40 quid and two days until pay day. But who needs 40 quid so the decision was made to give half of it to Dorian. Good luck my friend.

If there is a meaning to life it is certainly not to see how important we can become, but to see how much difference we can make to the lives of others. A bit like Dorian’s guardian angel. A rather remarkable young lady.

And yup, the chap in the last photo is me. A final hug with my first love. My very own guardian angel. Forever in my heart. Thank you.

Share the love for Dorian and those who will follow.

10570428_1495172777366921_3566254134521004392_n Editor’s comment: Spare some change Governor? Link for like minded souls right here. Ta muchly. Said the cat from the dark side.

Miracles do happen …

… because of angels x

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Mr Moussaka Monthly #09/18

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If you are old, like Mama, you will remember a song that goes … me aaaaaaand Mrs Jones, Mrs Jones, Mrs Jones, we got a thiiiiing going on. Well, that’s me and my bro, me and Mr O, we got a thing going on.

I love him. He is my rock. Where he goes, I go. When he has a bit of a sit down because he is tired what with just having the three legs, I sit down too. Be it the park, the pavement, or even the pet shop, I’ll be there, right by his side. And when Mr O, the partially-abled Enigma spots a deer and miraculously runs like a Deerhound over the ups and downs of the Sussex Downs, well I go with him. Despite the concerned calls of the parents. Hey ho. It’s my job.

Went a bit wrong though. On a recent trip to the forest (we proper love the forest) one of those deer folk happened to cross the path in front of us. Mr O was gone like a bullet from a rusty gun. We both ran like the wind through the dense undergrowth oblivious to parental control. Fun, oh yeah baby. I spent the first year of my life in a dog’s home, a very good one, but when you get your ‘golden bed ticket’ life is suddenly terrific. So we proper went for it. The thing is, deer’s are sprightly chaps and can run a little bit faster than a three legged dog doing a poor impression of a Deerhound, and me, well I’m not leaving my Mr O, we have a thing going on after all.

We were a bit lost, Mr O was a tad exhausted, I was a bit scared. I could hear the parents frantically calling somewhere faraway, it was a bit of a ‘to me, to you’ moment, but being the good little boy of the duo I returned to the old folk … I knew sausages would be involved after all. But Mr O was still out there, lost. The parents were cool, calm and collected and reassured me that everything was going to be alright. Phhff. I am a dog, I knew what they were feeling and it was none of the above.

We like to play a game called ‘find Papa’ he hides and I have to find him, tis much fun. This time Papa said ‘find Mr O’ and so I led Papa back through the undergrowth and went right back to the exact position where I had left Mr O having a lay down. But he was no longer there. I had my own little panic which induced one of my Tourette’s moments and I did a bit of ticking, yipyap sort of thing. And then I manned up and used my sort of spaniel snout to track my bestie down. It was a bit of a trek but I only went and did it. Mr O had made his way to a path and was heading in the wrong direction deeper into no man’s land, but I found him. I was, according to Mama and Papa, (and between you and me, Mr O too) a hero! To be honest I was a little bit relieved, and just a little bit proud.

Mama said she wondered what the deer chap had said on his own return to his family … ‘you’ll never guess what, a three legged Greek ex-street Anatolian Shepherd dog doing an impression of a Deerhound only tried to hunt me down’ … and my how they laughed. Rude.

The next day Mama said we were only up for a semi-adventure so instead we went to a park, one which we had never visited before which makes Mr O happy. For a people fearing weirdo he loves a new experience. This particular park Mama had not visited for many years, the reason being the last time she went there she came across a wee small child alone on the swings, and well, it didn’t end well. Mama knew the family, she was a bit scared of them, a bit sort of hard core don’t mess with us kind of chaps. There were 4 young boys in this family, Lee, Liam, Leeson and Leroy. Leroy, being the youngest, was once upon a time all alone, about age 3, playing on the swings when he fell off and started to cry. Mama had rushed to his rescue and picked the wee chap up and asked if he was ok to which he replied, at age 3, f*** off. So 20 years later, and with some trepidation, Mama decided she would take us there as a new experience, just because. And all was good in the hood. New place = new smells, new squirrels and to top it off the best invention in the world, rabbit poo. T’was good. Really good. Until the end, when we approached the residential area. And yup, the front door, to the very house that young hard core Leroy resided in all those years ago, opened. Mama popped us on leads and mentioned something about hurrying home for our tea when out came Leroy. Literally. As gay as a gay thing on a gay day, Leroy was looking mighty proud. And good for him. Mama cussed herself as she admitted she had assumed he would by now be residing elsewhere at her majesty’s pleasure, but no, the boy was as kind as a kind thing, with the most remarkable skin and coiffured hair. A jolly decent young man who instead of telling Mama to f*** off said ‘nice dog ma’am’.

Humility, honesty and just being yourself is what makes this barking rock that we all live on keep on rocking. There may be good times, bad times, and some really sad times, but as my brother has taught me, you just have to make the most of it.

I ain’t heavy and he’s my brother.

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10570428_1495172777366921_3566254134521004392_n Editor’s comment: A measly sausage. I would have given you a one foot long Aldi pig in a blanket if you had left the belligerent beggar behind.

Ouzo CEO’s comment: Mr Moussaka, my deer friend, thank you for saving me. Cat … do one.

 

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