It's not the size of the dog

I was savaged (well, nibbled) by a dog this morning on my way to he station. I spotted a Jack Russel Terrier misbehaving: chasing cars, barking, running in the road, general dog type stuff. It's owner, a large, burly, builder was demonstrating a fantastic lack of control over it. Suddenly, from out of the sun, the cowardly cur attacked me, attempting to sink its teeth into my ankle. I yelled "GERROUTOFIT YA LITTLE BASTART!" and kicked it about fifteen feet down the road. The dog scarpered. The owner slunk away without a word. With a bit of luck, one of them will be run over, or at the very least eat their own poo today.

Pony and trap, nap

The potty training is going extremely well at Neveratoss towers. Sam has taken to it with almost religious zeal. Yesterday afternoon whilst he was enthroned in front of the TV, Cathy went upstairs for a few minutes. When she came down, Sam had nodded off mid grunt and was face down on the floor fast asleep, bare bottom in the air. Nice to see that the sheer quality and breeding of the Neveratoss dynasty is shining brightly in the next generation.

Toddler taming

There are many books on the subject, but to my mind you would be better off trying to push butter up your arse with a red hot needle. My advice is to buy the biggest, thickest hardback you can find, at least five hundred pages, and smack the little bugger around the head with it until one of you feels better. Sam seems to have left the terrible twos far behind him now: he's firmly entrenched in the terribly terrible threes. He's developed the most annoying, blood curdling, whingeing, whining, nasal, high-pitched, penetrating, nerve jangling scream. It goes straight to the dial that controls anger and winds it straight up to eleven (thanks Simon). If you have ever heard the unearthly scream when foxes are mating, take it, multiply it by ten and you might just scratch the surface of what I’m talking about. He uses this noise for everything: I wanted orange juice, not apple, wheeeeeeeeeinge; I'm tired, wheeeeeeeeeinge; please may I have another biscuit, wheeeeeeeeeinge; I've got my leg caught in some agricultural machinery, wheeeeeeeeeinge. I've never smacked him, I never will, but I’m beginning to understand why people do. Does anyone fancy a fight?

For a more amusing view of being the father of a toddler have a look at Irony Central (via Sore Eyes), just wait until your little girl reaches three.

Did I mention the fact that he can ignore the crap out of anything?