Hello hello hello. Pip, cockapoo, black, curly, tartan collar. You're my favourite person now. The serious bit is in the box below, no jokes there. Everything else: walks.
Pip's medicine
Drontal worming tablet, one tablet, hidden in a treat or crumbled into food, one dose only, Saturday morning with breakfast (his quarterly wormer falls this stay).
It lives: high cupboard left of the kettle. If a dose is missed or you're not sure, ring Sandy:
07700 900123. Never double up.
as of 2026-08-04
Alone time? He hates being left alone. Keep absences short, he'd rather come along or have you here.
Behaviour and triggers? Friendly with everyone, including people who did not ask. Barks at the postman, that's a Tuesday, not a situation.
Food and drink? One scoop from the bin by the back door at 7 and 5, the scoop lives inside it. He'll announce dinner from about 4. He's lying.
House rules? Allowed on the sofa. He and Sam have an understanding about cushions, don't sit on Pip's end.
What's normal for him? Following you room to room, the full-body wiggle at the door, supervising the bins. All standard Pip.
Play and commands? Fetch until your arm gives out. Knows sit, stay, and a very theatrical paw.
Sleep? Kitchen bed. He's fine about it, whatever noises he makes for the first ten minutes.
Toileting? Garden between walks, door's the stiff one by the utility room.
Walks and lead? Two a day, the park loop is twenty minutes. Lead's on the hook by the front door and it stays on near roads. No exceptions, he's fast and he's optimistic.
Say hello to Pip
I'm Pip. I'll answer out loud with what Sandy wrote down, and nothing else. Everything I say lands in writing below.
Nothing said yet. Everything either of us says turns up here in writing.
Anything urgent, or anything I dodge: ring Sandy,
07700 900123.
Ask me anything that's in my note
I can tell you what Sandy wrote down about me, plus the general
stuff about my breed and my age. How I'm feeling is never mine to tell, so that one goes
straight to the phone.
Sam here. British Shorthair, blue, nine years old. I preside over the hearth. Everything you need to know is below, and anything that isn't: ring Sandy.
Food and drink? Half a pouch morning, half a pouch night, the dish by the fridge. If Pip's hovering, feed me on the counter. It's been agreed. I get exactly what's written down, whatever performance I stage at the bowl.
Hiding spots, and how do we know he's fine? When the dishwasher runs he lives under the big bed. That's normal. See him in the flesh once a day, a glimpse counts. A whole day with no Sam, ring Sandy.
House rules? The hearth is his. He's allowed everywhere except the kitchen counters, a rule he ignores at mealtimes by prior agreement.
Indoor or outdoor? Indoor only. Whatever he tells you at the back door, he does not go outside.
Litter? Tray in the utility room, scooped daily, he'll shout otherwise.
What's normal for him? Loaf-sitting on the hearth for hours, supervising from floor level, dignified silence. None of that is a problem.
Play and handling? Gentle wand-toy play if he's in the mood. He dislikes being picked up. He'll join you on the sofa by day two. Don't make it a thing.
Say hello to Sam
I'm Sam. I'll answer out loud with what Sandy wrote down, and nothing else. Everything I say lands in writing below.
Nothing said yet. Everything either of us says turns up here in writing.
Anything urgent, or anything I dodge: ring Sandy,
07700 900123.
Ask me anything that's in my note
I can tell you what Sandy wrote down about me, plus the general
stuff about my breed and my age. How I'm feeling is never mine to tell, so that one goes
straight to the phone.