My trip to the vet

Cooshtie Dave went home with his wallet full . . . of money. Clive is still a loser. He has had to admit, under severe questioning from Ginny, that none of his antepost bets has come anywhere near the finish line. Clive has spent the week explaining betting tactics to the boys. It goes something like this . . .

Back in the mid-winter you hand your money over to a grateful bookie to back a horse for Cheltenham at long odds, this is an antepost bet. Then as other punters get wind of the horse's potential you watch as the odds come down, rubbing your hands in glee at your foresight in beating everyone to it. Your 70 to 1 bet looks like a sure thing now that your horse is 4 to 1. Then the smile is wiped off your face as your horse, for some unforeseen reason, is withdrawn from the race, or drops dead on the gallops or catches a cold. Four of Clive's antepost bets have been withdrawn.

Last week Clive spent a whole evening in the company of racing enthusiasts at the Paddy Power and Racing Post Cheltenham Festival Preview. He phoned Ginny during the interval, sounding breathless and excited. 'There's some really good people here - Nicky Henderson, Paddy Power . . '

'Is that a real person?' Ginny interrupted.

'Cornelius Lysaght, Colm Murray . .

'Clive, I neither know nor care who these people are. Why are you calling?' Oooh she can be harsh sometimes.

'Errr, just thought I'd see how you are.'

'Clive, you're in a room surrounded by 400 saddo racing geeks. Surely in that crowd there must be someone as sad as you to talk to.' And she put the phone down.

Today is the last day of The Festival. Ginny won't be sorry. I'm on tenterhooks to see if Clive can come home a winner today. Ginny is too. She's actually had the telly on tuned to the racing!

The signs are good. Kicking King has won the Gold Cup. Ginny thinks Clive mentioned that horse (but then he mentioned so many it's hard to be sure). But it's cheered her up a bit . . . for now.

After The Gold Cup I went into the garden to do my business. My tummy's been feeling decidedly odd today. Ginny came out to clear up my mess. 'Arrrgh! Arrow what on earth have you been eating?'

My turds are as black as Marmite. Ginny is seriously concerned. That woman can move fast when she's worried. Before I knew it I was in the back of her little Peugeot 206 and we were bowling along the country lanes heading for the vet.

Now I try to block out thoughts of the vet. I have been once: last week when it was time for my first vaccination. On that occasion Nick held me on his lap in the car. He was exceedingly nice to me stroking and petting me all the way. At the vets I could smell dogs and I could hear them but I couldn't see them. DOGS! I hadn't been near a dog for over a week, not since I was wrenched from my birthplace and taken to live with The Philpotts. The vet was nice to start with. He petted me and prodded me and parted my legs to check that I was all present and correct. Then he asked Ginny to hold me while he stabbed me in the shoulder. That's not nice.

Now less than a week later here I am again and Ginny is telling the vet about my black turds - she's even brought one in a little plastic bag. After examining me and inspecting the gooey mass, the vet prescribes a probiotic. He reckons something has upset the balance of 'friendly' bacteria in my gut. I bet Cooshtie Dave wasn't thinking about my 'friendly' bacteria when he was slipping me his black pudding under the table yesterday.

Ginny nochalently writes out a cheque for £49 (including VAT) pretending that £49 is neither here nor there.

Clive really needs a winner at Cheltenham today.