February 27, 2012

(Someone else’s) Puppy, con’t


So last Sunday Niall fixed me with a glittering eye* and suggested that I would Like. To. Ring. Handbells. Again. Next. Sunday.  Of course.  Of course I would.  Of course.**  I have so much free time.  So Niall picked me up this evening and pressed the rocket-launcher button and we were in Helsinki almost before we’d finished our fascinating discussion of long-draught towers.***

            Titus’ wife Andromache heard us coming† and opened the door with Haro†† under her arm.  I came for the puppy, I said.  I knew that, she said, and handed him to me. . . . a few hours later Niall picked me up off the floor and said, We’re here to ring handbells, you know.




I am Fang. I am the Terror of Continents.

He's not biting me. I just happen to have a finger in his mouth.

One of the things I love about puppies is the way they don't have to be actually biting anything. They just like to hang out with their mouths open. Just in case.

AWWWWWWWWWWW. (Hey, nice ring.)

MORE AWWWWWWWWWW. As Andromache was prying us apart at the end of the evening she said, you can sure tell the dog people. --Oh?

The worst of it is that Jasper will be back next week so Titus and Niall won’t need me any more.  Sob.  †††

* * *

* I wonder if the Ancient Mariner rang methods on handbells?  It could explain a lot. 

** Of course I overslept this morning after the bells woke me up and I couldn’t get back to sleep.  It’s not even a loud noise through two doors^ and a window.  But it drags me out of sleep like the sound of a hellhound suffering urgencies does. 

^ Although I keep forgetting and reopening my bedroom door.  Since the room is only just big enough for my small double bed+ and a lot of bookshelves it is a trifle claustrophobic with the door closed.  

+ Although the four-poster aspect adds loom

# Which reminds me arrrrgh that I need mosquito netting by mid-April.  If my bats were climbing out of their cosy little space under the roof into my part of the house in search of water last year . . . maybe I’d better have that netting by the end of March.  If they’re thirsty they may come back early. 

*** Nasty.  Avoid long draught towers if at all possible. 

† The retro-rockets need adjustment. 

†† So I was cruising a Japanese boys’ names list because—because—why not, and the meaning of Haro caught my eye:  wild boar’s first son.  Oh my.  I admit I haven’t found another list containing it to crosscheck with, but I still have to have it.

†††  You know there’s only three regulars for Sunday nights with Titus.  Maybe they’d like to ring major for a change?  Which needs four?

             I don’t even like little frelling terriers.

             —Oh?  Really?  No one would ever know.



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