Six Days till First Hellterror Hurtle
Pavlova got her second—and final—vaccination today. Six days till first hurtle. YAAAAAAAAAY. That’s the good news.
And the bad news . . . I got four hours of sleep last night. Joy. And it’s not Pavlova’s fault—or only indirectly—it’s the ruddy hellhounds. SIIIIIIGH. Same old same old, except this morning I had to get up in time to have Pavlova at the vet’s at 9:30, whatever was happening at 4 a.m. I know, you’re not impressed, but aside from my keeping of insanely late hours, my mornings have become a lot more complicated since the arrival of the hellterror*. Hellhounds would be perfectly capable of keeping their legs crossed till I took Pavlova to the vet’s and got home again and had a cup of tea and an apple**, and I was in fact hoping that hellhounds would do their usual early-morning you’ve-got-to-be-kidding opening one eye and closing it again when I appeared fully dressed at 9 a.m. But no. That fat upstart† isn’t going anywhere that we aren’t coming too. MORE SIIIIIIIIGH. And I’d had four hours of sleep because hellhounds wouldn’t eat their supper and by the time they did I was streaming with adrenaline, etc.***
So I bundled everybody into the car and we all went to the vet, where the receptionist fell on Pavlova with glad cries, saying that bull terriers are lovely and they only have a couple of them on their books ( . . . now three) and there should be more.† Pavlova was nothing loth about manifesting her fabulousness to a new person. (Yaay! Socialisation!) And I don’t think she even noticed getting the jab from the vet. (Who felt her carefully all over first. Yaay! Socialisation!) And she weighs 4.1 kilos which is—I looked it up, I still think in pounds—nine pounds. Which is getting on for a lot to carry under one arm for any length of time, unless you’re Conan the Barbarian.
Hellhounds, sulking in the car, cheered up when we left the newly vaccinated Pavlova at the cottage and went for a sunny and beautiful country walk out at Warm Upford. Then we all went down to the mews and I spent two hours crashed out in the guest bed†† with hellhounds who, possibly realising a good thing, were remarkably quiet and compliant. I would be very grateful to get more sleep tonight. . . . †††
* * *
* I keep telling myself I have to start calling her by her call name instead of Little Fat Thing. She is, furthermore, starting to respond to Little Fat Thing. Oops.
** Bluebell season is my favourite time of year, but there’s a strong argument for now as well, when my morning apple(s) are fresh off the tree.^
^ It’s a little quelling when you’re all in amber waves of grain/apples off your own tree harvest mode to have to watch your feet for unexpected puppy crap, but not all that quelling, at least to those of us puppy-afflicted who are realists. And yes, of course in theory I pick it all up as it happens. In practise, there’s the fending off of the puppy who thinks it looks like a great game, and after dark you’re also of necessity carrying a torch, which prevents you from stepping on the puppy. Sometimes I give it up as a bad job and in the morning last night’s crap has disappeared, to reappear unpredictably.
*** The only KNITTING I’m getting done at the moment is late at night when I should be SLEEPING but need to scrape myself off the ceiling about one thing or another, probably hellhounds and supper. Although I got several rows done this evening at Fustian COUGH-COUGH beginner practise at which I made a colossal mess of Grandsire Triples and St Clements minor^, both of which I should be able to ring WITHOUT EVEN THINKING ABOUT IT. And worse yet, the fellow who ran practise tonight—apparently they pass ringing-master responsibility for the additional practise around like a hot potato^^—reads this blog when it’s about bell ringing. Maybe I’ll just neglect to add the bell ringing tag tonight. ARRRRRRGH. KILL MEEEEEEEEEE.^^^ And it wasn’t enough that I made a horse’s rear end of myself~, the big kids also rang a long touch of frelling spliced frelling surprise frelling major which as far as I’m concerned is right up there with feeding the five thousand with a few loaves and a spoonful of bouillabaisse. And this is supposed to be the beginners practise night. I don’t want to think about what their ordinary practise is like.~~
^ We rang St Clements last night at Glaciation! We rang Oxford Double Bob last night at Glaciation, which I had never seen before in my life and was mugging up hastily by the tiny horrible blue line in the Ringing World Diary! I didn’t ring it well, but I rang it! We rang Cambridge minor last night! Tonight I probably would have made a mess of plain hunt except I didn’t get the chance!+
+ Maybe it’s Pavlova. Maybe I need to take Pavlova. In which case I’m doomed, because even as narrow twisty bell tower stairs go, Fustian tower has narrow twisty stairs and there’s no way I’m getting a puppy crate up them. Not to mention that I wouldn’t dare ask if I could bring her. You’re the worst ringer we’ve ever seen and you want to bring a puppy? Are you kidding? NEVER DARKEN OUR DOOR AGAIN.
^^ Or possibly a steaming pile of puppy crap
^^^ No, wait, don’t kill me, I have a puppy. Although the puppy is about the least traumatisable being I have ever met. Have food? She loves you. The hellhounds and the husband would miss me more.
~ Sure, I can claim that part of why I was quite so dire tonight was the four hours of sleep. But pretty much everybody who rings has a life, and comes to evening practise tired and semi-brained. But our semi-brains are not all created equal. Mine is more the steaming pile of puppy crap end. I seem to be saying SIIIIIIIIGH a lot tonight.+
+ The frequent references to puppy crap probably won’t go away till housetraining is (relatively) over with. And she’s doing extremely well. But she’s still only ten weeks old and doing extremely well involves a lot of newspaper-changing, taking outdoors every two hours or so#, and picking up after on the part of the enabling human. Also a lot of puppy chow and cheese.
# Last night she proved that she can stay dry/clean for four hours. This is not a result worth endeavouring to repeat however.
~~This is why Fustian had never occurred to me as a possible tower.
† I also told her Pavlova was a mini, and she looked surprised and said, she looks pretty well grown for ten weeks for a mini to me.
†† Having very weird dreams as one does. My favourite involved worrying about remembering the license number of a miscreant and still remembering it when I woke up. If I saw a miscreant in action out here in real life there is no way I would remember his/her plate number. My subconscious having its little joke.
††† I have a funeral to ring tomorrow. . . .
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