December 28, 2012



Note that this entire post can be defined as Too Much Information.  Those of you of a delicate disposition should look away now. 

So.  We were going to try again to get three of us down to Georgiana and Saxon’s glamorous open-plan flat on the water.  It had to be today because today was the day the dog minder could hurtle the hellhounds while Peter and I took the hellterror with us.  Peter was really looking forward to the hucklebutting, and promised faithfully to guard the Christmas tree while riot and anarchy were occurring.

The day did not get off to an auspicious start.  I slept through my alarm again.*  Naturally.  There was an email from Peter that he was coming into town anyway, and would walk up the rest of the way to the cottage.  Great.  That would save five minutes going to fetch him.

Except he didn’t appear.  Graaak.  Arrrgh.  Bleh.  I started to worry.  I harnessed up the hellhounds—having been waiting to give them their mini-hurtle to let Peter in first—and decided we would go in pursuit . . . and found him sitting on the greenhouse stairs, reading his paper.  WHAT? I said.  I may have, ahem, shouted.

The car’s not there, he said.  I thought you’d taken the hellhounds somewhere for a country hurtle and I was getting worried you weren’t back yet.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE CAR’S NOT THERE? I said, or maybe shouted.  Hellhounds and I hurtled up the hill and . . . there was Wolfgang.  The frelling cul de sac is deceptive.  It looks straight.  It isn’t, as many people who have tried to back out of it (which, unless you have a driveway to call your own is your only choice, having made the serious vehicular error of turning into it the first place) have learnt to the cost of their wing mirrors, paintwork and fenders.  And the final two parking spaces, the further one mine, do kind of hide.  I’VE LIVED HERE EIGHT YEARS, I said to my husband.  YOU SHOULD KNOW BY NOW TO WALK FARTHER UP THE HILL TO CHECK ON WOLFGANG.

Yes, I should, said Peter humbly (possibly seeing blood and spousal abuse in my eye).  I’m so sorry.

ARRRRRRGH, I said, and flew off with hellhounds.

So, you know, we were already a good half hour late.  And I still had to give the hellterror her mini-hurtle so she would have a crap before we left.

Those of you who have been watching the hellterror’s alimentary antics will know where this is going.

She didn’t crap.  She wouldn’t crap, and nothing was going to make her.  By this time we were about forty five minutes late and I uttered a final, heartfelt ARRRRRRGH, stuffed her into her travelling crate and we left.

Here’s the good news:  we got there.  The first half hour is pretty much B and substandard rural A roads.  The second half hour is Spaghetti Junction South and a nightmare every bit as compelling as the ones I’m having when I fail to wake up when my alarm goes off.

The other good news is that it stopped raining**.  Which is a very good thing since the hellterror and I were out in the weather for about two hours.  Didn’t I say something prophetic, the last time this journey was contemplated, about how the hellterror and I might never get indoors because I would spend the whole visit walking her around WAITING FOR HER TO EXCRETE?

Yes.  Well.  At least it was a nice day.  I topped up really well on my vitamin D levels.  And the predicted wind died away to gentle airs, and it wasn’t that cold, although frustrated fury does help keep you warm.  And the hellterror hucklebutted fabulously outdoors on the patch of grass I had randomly chosen, doing backflips when she forgot where the end of her extending lead was.  And she paid close attention to every single person who walked past—I had no idea that Georgiana and Saxon’s development has so frelling many people in it—became engrossed in the passage of buses, was disapproving of the rattly, popping starting of motorcycles, and yearned after other dogs going for walks.  In between times she ate leaves, repeatedly attacked the laurel hedge, wrapped her lead around the sentinel tree, and tried to get me to PLAY WITH HER.

What she did not do is crap.  She peed about forty-seven times, including two or three where she was CLEARLY FINALLY FRELLING about to CRAP and then at the final moment—nope—nope—can’t possibly—I only crap at home (sometimes).  —Which was the other aspect of this dreadful epic:  imagine living with a dog WHO WILL ONLY CRAP AT HOME.***

AARRRRRRRGGGGHHHHHH.  She nearly came back tonight as a hearthrug.

I didn’t dare bring her indoors.  I do not want to establish her pleasant habit of crapping in her crate, which is friendly and safe and familiar and she can just flip the blanket over any unpleasantness which will be dealt with later by her indentured servant, and the flat is on the top floor,†† there’s a long hall to the lift/elevator, several doors to negotiate, the lift doesn’t move very quickly . . . and the entrance to the flat is another long frelling hallway.  Poor Georgiana came down three times to check on us, and on the third time††† we went for a little walk while Peter had a nap.

The hellterror really enjoyed her walk.  By this time she frelling well ought to have been falling down with exhaustion‡ but noooooooooooo not the hellterror.  Then we came back and stood around the tree some more while the hellterror cavorted.  ARRRRRRRRGH.  Well, I said finally, a little wildly, I suppose we might as well go home.

So Georgiana went off to collect Peter and the frelling crate and the frelling hellterror spare kit and the frelling hellterror lunch—puppies should not miss meals, but I was NOT going to put more in the front end when nothing was coming out the back end—and I stood there between the tree and the hedge and looked at the hellterror, and the hellterror looked at me.  And the hellterror ambled off in an idle sort of way and . . . had a crap.

So we raced indoors and BOTH HAD LUNCH and I got to sit down.  The hellterror—even the tireless hellterror—wasn’t really up for hucklebutting around the flat, but with only a token howl of outrage permitted herself to be locked up in her crate.  And all these shenanigans meant that we had to negotiate Spaghetti Junction South in the dark . . . but we’re HOME.

And when upon arrival I let the hellterror out of her travelling crate for a pee . . . she rushed over to HER SPOT and had THE MOST ENORMOUS CRAP I HAVE EVER SEEN.

* * *

* All my life I’ve had my most lurid—and they can be very lurid indeed—dreams just before I wake up for the final time in the morning.  This is all explained by human sleep patterns blah blah blah but I have perhaps an extreme case.  I usually hear my alarm, I just don’t always recognise it as a clarion adjuration to GET OUT OF BED.  At the time it seems to be something to do with the assembled forces of the Evil Magician Alliance or the mating cry of a lovesick banshee or similar.  The fact that the hellterror has now learnt the sound—and the meaning—of my kitchen-timer alarm and usually joins in the fun should assist, but it doesn’t.  It just means the Alliance is even more diabolical than I realised, or the banshee brought a friend.^

^ Or possibly the banshee’s love-object is protesting.

** Although it’s supposed to start again any minute.  Hellhounds and I were positively sportive last night at mmmph o’clock, unexpectedly cantering around town on our last hurtle with actual stars overhead.  It had started raining again by the time I put the hellterror out for a last pee and it was grizzly later this morning when I was making tea and unsticking my eyelids.

*** Also . . . what is wrong with my critter karma that all my critters have Digestive/Eliminatory Issues?  It’s a very good thing I like staying at home.

† Southdowner suggested steering wheel cover.  She’s not really big enough yet to make a satisfactory hearthrug.

†† Fourth floor in American, third in Britspeak.

††† I left the hellish hellterror with Georgiana long enough that I could go indoors and have a pee.  Now the hellterror loves everyone and generally speaking ignores me like an old tatty rejected toy if there’s anyone NEW AND INTERESTING around, but Georgiana said she had a wobble when I stalked away leaving her with AN ALMOST UNKNOWN PERSONAGE OF DUBIOUS MOTIVES, and made little pathetic noises.  This is the first known occurrence of the hellterror making little pathetic noises about anything except the speed at which her next meal is coming.

‡ As well as full of well-compressed faecal matter to the neck


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