January 28, 2014

Procreation. Stop it before it spreads.

 

THE FRELLING FRELLING FRELLING HELLTERROR IS IN SEASON.  IN JANUARY.*  WHAT THE.  THE.  THE. . . . FRELL. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.  I assumed, fool and inexperienced entire-bitch owner that I am, that when she missed out the autumn I was, in the first place, safe till spring, and in the second place, possibly going to be lucky and she’d be a one-annual-heat bitch.  I’m very strongly of the if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it philosophy, and aside from questions of whether or not I’m going to try to breed her** if she doesn’t make the hellhounds crazy she will probably keep her bits.  If she doesn’t make me crazy.  Which is presently being reassessed.

We have here the Incredible Hulk-ette.  I swear she’s bigger (and greener) than she was last week.  There’s noticeably more noise*** including her seeing off a much-wider-than-usual selection of invisible monsters in her crate—and her telling everyone in Hampshire, when we go for our hurtles, that she is not interested, that her swollen rear end has a mind of its own and she does not share its manifest desire for immediate copulation and to keep your distance, whoever you are.  I believe this is the stage described as ‘will not stand for the dog’.

Honeybun, I have no intention of letting you stand for any dogs, now or next week.  The hellhounds, at present, are saying, oh, gah, this again, and putting their heads under the blanket.  But it’s still early days.  Waaaaaaaaaaah. . . . 

* * *

* That is, in the northern hemisphere.  It’s probably a perfectly good month to get your livestock preggers in the south.

** Which I am putting off absolutely for at least another year.

*** It’s always welcome to have your resident goblin barking her head off when the neighbours have the poor judgement to be holding their conversation under your kitchen window.  Especially at, oh, 8 a.m. or so.  At the moment hormonal sensitivity seems to be extending her aversive range to the entire length of the cul de sac which is not short enough.  Plus her hearing is much too acute.  If a beetle farts in the hedgerow I DON’T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT IT.^

^ Wildlife.  Feh.  Did I tell you that the local Pet Shop Proprietors say that birdseed take up is bad all over Hampshire?  So it’s not just me.  I did eventually get Birdseed Feeder #2, now so clean it hurts,+ put back together again, despite the manufacturers’ best efforts against, my success mainly due to a misspent youth playing those horrible hand-held tilt games where you’re trying to get the coloured ball to fall through the right coloured hole.  I performed this feat of dexterity with the frelling microscopic screws that hold the base on and whose sub-microscopic holes are unattainable by super-microscopic human fingers.  I got the nasty little frellers out with a miniature screwdriver whose business end is about the size of a hummingbird’s tongue, but getting them in again?  Through the squirrel-repelling hard wire cage?  Whose base is a crosspiece perfectly sited to prevent you getting a finger through (let alone two, since you probably need two fingers to HOLD a microscopic screw)?  AND THE BIRDS CAN’T BE BOTHERED TO EAT MY BIRDSEED?  Fine.  You guys all need to fly to Tahiti next winter.  I’m sure I can create a few tall thin planters out of these ex-birdfeeders.

The fat balls are disappearing at a rate however.  I hope it’s my penguin-sized robin (who is too robust to get through the squirrel cage wire) who is consuming these.++

Further in wildlife news:  We haven’t seen the frelling churchyard hedgehog in a while +++ but a few nights ago hellhounds and I came around the corner onto the main street again and . . . saw a fox loping lazily away ahead of us.  I think foxes are dangerous vermin and while this town, plonked down in farmland as it is, is doubtless swarming with foxes in the vicinity I prefer to avoid close encounters.  Therefore imagine the adrenaline spike when we’d rounded that same corner two nights later and . . . there’s a break in the terrace row of little old houses where the let’s-make-it-obvious-we’re-fabulously-wealthy owners of the big house on the corner have installed ye Gate of Gates at the back~ thus creating a niche.  Hellhounds’ heads came up and they careened round the wall into the niche before I, it’s very late even by my standards and my reflexes are not too good right now anyway, hit the brakes on their leads and apocalypse by the sound of it ensued.  I thought it was the fox, and that the vet bills were going to be really expensive.  I had done my hellgoddess in a panic trick and thrown myself against the ends of their now-fully-extended leads and began dragging them away from whatever was happening, like fishermen winching waterlogged nets up onto the shore where they can get at them.  I was amazed that, as hellhounds emerged, backwards and mostly on their hind legs, no one seemed to be bleeding.

Nothing else emerged.  I waited a couple of seconds, got hellhounds on very short lead—the kind of very short lead I can hold them on—and we walked past the niche.

And there was Phineas’ marmalade ex-hellkitten, sitting at the very back of the niche against the closed Gate and his tail curled around his feet, looking utterly unbothered.  Cats are masters of the Happened?  Did anything happen?  No, I didn’t notice anything happen, nonchalance, but I assume my winching had taken effect at an opportune juncture.  Although I would have sworn there was more noise than two hellhounds, even two excited hellhounds, could have made.  Speaking of noise.

+ And therefore badly out of the cottage décor.

++ One of the items B_Twin brought from Australia are . . . wait for it . . . peppermint chocolate frogs.  I’m sitting here eating peppermint chocolate frogs.  I want you to know I find it very disturbing to bite the heads off frogs, even chocolate ones.#

# No of course I’m not going to eat them tail first.  I want them to die a swift, clean death.

+++ I hope it’s just hibernating and hasn’t drowned.  The sky pitched it down again yesterday and we’re back to standing water in all directions.

~ With the glittering high-tech dashboard set into the wall which keeps going wrong so the Gate of Gates often stands helplessly open and any riffraff could wander in.  Hee hee hee hee hee.

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