July 24, 2014

Weather, myalgic encephalomyelitis and hellcritters

 

Glory hallelujah I hate this weather.  And if one more frelling dingdong weather person says, Oh, it’s going to be ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL SUMMER DAY, NOT A DROP OF RAIN IN SIGHT!!!, I am going to hunt them down and kill them.I really don’t get it, about the weather reporters.  Not counting people like me who comprehensively hate the heat** a meteorologist worth a third of his/her salary has to know that land needs rain.  Especially standard western agricultural landscape like southern England.  Endless blue lying-on-the-beach days*** are NOT GOOD FOR ANYONE.†

Okay, there is one semi-advantage to this weather.  It slows even the hellterror down so—especially because I’m too tired and stupid to be doing anything like, you know, writing PEG II or a few more episodes of KES— I’ve been taking the opportunity to oversee having the entire hellmob loose at once.  Usually the hellterror rampages about the place till I get tired of stripping her off the ceiling and prying small pieces of furniture or bits of hellhound out of her mouth, and then she goes back in her crate and, to do the little monster (and her pre-hellgoddess conditioning) credit, she settles down quickly (mostly) and goes to sleep.  She will stop mayheming when she’s told but this doesn’t often last . . . and also, she’s a hellterror.  To some extent they’re built this way.  And if she wants to hucklebutt around table, human, and hellhound legs followed by the end-swapping thing till I get dizzy watching her—and then flip over on her back and repeat her morning ritual††  . . . there’s really no reason she shouldn’t, so long as she (and the hellhounds) get that that’s the deal, and that jumping on the sofa or diving in the garbage is not part of the deal.  Also also, in my enfeebled state, nobody is getting as much hurtling as they’re accustomed to and while in this heat they don’t mind as much as they might, still, basic levels of stimulation should be maintained.†††  And, you know (she says cautiously) it seems to be working reasonably well. . . .

But I will be very, very, very, very glad when the weather persons stop putting the next rain off for at least another forty-eight hours AND THE WET STUFF POURS FROM THE SKY.‡ 

* * *

* There I go again, being a good Christian.

** And hate watering their 1,000,000,000 pot plants.  It’s almost enough to make me pave the frelling garden over.  Not quite.  Besides, if I had a garden-sized patio I’d just HAVE MORE POTTED PLANTS.^

^ After all I have no front garden at the cottage, just brick steps and tarmac, AND IT’S COVERED WITH POT PLANTS.+

+ It’s also looking pretty fabulous if I do say so myself.  My semi-detached neighbour, Phineas, said to me a day or two ago that he loves walking up the little hill past my house to his because he is ENGULFED in the smell of my flowers.  ::Beams::  That’s mostly the sweet peas.  I invariably buy the ones described as having the strongest scent.

*** ::shudder::

† Especially anyone having an unusually severe ME attack.  That BathBot sealant has absolutely done me in.^

^ And of course the hellhounds aren’t eating.  Of course.  I’m not eating very well, myself, but I’m eating, because I know I need food like landscape needs rain.  It’s true that your moral imperative quavers a little about tamping food down your hellhounds’ throats when you’re having to do something very similar to yourself, but.  I’d retweeted something a day or two ago, someone howling at the idiocy of some of the anti-food rhetoric in certain women’s magazines, that FOOD IS NECESSARY TO SURVIVE and I’d added that yes, I’d been thinking about this in the post-flu doldrums of having to force myself to eat.  Someone tweeted, did this make me more sympathetic about the hellhounds?  Basically . . . no.  They’re forcing me to take responsibility for keeping them alive.+  If it were emergency four-hourly dosings and blood transfusions and things, okay, yes, of course.  But this is just bad mental/physical wiring and stupidity and obstinacy and I’m sick to, you should forgive the term, death of it.++

They tend to get all apologetic when they won’t eat.  They flatten their ears and look at me mournfully.+++  That and £3 will buy me a cup of coffee, guys.  And I don’t drink coffee. 

+ The vet said, they don’t usually quite starve themselves to death.  I’m sure usually dogs don’t.  But these are food-indifferent sighthounds with something already wrong with their digestive functions, I know what happens if they don’t eat for twenty four hours and I don’t want to go there.

++ Also I’m coming out of it now, but it was interesting for about five days trying to figure out what I could feed myself that I would actually EAT.  If you really really really don’t want to eat something, your throat closes and if you try to swallow it anyway you’ll gag.  It was like arguing with a two year old in a tantrum.  Well, will you eat A—?  No.  Well, will you eat B—?  No.  C?  No.  D?  No.  Well, what WILL you eat?  I DON’T WANT TO EAT ANYTHING!  WAAAAAAAAAH!  And, you know, vegetables?  I who am about 80% rabbit, only taller and with a nastier temper?  Bleeeeeaugh.

I lost weight.  I didn’t like losing weight.  I’m thin enough, and at my age you lose weight you get haggard, and the sympathy you attract isn’t the good kind because you’re too old to get haggard interestingly.  Also, post-flu and with the ME lying on me like a very, very, very, very, very large hellterror~ and as a person of relatively advanced years I need not only calories I need good calories.  Arrrgh.

~ Hellhounds lie much more delicately.  The fact they weigh—speaking of weight—a third again as much as she does, each, is utterly beside the point.

++ And then a little while later they get all jolly and want to prance around and play.  That’s the fresh calories coursing through your systems, you morons. 

†† This usually involves ferocious growling for some reason.  If you check on her just to make sure nothing is troubling her she won’t stop growling, but the tail starts going lickety split.

††† And the hellterror is maniacally willing—nay, eager—for lap time even in this weather.  After she’s hucklebutted, destroyed a few toys, pestered Peter, rolled around on her back and growled, been yelled at a few times for garbage/sofa/hellhound misbehaviour, she starts trying to climb into my lap.  She can just about do it too, with those pogo-stick legs.  First time I thought she was kidding, so I fished her up, draped her over my legs, and waited for her to get down again.  Wrong.  Half an hour later she was dead asleep and I was sweating.

Hellhounds and I still lie on the sofa together.  But we leave gaps for air circulation.

‡ At which point we will find out if hellterrors can generalise from somewhat better behaviour mostly on account of the heat to somewhat better behaviour learnt while the heat was helping press home the lesson.^

^ I am of course naively assuming this welcome rain will be the kind of extra-welcome rain that drags the temperature down drastically as well as watering your garden.

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