Dear diary,
It’s fair to say that I think this week mother has spent a lot of time considering her life choices. Like really, really considering them. And, overall, I’m not sure that she’s come down on the side of thinking she’s made good ones in certain areas.
Personally, I could list a WHOLE lot of areas where that applies, but specifically here I think, in this instance, she might mean the ones pertaining to me.
It started at the weekend when the mothership was busy running about like a headless chicken (her words, not mine) trying to sort out mini-mother’s leavers’ ceremony, leavers’ party and birthday party, which all fell within 72 hours of each other and on the back of mother returning from Las Vegas looking somewhat jaded. What can I say? It had rained for the first time in like a billion years. Which was very welcome. We are on clay soil, which was rock hard, and so the rain didn’t so much as penetrate but more just ponded on top. I am not to blame thus for these geological issues.
I was hot, itchy and in danger of succumbing to sunburn and insect bites. I am highly intelligent and having watched Bear Grilled, I knew what to do to help prevent more vets bills.
So I rolled.
And rolled.
And possibly rolled some more.
It’s fair to say that a B&Q deluxe paint roller could not have achieved a much more uniform coverage – both in terms of not missing any bits and also the impressive thickness of coverage. So skilfully had I applied said mud pack that I had completely transformed myself from ginger-in-the-wrong-light to a nice deep dark bay which I felt might also help when it came to future vets bills as we could employee the Shaggy line of “wasn’t me”.
Sadly, my genius was not appreciated by mother who, upon arrival, was seen looking more horrified than the last time she opened a vets bill and sobbing more hysterically than Halle Berry winning an Oscar. It’s fair to say there isn’t a brush in existence that could have even penetrated the rhino-strong coating of dried mud on my fur, so I was hauled into the washroom by a determined-looking mother with a literal scrubbing brush in her hands. To be honest, it became clear within seconds that really what was needed was a jet wash and the nice men from the car shampooing place down the road who manage to get mother’s skip on wheels clean on the occasions she overcomes her embarrassment enough to take it. Within minutes, mother was wetter than the inside of an otter’s pocket and about as happy a mouse at a cattery. Many hours, handfuls of magic shampoo (I think mother might be considering doing them for trade descriptions) and an awful lot of naughty words, a very bedraggled mother dragged me back out to the field with the resigned air of someone who knows they’re wasting their time. Those with ears could hear the thunder starting again.
I really, really considered doing a Barbie Boy and holding her gaze while I sank back to the floor and rolled again, but frankly, I’m not that brave. As it was, she (and here I quote) hadn’t even bothered with my feathers as it would have been a waste of time. Just when I think I can’t teach the old dog new tricks, she shows little glimmers of promise…
While I might not have let her see the state I was back in, another side effect of the change in weather has also had her sobbing hysterically into her tea as Crazy Boss Lady phoned her this morning to say that I looked very stiff and lame behind. Mother has chalked it down to my arthritis acting up with the change in the weather and ordered bute to be given in higher levels. I’m assuming to me but with mother, who knows…
Anyways, I’m off work for a few days and being given more white powder than Shaun Ryder in his heyday (you see what I did there?) to see if it helps.
So until next time.
Laters,
Hovis
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