I have been reliably informed that yesterday’s picture of a prize cock was, actually… a hen. Oh dear. My country-boy pretensions thus exposed, let us move on to happier animal-related matters.
Last weekend, on the occasion of their 11th anniversary, our favourite London boys came to stay with us – accompanied by Archie [no blog pseudonym required], their twelve-week old puppy. (I have been given to understand that Archie is a cocker spaniel, but I’m no longer certain of much in this life.)
Older readers will remember the long-standing dynamic equilibrium that sits at the heart of my relationship with K. Having worked closely with sick mutts for the past five years, K has had his heart set on owning one of his own – whereas I would rather [insert the first distatefully humiliating activity that comes to mind; you won’t be far wrong].
As you can imagine, K was almost beside himself with mushy, doe-eyed anticipation for Archie’s company.
“You’ll see, Mike. By the end of this weekend, you’ll be a changed man. How could anyone not love having a little puppy in the cottage? It’s what I’ve always wanted! It’s all I ask! Just greet him with an open mind!”
Within seconds – seconds! – of Archie’s entering the cottage, he had left us his calling card: a sizeable damp stain, right in the middle of the seagrass in the morning room. (Not pictured, but about 50 pixels to the south.)
Within minutes – minutes! – of Archie’s departure, two and a half days later, K had the Dyson out, in a bid to eradicate all lingering traces of his existence.
“I don’t think I’m ready as I thought I was, Mike. It’s like having a toddler in the house! He’s lovely! But I’m exhausted! You need eyes in the back of your head! I couldn’t relax!”
If a prominently placed piss-stain is the price I have to pay for a dog-free life, then I must embrace it whole-heartedly. Result and a half! Let freedom reign!
troubled diva 