…and today was Roger Poopy’s.
We have bought him a new luminous ball.
It is rubber, with little sticking-out lumps, and it glows yellow in the dark.
He has had several of these in the past, the last one being a present from Pepper, which he loved with his whole soul and then lost somewhere in the park in the daylight so it couldn’t be found. Today we went to Pets At Home, which is not an organisation of which I generally approve but it was the only one which was open.
We went to purchase a water bowl with a lip on it for the dogs to have in the camper van, because I am fed up of mopping up the carpets. You can purchase, in our wonderful retail-paradise universe, dog bowls which have a wide rim on the inside. They are supposed to be to stop dogs from getting their ears wet, which is not a problem any of ours have, but they are also very good for stopping water from sloshing out all over the place whilst you are lurching down Scottish country roads at late-for-school high speeds.
The one we bought was perfect for the job, and we have got a bet going on how long it will take Rosie to get her head stuck in it. It is not an especially tiny hole, but Rosie will get her head stuck in it anyway. She is just that sort of dog.
Whilst we were there we were terribly tempted by a gun that shot tennis balls, until we realised that its purpose was to shoot for the dogs to run after, not at them when they are being idiots. Instead we bought them a Dog Bed with special raised up sides to keep the cold out. It is not very warm in our house without a fire, which is the way of things when you are still having a central heating upheaval, and when Number One Daughter’s dog came to visit a few weeks ago, he brought his own bed with him. Our dogs liked this so much that he hardly managed to sit in it all week because there were three dogs in it already.
We thought, benevolently, that we would purchase them a bed of their own, because it was soft and warm, and Roger Poopy’s father is getting a bit bony and fragile. Also their own bed has become truly disgusting, despite frequent washing.
It turned out that a dog bed was not nearly as satisfying without Tonka hanging around the edge of it, looking heartbroken and reproachful, and Roger Poopy is avoiding it completely, preferring the smelly old cushion beside it. Rosie brought a mouthful of dog food into it, which she spat out, squished into its soft lining a bit, and then ate again. This is one of her more puzzling habits and it is not doing the carpet any favours.
Roger Poopy’s father was entirely sure that something so beautiful and cleanly fresh could not be intended for his use. He put a single paw into it, and then looked up at me imploringly. I assured him that it was fine, but he was not convinced, and took the paw out again. I lifted him up and put him in the basket, and he curled up in it, but it was the curl of a coiled spring, ready to leap out and bolt for the door the moment anybody said What Are You Doing In There You Wicked Dog?
I am sure they will get used to it.
In the meantime Roger and Rosie have fought all over the house over the luminous ball. In the end Roger came and sat on my knee and stuffed the ball behind me. Then he turned round to face Rosie, who is too short to climb up unaided, and growled like Simba in the Lion King faced with a kink in the Circle Of Life.
Mark has just taken them out to the Library Gardens for a last brawl before bed. I can just hear growling in the conservatory, and so I assume they are back now.
We are going to put the ball in the cupboard before we go to bed.
