I think I might be all poopied out.
They are splendid fun, but rather exhausting company.
We have taken to allowing them to accompany us on our walk in the evening, much to Roger’s disgust. This has not been so bad in the snow, because it is possible to see them from a distance, but now that it has mostly gone, the whole event is fully occupied by a conversation that goes: one – two – err, three – where on earth has the other one gone, oh look, there it is. Come on, you lot. Rosie, come here, come and get your poopy. Get out of that puddle. Oh, goodness, leave Roger alone, you know he doesn’t like his ears being bitten. One – two – there’s the black one, just there, under that bush – well, get out from under my feet, then.
They enjoy the walk very much, it is the peak of adventurousness when you are a poopy. Of course they don’t wander off very far, they follow their mother, unless there is an especially intriguing new smell, at which they all cluster round, little tails wagging like mad.
One of the poopies is going to an especially clucky sort of person, who has asked me if I can provide some dog food in order not to upset the poopy’s little stomach by a sudden change. I did not like to say that so far she has eaten two chocolate Freddos off the Christmas tree, a shoelace and a sheet of newspaper, half of Oliver’s leftover pizza and the remains of a Chinese takeaway found under a bench in the Library Gardens, all without noticeable digestive effect.
We took them to the vet for their first checks and to get them microchipped today. Mark had to come with me, because taking six dogs anywhere, especially when two thirds of them are utterly lawless, is like being a part of a travelling circus. Fortunately there was nobody else in the waiting room, because they streamed in with great excitement, bouncing and rolling and leaking like a class of primary school children being taken to the zoo by an inexperienced student teacher. The vet poked and prodded them all, and agreed that they were indeed poopies, stuck needles in them and breathed a sigh of relief when we all streamed out again.
They will be ready to go in the next few days, and I am not sorry. Their highest ambition at the moment is to get into the living room, where they are not allowed to be, and hence it has now become the most desirable place in the house. There is a table turned on its side blocking their path, but they have been finding ingenious ways to circumvent it, and this morning we were awoken by the unwelcome sound of crashing wine bottles as they forced their way over the bottom shelf of the dresser. We staggered out of bed to discover a shocking mess, and three out of four poopies gambolling joyously around the sofa. The fourth was still attempting to squeeze through the gap, and had to be fished out.
Mark captured them and shouted, which made them cry, although not enough to stop them trying again later.
Mark is still wrestling the old clutch out of Lucy’s new car, not with any great enthusiasm, because it is terribly cold, with temperatures falling to minus seven and eight over the next few days. He has been wearing so many layers he can hardly lift his arms, and the bolts are frozen as well as rusty.
I took the dogs over the fells this morning, equally unenthusiastically, because the once-muddy footpaths are now sleek and sheer. It is very slippery, and it snowed for most of the way round. The dogs hurried and skulked under bushes and were very glad to get home.
Of course their paws get cold on the frozen ground. The poopies get very upset about this.
They will be going soon…
