It is almost my bedtime and so this will be brief.
Alas, Rosie and her new arranged husband have not hit it off. She has growled and snapped at him whenever he has tried his luck, and will only allow Roger Poopy to Do The Deed.
In hopes of a success, as you know, we separated Roger from the wedding party. I was obliged to get out of bed and use violence four times in the night, to persuade him to desist from his anguished howling. Rosie and her chap had been banished to the conservatory, and Roger Poopy was supposed to be sleeping on his cushion, on the floor next to our bed, but kept rushing off downstairs to the kitchen, where he sat miserably in front of the fire and lifted his out-of-joint nose into the air, and howled his grief to an uncaring universe.
We live in a terraced house and this seemed even more antisocial than our usual ghastly standard of neighbourliness. Some bawling and domestic abuse followed, but it continued until the dawn.
We obliged him to go and lie in his basket in Oliver’s room today, where Oliver also had no truck with grief-stricken wails, but Rosie remained determinedly monogamous, and in the end we thought perhaps that releasing him might encourage Rosie into the right frame of mind at which point the correctly equipped chap could seize the opportunity, but to no avail. Once they had reassured themselves of the other’s undying love, they consummated their reunion passionately and pointlessly, whilst the other chap glanced over and then curled up for an afternoon snooze, seemingly unperturbed by his rejection, which is just as well, it would have been awful if they had decided to fight it out.
Equally, he might have decided that the decidedly undignified consequence of being stuck together for ten minutes, which was what kept happening to Roger, was just not worth it, and certainly poor Roger howled and yelped as he tried and failed to disengage himself.
I am sorry to say that we all said Serves You Right with no kind sympathy whatsoever, it is a cruel world.
On the bright side, we thought, wearily releasing the potential poopies back to Never Never Land, at least this means we won’t need to fork out for getting her spayed.
So, it appears, we are not going to have poopies any time soon, which is probably no bad thing, we have got quite enough to do, and if Rosie wants something little to adore, the answer is in her own paws. We will have to just let them all work it out.
In other news, Mark went back to work today and Oliver had a day off. He has been enriching his bank account with more ceaseless labours at the Albert. He had quite decided that he was going to rest and revise this holiday, but when Ginge the chef got in my taxi on Friday night and I said we had been to collect Oliver, Oliver woke up on Saturday morning to a text which said Start At Two Bring Your Apron, or words to that effect, because this is the Lake District and everybody works.
He had a day off today because of going to the orthodontist, and we had just got home when the doorbell went, and it was Number One Daughter with Ritalin Boy. This was an unexpected happiness, because we had not even known she was in the Lakes, so instead of doing the ironing I poured some tea and we sat by the fire and talked. This was splendid, although I still will have to do the ironing tomorrow, it has not vanished, which would have been the most splendid thing.
We went to work tonight as well.
I am going to go. I am home now, and in need of sleep. Last night’s sleep was interrupted by repeated episodes of canine anguish, and I am tired.
They have all been banished to the cushion in front of the kitchen fire. I have had enough of dogs for one day.
