Dog’s life

I have gone off dogs.

The visiting dog is, I think, quite possibly somewhere on the LGBTQ or LTGBQ or LGTBQ or whatever they are spectrum. I mean the sort of spectrum that writes poems about wanting to be accepted, that one.

He is not interested in Rosie at all but likes to lick Roger’s bottom.

I can imagine no pastime less appealing, apart from possibly shark fishing from a surfboard.

Roger, on the other hand, has not diminished his interest in Rosie in the least tiny bit. I took them all for a walk this morning but had to return the visitor to his lead after a few minutes because of his determination completely to ignore me. When I tried to shepherd him away from the road he growled, after which he was on a short lead and some obedience classes.

Roger and Rosie vanished into the distance and were discovered shagging in the middle of the cricket pitch.

Apologies there to those of finer sensibilities. There is no other word which might so fittingly describe the cross-eyed panting and tongue-sticking-out humping that was going on. They could not have been bested by the most enthusiastic teenagers in a darkened car park.

I went belting over but they were firmly stuck together, much to the ire of some chap who came hurtling out of the cricket pavilion, bawling at me to get them thur dawgs orf his pitch.

There was nothing much I could do, the physical lifting and transportation of two passionately entwined dogs being beyond my capabilities, not to mention vaguely distasteful, so I hung about next to them for a while, making half-hearted clucking noises and pretending not to hear the bellowing chappie, who by now was jumping up and down and waving his arms about.

In the end Rosie wrenched herself free. Roger Poopy howled in pain and would have collapsed onto the hallowed turf to lick his painful bits, but the chap from the pavilion was starting to head vengefully in our direction, and so instead of being sympathetic, which I most certainly wasn’t in any case, I booted him off in the direction of the playground, and made a hasty exit, the visiting dog trotting smugly on a lead at my heels.

They were all exhausted after this excursion, which meant that the rest of the day progressed very peacefully. Roger and Rosie barely moved out of their basket, and the newcomer snored on the cushion in front of the fire, rather to my irritation, he could at least have tried to justify his keep in some manner.

I was glad of the peace and quiet. Since my return from Cambridge I have been slowly piecing the house back together. It is not that Mark is a neglectful housewife, but obviously he has been rather entirely occupied by rebuilding the camper van and trying to hold down two jobs at once. Also he does not exactly notice dust, certainly not with any enthusiasm.

Also he has eaten most of the things that were in the fridge, and so today I made biscuits and pies. I made two sorts of biscuits, one sort being the usual shortbread, and the other sort being the chocolate shortbread with the caramel. I like this, although it is a very great deal of faffing about. It was an Economy Measure, because I thought that if we were eating lots of home made caramel shortbread, which is very largely composed of flour, we would not eat quite so much home made fudge and home-made coffee chocolate, both of which are composed of far more costly ingredients.

I tried out this theory at work tonight but it turned out not to be true.

The pies are chicken and ham. I took a slice to work with me this evening but have not eaten it because of having eaten too many pieces of caramel shortbread, so I don’t know if they are nice or not. I will find out tomorrow.

Until then.