Everybody has gone, and I am all alone.
All alone except for the two dogs, that is, obviously. There are only two left because the last poopy went this afternoon, off to a life of total cosseting with a very nice kindly lady who couldn’t have children and who felt a poopy might be the next best option.
Certainly it will save her a fortune on school fees and driving lessons.
She was taking dog proprietorship very seriously and had provided everything a small poopy might possibly need, putting my own haphazard dog management rather into the shade. So far they have been fed on anything that has been cheap and handy, and have had a pair of old knotted socks as a toy. These had become so disgusting that the lady declined the suggestion that she might like to take them with her, and indeed once the poopy had gone I chucked them into the dustbin. It now has a harness and a lead, a file with all of its information, some Special Nutritional Expensive Personally Calculated Poopy Food, a dog-bag in which it can be carried when its little paws get tired, a blanket and an entire collection of cuddly toys, one of which had its own heartbeat. I covered that in Rosie’s milk so that it would smell reassuring, but the poopy had already started trying to kill it even before she left.
I am sure that it will have a very lovely, well-cared for life.
Fortunately when they arrived I had just readmitted the dogs from the back yard where they had been unceremoniously hoofed whilst I tidied up the kitchen, and where they had all been investigating a rat hole at the back of the log pile.
Once they had gone, with the poopy’s astonished little face poking out from its dog bag, I took our own resident dogs over the fells. Rosie seems to have been resigned to her loss, certainly she has not lost her appetite nor desisted from charging up and down the fells barking at Roger. I suspect she is rather pleased to have the peace and quiet and Roger’s undivided attention, although I am sure she must be feeling sad as well. Even I am feeling a bit sad, and my main relationship with the poopies revolved around falling over them and swearing.
Mark is now in Norway. He, Lucy and Jack went back down the motorway on Saturday night whilst I was at work, and he stayed the night at Lucy’s house. It was a very hurried departure, he has managed to half-fill the log heap so I am going to have to go over to the farm for some more unless the weather warms up a bit. Even doing that took him most of Saturday.
Lucy and Jack came over to help, which was appreciated because logs are a jolly lot of lugging about. I did not go with them all to the farm, but stayed at home where I cooked a huge shepherd’s pie for all of their dinner, and to feed Lucy and Jack for a couple of nights when they went back to their own house. This took ages, it is so long since I have done any proper cooking that I had almost forgotten how, but it turned out all right in the end, at least I imagine it did, because it had all disappeared when I came back, the only remaining evidence being the oven tin still soaking in the sink.
Once that was done I dashed up to the attic to finish making her curtains, which were finally done, rather to my relief. Thermally lined curtains are terrifically heavy, and an awful lot of faffing about, and I need to make some for our own house when I get some time. Maybe this week.
Of course I should have some time now. I do not have to paint Advent calendars, nor look after poopies, nor hang up Christmas decorations, nor make chocolates, and there is nobody at home who needs to be looked after.
Life is about to become very quiet indeed.
