On a nocturnal expedition to the loo, I hesitated at the top
of the stairs. The small landing was lit
by the moonlight streaming through the skylight and I could see a dark blob on
the cream carpet. I peered groggily at
it wondering if it was an up-chuck, or a down-drop. Most likely the former, I decided as I bent
down to examine the blob more closely.
When my eyes were about a foot away, I realised it was the pink elephant
that Talulah had brought upstairs with her.
That’s fine, I thought, and continued down the stairs with my eyes
closed. Thirteen steps and a very sharp
right and into the bathroom. Suddenly my
foot was attacked from below by something wet and hard. I really should put lights on, I thought as
my face crumpled into an expression of distaste crossed with annoyance and I
toddled off to clean up. The hard bit,
in case you are wondering, was a bone fragment which the girls often keep in
their stomachs for night-time entertainment.
In the way that dogs have their favourite wee
stone/stick/wall/clump of grass/etc – why can they not have a designated sick
place? Why does my cream carpet (not MY
choice – it was here when I moved in) have to have multiple stains? Old Sisko used to give me plenty of warning
of the re-emergence of food with long drawn out urghs. Not this lot, though, they are stealth
sickers, quietly leaving the bedroom and finding a previously unused bit of
carpet to decorate.
Even if they would go into the kitchen where there is a cork
floor, or the bathroom where there is vinyl – but no, it has to be carpet. The cork floor is kept for an entirely
different substance – drool. The amount my
dogs drool at meal times makes me wonder how they can manufacture such a huge
amount. Even the promise of a tiny
titbit creates the equivalent of Niagara Falls.
Every morning they line up for their nut as I make my own breakfast. They all have a nut which they crunch up
carefully. However, the time it takes me
to open the nut tub, get my own handful and then pick out theirs, we are
already ankle deep in drool.
And I know this. So
there is absolutely no excuse for what happened a few days ago. I finished my breakfast and took my empty
dish back to the kitchen. I went down
with the velocity of a bomber jet as I slid in the drool. I banged my arm off the kitchen top as I went
down, and with such a force that I wondered if I had broken something. But no – just a bruise. The dogs gathered round me mixed expressions
and questions in their eyes. Is she
mad? Is she hurt? Is she being funny? Does she want a lick? I finally picked myself up and resolved to
find a rug to cover the patch of floor which is regularly drooled on.
