This is not a lazy metaphor for a primed four leg canine revoking it’s UXB status at the epicentre of our family. No, it perfectly describes the scene awaiting our 6:30am arrival in a kitchen full of frantic hound, and the aftermath of an incident which channel 5 would title “When stomachs go bad“.
It was hard to see where the sick stopped and the dog started, as the hoovermurf* showed his appreciation by smearing his barf stained flanks against my mostly bare flesh. Cold sick delivered by mad twirling dog is not something I ever wish to repeat at 6:30 in the morning. Or, to be more precise, ever.
Having removed excited pup, puke dripping cage and a sleeping mat that was now merely a repository for everything dog-voided, we found exactly where the sick stopped. Obviously the chunder was well represented in a blast zone around his cage, but to find it sprayed half way up the wall and splattered on an innocent pan some five foot distant came as an eyebrow raising surprise.
I will admit that my recent joy of finally crossing the threshold of dog ownership was slightly tempered by washing down a shivering puppy in the pissing rain, clothed only in a sick stained dressing gown. Still at the other end of the shitty stick was Carol armed with only a mop, bucket and nose peg to reclaim a room which resembled the arse end of some particularly hard core squatters.
You can’t blame the dog of course. Well you can, but I guess he wasn’t too thrilled to be sleeping in his own excrement either. And he was properly ill, as was demonstrated by a full on barf-athon which lasted until we saw first blood and then the emergency vet. To prove he wasn’t kidding, he was sick on her as well which provoked a needle full of antibiotics and a bill within a couple of beers of three digits.
I was properly worried for a while. Remember when your kids were babies where the default state of mild terror swerves between a conviction that all this crying must mean meningitis, and holding a mirror under their nose to check they’re still breathing once they’re finally silent?
It’s like that only with more barking although baby shit is definitely smellier than dog poo. No it is, try it for yourself if you don’t believe me. The problem with small mammals is they’re basically a finely balanced chemical reaction suspended in an open ended tube. And once you start chucking duckweed, socks, small stones and grass into that combusion chamber, it’s no surprise to find the walls pebble dashed.
He’s alright now of course. Well actually he’s a bit more than that, and has already been accorded the status of full family member. He’s quite bright for a lab apparently which means he’s not quite terminally stupid. Educationally sub normal definitely, stupidly affectionate, desperate to please and certifiably bonkers.
Still I reckon maybe I’m the dumb one here**. There’s something in a lifestyle that spends 20% of its time playing, eating and checking out the nutritional content of rocks, and the other 80% of the time sleeping.
Yeah, that’s a dog’s life I could get used to.
* A recently discovered mutant species created by splicing a vacumn cleaner to a set of dog parts.
** Thank you for those silent words of support.