Tuesday, 1 April 2008

April fool

What on earth have we done? What possessed us? Aren't we busy enough already? Honestly, sometimes I look at my mother, shake my head and think you taught me nothing. Why oh why did two sane, intelligent grown ups agree to a (nearly) four year old's request for a puppy. Called Twizzle especially. It's rule #1 in the parents guide book surely; do not ever, ever agree to a pet until your child is of an age to take care of it themselves (about 52 should be old enough).
We already have a spouse each (one of whom has limited self-care abilities as it is), two children, one mortgage, one (official) job, one (apparently voluntary) job, one MSc course, three credit cards and a car loan. Why not a puppy! Throw him in to the mix, that'll stir things up nicely, we don't have enough to do anyway. It's like adding TNT to a box of fireworks and used nappies and then throwing in a match for good measure. Just watch it hit the fan ladies and gentlemen.
I'm the only one in the household who was slightly reluctant to have a dog, and yet somehow it is me that seems to have a dog, and only me. Oh yes, Isla plays with him sometimes, she likes to stroke him and generally do anything that is pleasant with a puppy. Husband adores him; he's a lovely treat to come home to after a long day just as Twizzle is winding down and being cute, and Jack thinks he's a big toy. I am the only one that has a second baby to care for. Because that's what he is. A small furry baby. Jack and Twizzle are alike in so many ways: they're both small enough to trip over frequently, neither understand danger, personal hygiene or irony (I've wasted some corkers, I tell you), both sleep and feed regularly but never to suit you, they both whine to get up at 6.30 in the morning to fall promptly asleep again at 8 (just when I would like to be getting up), neither understands a word I am saying or anything about the world except food, sleep and treats. Both treat this house like a hotel/toilet, eat off the floor, eat the other's food and throw up and generally treat me as their cook/chamber maid/personal hygeine manager (come to think of it so does everyone else in the family).
Except Twizzle is harder work than Jack, I promise. The fact that I can't put a nappy on him is a little galling. At least Jack's mess stays (mostly) where he's deposited it, rather than being dragged through the house and up the stairs. Jack can come anywhere with me and is reasonably welcome in most shops (that incident in Ann Summers notwithstanding). And although tying Jack up outside Sainsburys would be a little frowned upon around here, taking Twizzle into Sainsburys would cause a near riot (they'd have a point, I haven't cleaned his paws since the last digestion incident). And Twizzle has a full set of teeth. Sharp ones. Jack has been straining to grow his three teeth for the last ten months. I'm really proud of him. Twizzle arrived with a full, glistening set and absolutely no sense to go with them. He uses them frequently. On me.
So a moment of pure madness, one weak moment trying to please our little girl has resulted in this. Nine possibly ten years of my very own dog to look after. Actually strike that, the teacher at creche says her Spaniel is fifteen. Ooh lucky me, fifteen whole years of a dog to myself, whoo hoo! I bet he gets old and smelly really young.

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