In the last eight days, Nell the Poo has received three baths. This is three baths too many for my liking. The first bath was because she evaded me on a long walk and succeeded in rolling in a massive pile of fox poo. All over her chest it was, and up either side of her neck. She looked positively triumphant as she emerged from the hedge, and thought I’d like to share in her joy by trying to jump up me. Bleaurgh…no way, José. We returned to the car with me stretching the lead as far as it would go and drove home with all the car windows open. I donned some sturdy rubber gloves before bathing her and gave the bath a good bleach scrub down afterwards. Absolutely revolting.🤢 🤮
On Thursday, she got bowled into the canal by an over-enthusiastic springer spaniel. The spaniel’s owner said, ‘Do you want me to get her out for you?’ but it was too late - I was already on my hands and knees in the mud and wet grass, dangling over the side of the canal to haul a struggling Nell up the steep sides. If I’d have gone all ‘damsel-in-distress’ and waited for the man to hoick Nell out for me, she’d have been Nell the Drowned and Dead Poo. Honestly, sisters - don’t wait for the man. Do it for yourselves.
Then yesterday, as we approached the top lock heading into the Audlem stretch of the canal, Nell decided that because the water was smothered in leaves and therefore did NOT look like water, she’d try walking across the canal. Gravity soon took hold and down she went. Luckily the water was high at the lock so she didn’t need too much assistance to climb out and I didn’t get as soaked as I did on Thursday. It’s the half hour walk back to the car in sodden clothes I object to on these occasions because heaven forfend canal-dipping would occur in close proximity to the car. Also, most of the wetness from these rescue Nell efforts seems to settle around my mid-riff area which makes me look as though I’m a lady of a certain age who has bladder control issues. I am tempted to respond to raised eyebrows from passers-by with, ‘I have excellent pelvic floor muscles, I’ll have you know!’ but I don’t because, quite frankly, my pelvic floor is my business and mine alone.
And here is Nell the Poo this morning. We’ve just returned from a country lane walk (no bath required) and she’s literally dragged her cushion from the living room into the dining room so she can keep half an eye on me, in case I should have the temerity to do something interesting that she might miss out on.
And literally five minutes ago, she doubled up her efforts by moving the cushion into the doorway so I can’t sneak past her at all.
Other than my life being wasted away by dog-related malarkey, I’ve been up to my eyeballs with rough-drafting some of my diploma assignments ahead of their deadlines, preparing to do my first interview for the Adderley Heritage Oral History Project, and cracking on with the Much Malarkey Manor Christmas Story 2024, which is taking a rather regal route this year, all of which has taken a toll on my blogging efforts. Soz.
Adoption applications for one Poo, almost two years old, are now open…
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KJ
KJ