Dreadful Nonsense

We are staying in a cottage in Co. Galway, sitting right at the end of the Errislannan peninsula outside of Clifden. The house belongs to my granny, who bought it with my grandad in 1961 when it was but a wrecked, roofless, two room famine cottage and rebuilt it adding a toilet, kitchen and extra bedroom. We have been going to the cottage every year for our summer holidays for as long as I can remember (and I was conceived there, something I never need to know, but something my parents gleefully insist on reminding me). It really is a beautiful place to be. The weather has been gloriously sunny, and I even got slightly sunburnt today while we were walking on the beach.

There's no tv, the radio can't really pick up a very strong signal and my mobile phone only works when standing in the end bedroom, and even then messages seem to come through in frustratingly sporadic clumps, and I'm not convinced that people are getting my messages out. So walking, sitting about and reading while poking at the genuine West of Ireland cliched turf fire are the orders of the day by which to combat the onslaught of boredom. I've already finished two books, and am steadfastly ignoring my OU books that I dragged down with me in the hopes of inspiration that has yet to strike.

The only thing that's really marring my enjoyment of the holiday thus far, other than the fact that there is no one within reasonable walking distance to talk to other than people I am related to, is my granny's dog. My granny got a rescue dog about two months ago, after her dog died suddenly. The rescue dog is as small as a mouse, truly a tiny little thing, and when she moves from one place to another, she never walks. She always runs in a pleasingly cartoon manner, with her legs moving impossibly fast underneath her tiny body. She has long, curly snow white hair which is in desperate need of a trim as it hangs over her eyes and paws and makes her look unbearably cute and scruffy. The only drawback of this cute little dog is the fact that it is unbearably yappy.

It barks. At everything. And it's not proper, manly, threatening, business like dog barking. It's high-pitched, ear-bleeding, whiney, teenage yapping that makes you want to tear her head off and use it as a football. It annoys everyone but my granny, and since the cottage belongs to my granny, we're hardly in a position to unceremoniously (or even ceremoniously) slaughter her pet.

Since there are only two bedrooms in the house, I am sharing a room with my granny, and her ridiculous pretend mouse-like dog. Every time I sneak in to the room to get something out, the dog yaps. When I turn over in bed at night, the dog yaps. When my parents wake up next door and turn the radio on, the dog yaps. When someone gets up during the night, the dog yaps. When the wind blows outside, the dog yaps. When my dad snores, the dog yaps. When I give a huge sigh of frustration that I've been woken up yet again by the sound of the dog yapping, the dog yaps.

Are you starting to sense my frustration?

This entry was posted on 11 April 2004 at 8:45 pm. 0 comments

Dreadful Nonsense

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