Dreadful Nonsense

I was about to start blogging today about how great my hair is (and it really is great. I'm going to marry the hairdresser at Blow just as soon as two ladies are allowed to get married in Ireland. And she accepts my proposal. And agrees to cut my hair for free forever more because, after all, she's my wife now and that's what wives are for), but then I heard some commotion downstairs and since it's just me, the two cats and the two dogs at home this week, I thought I'd better go investigate. The last time I heard a commotion downstairs when it was just me, cats and dogs at home, it turned out that the cat had discovered how to reach the budgie's cage, knocked the cage to the floor and escaped with the budgie in her mouth. The budgie died about half an hour later of what seemed to be a panic attack. Poor Bruce (the budgie was named after Bruce Grobbelaar, the then goalkeeper for Liverpool. Don't look at me like that. It was my Mum's idea).

When I got downstairs I found Honey lying face down on the floor, unable to get back up again, and waggling furiously as she heard my approach. She's so ridiculously cheerful in the worst situations, that dog. I'm not sure there is a human equivalent of that kind of optimism, or the amount of love that she exudes without asking for anything at all in return (except maybe a hand up once in a while when she's stuck on the lino floor and can't get enough grip to shunt herself back up to sitting position).

When we got Honey from the rescue centre ten months ago, we were told not to expect her to live for longer than about six months. She had some kind of wasting disease, they thought. She'd been quite badly neglected, over fed and under exercised, locked in a small outdoor compound with no shelter and no room to move other than sitting up and lying back down again. She was in the midst of a great depression where all she did was sit about and stare vacantly in to the distance. We agreed to take her home only because she was about to be put down. We essentially brought her home to die.

Ten months later, and she's toddling about like a maniac. She's alert, chirpy, ridiculously happy to see anyone at any time, and will eat anything at all handed to her. I've taught her to spoon with me - I lie on the floor and she toddles over and lies down in front of me, with her back up against my tummy, and my arms around her, and we spoon. I've also taught her to hug me - she lies down facing me and I lie facing her, and she puts her paw on to my shoulder and she puts her head on to my outstretched arm. And then breathes her evil dog breath in to my mouth. We don't do that one very often.

She was x-rayed at the vet a while ago, and it turns out that she doesn't have a wasting disease. What she has is a totally dislocated left back leg. Her hip is so out of place, it's difficult to see how the hell she ever walks on it, let alone toddles along at the pace that she does. This is why she falls over and can't get back up. This is why she can't walk up and down steps very well. This is why she gets so tired out even on short walks with us. It must be so incredibly painful. The moment me and Mum set eyes on the x-ray, we both started crying just a little bit, because of the way that she's improved so much in temperament. This is a dog that literally actually hugs you. Her right hip is very worn away with arthritis, having had to take the full weight of her body for so long. Obviously, since we don't have her history, we don't know how her hip was originally dislocated, but chances are she was hit by a car, and never got any medical attention. The very thought of that makes me want to go out and beat the people that allowed her to suffer so much with my bare hands until they stop breathing.

JC texted me to say I should probably be writing chapter three of my new book: Little Red Riding Head and the Scruffy Woodcutter. I can't imagine who he thinks I'd base that character on.

One thing I've just learnt: when the Wham! song Freedom is playing downstairs, and you're upstairs, and there's no one else in the house, and you're kind of lost in thought, the Wham! song Freedom is the creepiest sounding song ever in the world. That would totally fit in to a film where someone was stalking someone else through a house. With a knife. And a mask. And some kind of deformity.

I've got to go check all the windows are bolted now. Excuse me.

This entry was posted on 17 May 2004 at 3:22 pm. 0 comments

Dreadful Nonsense

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