Home.

O’Connor is now back home after five days in The Dog Hospital.  We still have no idea of what he ate that he shouldn’t have done.  More about that later.

He is wearing a plastic lampshade due to the large sticking plaster covering his stitches.  I wouldn’t put it past him to eat that.

“Keep him calm for the next twelve days.”  Said The Vet.  He took one look at the cat and off he went.

He is now confined to the house unless on a lead, after I wrenched three dead Lizards from his mouth in the space of five minutes.  One of these Lizards was about a foot long and bright green, decidedly poisonous looking.  The cat, I suspect, who is either in collusion, or trying to bump him off.  I am seriously not sure which.  He certainly didn’t catch the dead Birds and dead Mice I have taken away from him recently.

He did seem exceedingly pleased to see us, and is back to the joyful little soul he was.

462 Euros, Merci Beaucoup.  But I did get a free bag of dog food thrown in.  And there is now nothing wrong with his bowl production.  In fact, I have never seen so much shit, me being an expert on this subject.  This one is taking the cake.

Will I survive twelve days of this?

O’Connor.

O’Connor is at The Vets.  I am strangely distraught.  I don’t know why.  It isn’t me that has been abandoned at The Vets.  Poor little soul.

I won’t bore you all with the throw up details.  He basically ate something he shouldn’t have done.  God knows what.  Many a dead mouse and bird have I retrieved that Connor stole from the cat, or else the cat had an agenda.  And then there was a plastic cup that the cat knocked of the kitchen side that I had to wrench from Connor’s mouth last night.  There wasn’t much of it left.

I now have to wait and see, and I am not dealing with this very well.  The rotten little swine stole into my heart while I wasn’t watching out.

An Ode to an Ashtray.

What is an Ashtray?  Something into which you stub out fags, but only ever of the Tobacco kind.  That is what Fag has always meant to me, so I do not wish to go beyond that idea.  Okay.

Is this an amazing ashtray?  Is it good glass, or just some ghastly plastic?  Am I pleased to have this Ash Tray in my house?   Do I even care when it comes to stubbing out a fag?  Yes, I probably do.  I would much rather have something half decent.   Preferably Christlal, if you really want to know.  But I don’t have too many of those.

I have always been a snobby smoker, along with a few other snobby things.

Anyway, everyone is pissed around here tonight, so God knows where they are stubbing out their fags.  I’ve got the only half decent ashtray.

O’Connor has run for the hills, in the name of  The Sofa.  He and me had a good one tonight.  I let him sit on my lap for ten minutes, during which he made no attempt to bite me.  I think I might be getting somewhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What?

What have I just done?

The Angel of Life just turned up in the form of a mad and very artistic French woman for whom I have great respect.  She is actually a renown artist, albeit not quite my sort of thing.  A bit too Picasso for me.

And after much discourse she decided that Charlotte isn’t past her sell by date.  So she took Charlotte away rather than have the dog die tomorrow.  And her house is already full of pissing and blind dogs, so another one won’t make much difference to her.

I don’t know if I did the right thing, but I didn’t particularly want Charlotte to die either.

I haven’t seen sight nor sound of Marie for about two years, although she only lives just up the road a bit.  Why tonight?  Why batter my emotions when I least needed it?

So Charlotte will live on for a bit longer.  But she certainly won’t suffer, which is all that I need to know.

A Long Goodnight.

The day approaches.  I hoped it never would.  But it will be Demain.  Please God, never give me this choice again.  I don’t want to have to choose.

I so much prefer dogs who suddenly get ill and have to be put down.  This is all I have ever known.  So I am not handling this very well.  Although I have to say that Charlotte has no idea at all, at all.  It is just me who is becoming more weepy by the day.  I very nearly cried today.  What a bloody wimp I am.  But then I ever was, over things that were  even more or less important.

But this is for the moment.  Please go quietly into the long night, although I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t.  I won’t.  But I will do everything I can to make it more easy for you.  You have been a total horror story who no longer trusted anyone by the time you came to me.  I am so sorry that you never trusted me.