And Then a Hero Came Along…….

 A hero is someone who voluntarily walks into the unknown – Tom Hanks

 I have great and good tidings.  The reign of terror is over.  Our home is once more ours, we are no longer living under the cosh of fear and servitude that we have coped with for so long.  For last Saturday, as Mariah Carey once warbled, “A hero came along”.

The dog trainer was here.  His name is Houch and I think I might love him.

His Nibs did everything in his limited power to get out of attending.  He announced early in the week that he would not be able to make the appointment on Saturday morning, that he was off on a mission to find a second hand part for his ancient car. 

This did not please me.

A compromise was reached.  Houch changed the time of the appointment, and His Nibs was allowed to go to the car place if he could swear he’d be home by eleven.  I suggested that I should get up and go with him, just to be sure he got home in time, but he declined.  It seems he doesn’t like being supervised while going about his life.  Also, he made the reasonable point that if I had to be dragged from my bed to go with him, the whole business would have to be delayed by another hour.

He was home by eleven.  And I only rang him twice on his way home to ensure that he was sticking to the schedule and there would be no delays. 

When Houch knocked on the door all three hounds went demented, and we couldn’t open the door to let him in, because the threat of escape had hit red alert.

I really didn’t want to spend the first hour of our training session running around the village trying to coax the little feckers home.

We picked the small ones up and grabbed the big one by the collar and finally Houch gained entrance.  I felt this gave him a good grounding on what the next three hours would be like.

I half hoped training would be completed by our sitting at the table, drinking coffee, with me smoking cigarettes and telling sad stories of canine misbehaviour while he nodded and made helpful suggestions.  In my imagination, His Nibs would be rolling around the floor with the dogs, which he often does, and proving that I’m a poor soul with no support and that it’s no wonder that things have got so bad, that it’s not my fault.

That is the exact opposite of what happened.  Houch instructed us to put the dogs back on the floor, as soon as the door was closed.  He then shepherded us all, as a group, into the kitchen and the training began immediately.

I’m not going to tell you all the things he taught us.  That would be wildly unfair to him, because he’s trying to earn a living and if I set out all the things he does, people will think they can use his expertise to train their bold dogs themselves.  Not that I think that would be possible, but if I could save the cost of hiring a professional by reading  instructions, that’s what I’d do.

So instead I’m going to show you all his business card, so that if any of you have a dog that you think could challenge ours in the behaviour stakes, you can ring him. 

This is not a blog that advertises anything, ever.  I have never recommended or denounced any business by name.  This one I’m recommending, but I promise it won’t be a habit.

Suffice it to say that the boldest cheekiest dogs in Ireland were sitting on the floor begging for his attention and whoring themselves out for his love within minutes.  And this served to prove two things.

That Houch is a good dog trainer. 

And that His Nibs and I are a pair of fecking eejits who have absolutely failed, in almost ten years of dog ownership, to teach them anything remotely useful.

The biggest issue, I informed Houch,  was Poppy’s constant escapes.  No problem, he said, but too early in the session to deal with yet, he had to gain Poppy’s trust first. 

He suggested we deal with their jumping up and down and leaping all over us all the time.  So he taught us how to control that.  In ten minutes flat.  After two years of begging them to behave themselves, they were sitting without even being told to.

To be honest, I was a bit cross.  I thought they were highlighting my failings too clearly.

It became clear, at about this time, that the main problem with the three hour session was going to be His Nibs.  His focus was gone on its holidays.  He was all over the place.  He kept trying to start conversations about random things that could bring us off into long talks about irrelevant subjects.  And disappearing from the room for no known reason.  I felt like roaring at him if he didn’t behave himself he would never live to tell the tale.  Instead I just kept saying “Focus, love, focus.”  For all the good it did me I may as well have been blowing kisses at him.

It was obvious that Houch is well used to this type of nonsense, and can control conversations, but even he was reduced to saying things like “great, yeah, now as I was saying” as soon as His Nibs paused for breath.

He taught us how to train them in not going mental every time somebody rings the doorbell or even walks past the house.  With great success.  He told us how to stop the behaviours that lead to Poppy’s escapes.  Finally it was time to deal with the fact that we can’t open the front door without them legging off into the wild blue yonder.  He assured me this wouldn’t be a problem.  I have to say, even though he had proven himself beyond doubt as a trainer, I thought he was going to have a much bigger challenge than he seemed to expect.

Once again I was proven wrong.  We can now open the front door and walk away, and trust them not to run out.

We talked a huge amount about dog behaviour, why they react to certain things the way they do, and what humans need to do to encourage good behaviours.  It was incredibly interesting, and made perfect sense.

And then His Nibs strolled off, out into the garden.  With all three dogs.  I couldn’t believe it.  I was in the kitchen talking to a professional dog trainer, and His Nibs and all our dogs were wandering around the garden looking for trouble.

When I got up, late on Sunday morning, His Nibs and the hounds were already up and about.  So I decided to challenge them.  I could physically see His Nibs chewing his lip, no doubt visualising himself galloping around the estate in the rain, on another rescue mission, when I opened the front door and then went into the living room.  Poppy and Rory stood looking at the door for a second, then turned and followed me. 

I was so confident that when I took Rory out for a walk I brought my phone and headphones with me.  I was confident that I wouldn’t need to keep saying “keep in, walk on, stop trying to eat dogs eight times your size” and would be able to listen to a podcast as I strolled along, the envy of the neighbours, with my perfectly behaved dog.

That didn’t happen.  In fact, he seemed to sense I was getting a bit over confident and took it upon himself to be even bolder than usual.  I was particularly disappointed by this, because he is my favourite, and when we have the usual messing at walk time, I tend to blame the others for leading him astray. 

His Nibs and Poppy out for their walk too, and we were bound to meet in a village the size of ours.  I was amazed to see how good Poppy was being. 

There’s nothing as disappointing as misplaced loyalty.

So the battle is ongoing.  They will behave themselves, or face the wrath of a human enraged by both their behaviour, and the waste of money.  I’d say they have pains in their bellies from the amount of treats they’ve had, to celebrate every aspect of their good behaviour. 

We’re spending this week handing out treats, shouting “No”, holding the front door open and daring them to walk out, and standing outside our own front door knocking on it to give them a bit of practice in not trying to devour every visitor that rolls up to sell us something. 

Which is far more restful than spending our time wrestling them and fighting off tears of frustration when they go bonkers.

It’ll be totally worth it.

Let's Waste Time, Chasing Cars

“You’re entirely bonkers.  But I’ll tell you a secret.  All the best people are”

-          Lewis Carroll,  Alice in Wonderland

 Regular readers (thank you, I love you etc.) will hopefully know by now that even though His Nibs and I drive each other around the bend, he is my all-time favourite person.  He is funny and bold and even though he is careful with his funds, he is kind and generous of spirit.  He’d have to be, I suppose.  Sometimes putting up with me takes a kind and generous spirit.

He is the type of man who, after his first trip to Asia, saved for years to support a little school he saw there, and bought them solar panels and a computer.  When he went to Nicaragua he did something similar for a market gardening project he’d seen there.

He is a very good person.  Far better than me. I was of very little use, I just turned up to these places as his sidekick, and taught the children how to Irish dance (not that I know how to Irish dance, but they didn’t know that), and drank rum, and chatted to the locals. 

And offered endless opinions and advice on how he should spend the money he saved all year while I was spending my wages on handbags and eyeliners.

You might be surprised to learn that being such a kind hearted soul is not necessarily always a good thing.  Sometimes his soft heart gets him into trouble.

His Nibs has an unusual and unshakeable fondness for 1990’s Toyota Corolla saloon cars.  Green ones.

If I had to guess, I’d say at least six identical green Corollas.  He loves them.  He swears that they are the best cars ever built and there’ll never be another car like them.

Last Saturday morning His Nibs informed me that he had agreed to buy yet another Corolla.  The same year as his own, 1997, low mileage, for the sum of €700.  And that he wouldn’t be getting rid of his own car.

My questioning commenced.  Why did he want a car exactly the same as the one he had?  More importantly, what was he going to do with two cars? Did he not think he should go for something newer?  Didn’t he think €700 was a lot for a car that’s twenty years old?

He batted off my questions calmly.  He was happy with his decision.

We have a great arrangement in this house.  We have a bank account each, and a joint one between us.  As long as you put the agreed sum for the mortgage and bills in the joint account every month what you do with the money in your own account is your own business.  His Nibs treats his as a normal person would.  I spend mine in a week and then beg for bailouts from him for the other three weeks of the month.  The situation suits me well.  I can’t speak for His Nibs.

I agreed to company him to the seller’s house the following morning, so he could drive the new purchase home.  Sunday morning rolled around, and His Nibs arrived in our room, coffee in hand, and woke me up.  The fact that he brought me coffee and didn’t wait for me to roar at him that I was awake told me that he had something to say.

He looked awkward and uncomfortable, and eventually blurted out that he was sorry he’d agreed to buy the car.  “Why?” I asked him “Is it because having three cars between two people is ridiculous?”

No, he informed me, it was because to be completely honest, despite the low mileage, this car was in similar condition to his own, although possibly less rusty. 

“You agreed to pay seven hundred euros for a car no better than your own?”  The man never ceases to surprise me.  “Have you gone completely mental?  Sure it’s not worth five hundred.”

“I felt terrible for the woman.  She was desperate to get rid of it.  I felt really sorry for her.”

I started to give many opinions then, about how desperation to get rid of an ancient rustbucket is rarely cured by asking for such a high price.  “No wonder she was desperate” I scoffed “She couldn’t believe her luck.  Desperate to get you to agree.”

“Ah no, love, stop.  The poor woman.  It’s very sad.  It’s her brother’s car, and he died.”

You know the way, when you’ve been married to someone for a long time, you know when there’s something that’s not being said?  I knew.  Because His Nibs was wearing his “I don’t know whether I should tell you this” face.

I immediately arranged my “If you don’t tell me whatever is on your mind I’ll nag you until you lose the will to live” face.

The owner had died in the car.  Not in a car crash, he rushed to assure me.  He’d just died.  And then he was in the car for a long time, until somebody found him.  So long, in fact, that the wipers, which had been on when he died, eventually wore out and left a big black streak across the windscreen.

I stared at him.  The thought of driving around, in the seat where the poor man had sat for hours, waiting to be discovered, gave me the complete and utter creeps.

While he was at it, he decided to tell me the rest of the sad story.  Because of this large and unexpected outlay, there would be no bailouts for me this month.

All scoffing stopped.  I announced that His Nibs was not allowed to buy the car.  This is against all the rules in our house.  The only things we’re not allowed to do are run away with other people, and forbid each other from doing things.

But His Nibs didn’t seem to notice.  The only problem he informed me, was that he had shaken hands on the deal.  He just couldn’t renege on it now.  It wouldn’t be right.

This is what I mean about it not always being a good thing to be such a good person.

He was buying the car from pity, and now he had to follow through because he shook hands on the deal.  I wish he was as honourable when he says he’ll do the housework.  I should shake hands with him every time he promises to wash the floors.

I invited him to ring the woman and inform her that I had said that if he bought the car he had to sleep in it, because he wasn’t allowed back in the house.

I also informed him that the days of a handshake being reason to spend seven hundred euro on a car he’d have to turn around and pay to dispose of are long gone.

He felt so bad that we had to have some practice phone calls.  This is a true story.  Last Sunday morning, two people in their forties sat on a bed in our house and practiced phone calls.  I even held my thumb and pinkie finger to my face in the phone gesture, and started the conversation with the words “ring ring”, for authenticity.

At first His Nibs was himself and I was the seller.  But he felt that I was being far too laid back and nice about the sale being stopped, and we had to swap roles.

The first practice call consisted of him pretending to burst into racking sobs and shout about his broken heart and sad memories.  I suggested that if the woman needed so badly to get rid of the car she should probably lower the price.  Or give it to a scrap dealer.

This irritated His Nibs, so we had to have another practice.  This time he, as the seller, became enraged when I said I wasn’t buying the car and began roaring furiously and threatening to send sons and grandsons up after me to beat me up for my fickleness.

“Does she have sons and grandsons?”

“Oh yes, she had a couple of grandchildren with her when I met her yesterday.”

“Ah sure, then we’re grand.  She’s probably been married.”  I explained that no reasonable wife would expect a man to openly defy his spouse.

“Tell her I’m going mental” I suggested “which I will be, if you don’t ring her and call off this foolishness soon”.

So he rang her.  She was a lovely woman, perfectly reasonable.  I know this because I made him put the phone on speaker.  I’m very nosey.

I think he was secretly disappointed.  There’s not that many old Corollas for sale anymore, apparently.

Oldilocks and the Denim Jackets

I actually hate shopping – Kate Bosworth

You wouldn’t think it would be a big thing, would you?

I just assumed that when the sun finally comes out and I can start wearing palazzo pants and flip flops, and decide that a denim jacket is the only thing that will go with this ensemble, that I can go out and buy a denim jacket from whatever shop I want.   There’s one in the window of every shop I pass, so there shouldn’t be a problem, should there?

I hate buying clothes.  I used to love it about twenty five years ago, when I was a size ten, but twenty five years ago I was a student and had no money. 

Not that I have any now, but at least now I get to waste my wages before I start thrashing myself about and lamenting my poverty.  Back then I just had no money.

So off I went, at lunchtime last Friday, to buy a denim jacket.
It’s a curse, in ways, working in the centre of town.  I often think that if I worked in some industrial estate miles from anywhere, that I would have money coming out of my ears.  Every little idea that crosses my mind ends up with a gallop out to Henry Street at lunchtime, or after work.  Or when I have it really bad for something, in the mornings before work even starts.

Anyway, the denim jacket was only a notion I took.  I am under no illusion that I am young and will wear the jacket to threads, so I had no intention of buying an expensive one. In any case, most of the jackets in the shops seem to be in threads already.  Christ alive, I sound a hundred years old.

In the first shop, the jacket looked lovely from the front.  The right colour, the right shape, your classic denim jacket.  I thought I’d hit the jackpot and was just flicking through the rail, trying to get to the big girl stuff that I imagine the shops shove at the back of the rail so they won’t be accused of being sizeist, when I noticed that the jackets had some sort of slogan printed across the back.  I think they might have been in stock for the Guns and Roses concert last weekend.  I can’t remember what it said, but it was something along the lines of “Here comes Trouble” or “I’m Trouble” or something, with angel wings and yokes all over it.

God be with the halcyon days when young lads would see me coming and think “here comes trouble”, in a good way.  I don’t honestly think they ever did.  I have a much adored younger sister who I hung around with all the time as a teenager, and still would, if she wasn’t so far away.  She was trouble.  I was the eejit going along two steps behind her trying to encourage her not to be so bold that we’d both end up locked in the house forever, when our parents heard of the latest outrage.  She’s great fun, and I really think that if it wasn’t for her I never would have gotten into any sort of trouble at all.  Too eejity.  She is brave and bold and devil may care.  And blonde. 
Nobody ever saw the pair of us approach and thought “Here comes trouble” about me.

And even if they had they wouldn’t think it now.  In fairness maybe there’s a better chance of young lads thinking I’m trouble if they saw me approaching these days.  For as I age I am developing Bitchy Resting Face.  They’d probably think I’m coming to eat the face off them (in the bad way) or tell them to keep the noise down, or worst of all, to take their grubby paws off my errant daughter. 

There are endless reasons why the jacket was not an option.

In the next shop every denim jacket looked like it was held together by hope and one last thread, which if snagged, would cause the entire garment to fall asunder.  I never wear ripped clothes.  Well, I do, but only when I’ve accidentally ripped them myself.  I don’t buy ripped clothes, because my 1980’s recession reared heart can’t accept that I should pay full price for something that looks half destroyed.   And also because I don’t have the innate style that some women have, that can make ripped clothes look cool and chic. 
My style is more hobo, I look like I’m wearing ripped clothes because I’m so thick or so lazy or so delusional that I don’t care how bad I look.
No to the ripped jackets.  They’ve gone too far.  It used to be frayed cuffs and a careful small patch above the pocket.  I’m not buying a jacket that looks like someone’s been stabbed in it.

Next was next.  They had a jacket that looked, on the hanger, like it should be okay.  They looked big, and like an eejit I thought that either I was getting smaller (I’m not.  I cannot put words to how silly that idea was) or the sizes are getting more generous.  Instead, I discovered that this jacket was referred to as “outsize”.  I don’t know what it means.  Maybe it’s what we used to call baggy in my teenage years.  But baggy never worked for denim jackets.

This one came down past my hip, and was far too wide around the waist.  It was a ridiculous looking item.  I can only assume that the eighties revival is still going on.

In Marks and Spencer the only nice jacket they had was cropped.  Seriously cropped.  It barely came to under my boobs.

What a frightful idea.  Imagine wearing a jacket that precisely highlights what’s where other people’s waist and curves and nice bits are.  Not a question of it.  It was too short.

Too big, too small, would I ever find the jacket?  It was getting to a time where I was very much expected back at my desk.  But I’m an instant gratification type of person.  I very rarely try to put an outfit together.  And now that I had thought about one, I wanted it immediately.  I decided to be brazen and run to one more shop.

And there it was.  The almost perfect denim jacket.  A bit darker than I would have liked, but the right shape, not torn to shreds, no motifs or statements.  Just a denim jacket. And, if you can believe it, reduced by twenty five percent.  I got the funny feeling I get when I see something I think I really want.  A sort of butterflies in the tummy carry on.  Where I take the coveted garment from its hanger and slip it on, expecting to be immediately transformed into a beauty in the mirror.  Not because denim jackets doth beauties make, but because I wanted a denim jacket.  I always think, in the shops, that if I get what I want I will automatically look a hundred times better.  I am an advertiser’s dream.  And a complete and utter gom.

It was too good to last.  I knew that.  The closest they had to my size was either two sizes too big, or two sizes too small.

I was like a divil.  This was one of those one day spectaculars, allegedly, where everything in the shop was reduced just on Friday.  Feck it anyway.  But sure, you couldn’t have luck.  You can’t find the jacket that will suffice, you’ll note I’m not even pretending it was perfect, and just buy it, reduced in price.

I must have been a bit delirious from all the clothes shops at this point.  I hate them, and every time I go to one makes me hate them more, as I feel a little more of my past self die away and a little more of my new middle aged self take over.

I bought it two sizes too big, with the notion that when they get sizes back in next week, I can just exchange it, thus still getting it for sale price. 
I brought it back to the office, and showed off my purchase, for the benefit of the group.  I try to insist on this when we all get something new after payday.  Before I even took it out of the bag I was explaining the predicament with it being size enormous.  Even though I work with these people every day, and they know what I look like, I make it my business to not mention my clothes size and act like it’s smaller than it is.  

You can imagine my horror, when I put the cursed fecking yoke on, to discover that I don’t need to change it.  It’s not a perfect fit, but it’s near enough that I know my usual size will be too snug. I’m afraid to go back for the one that’s one size too big, in case the same thing happens. I’m distraught, of course.  I don’t want to go up any more clothes sizes. 

The Boldest Dog in Ireland

What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog –Dwight D Eisenhower

I thought it was going to be a nice quiet week, without drama or adventure to give me something to write about.  I was wrong.

This is Poppy.

She is, without doubt, the boldest dog I ever met in my life.  If our three dogs were criminals, Marley would be a jaywalker, Rory would have ten points on his licence for speeding, and Poppy would be Genghis Khan.

She joined our merry band the same week as Rory.  I think His Nibs was a bit jealous that I’d bonded so well with the new puppy, and wanted a puppy of his own.  And so he sneaked off, allegedly to a hurling match, and returned with Poppy.  He alleges that she was homeless.  We were later told by the vet that she was thirteen weeks old.  I remember quite distinctly asking His Nibs why a cute little dog like her would have no home at thirteen weeks old.  I worried whether there was something wrong with her.

And I could spend my days doing my I told you so dance around this house because, God knows, I was right. 

She is deranged and demented and bonkers.  But like a pair of fools, we love her.  Especially His Nibs.  He absolutely adores her, and lets her do what she likes.  Maybe he feels sorry for her, because of my constant roars of

"Poppy, will you stop? Stop! Please, Poppy, please.  Right, that’s it.  You have to go.” 

I don’t know why I bother.  I know we can’t get rid of her.  Conversely, because she is so bold.  If we didn’t have her, she’d end up in the pound in a few days.  Sure who else would put up with her?

I’m not unprovoked in criticising her.  Being an early riser, His Nibs goes to bed early.  I don’t.  I love night time.  Especially during the weeks when we’re both working early shifts.  Because I’ve had two car naps (see last week’s blog).

So off His Nibs goes to bed.  Followed by a troop of dogs.  They hop up on the bed.  Eventually I follow them.  When I get to our room, Marley hops off the bed, and makes his own arrangements, in his own bed, which I appreciate.  Rory ignores me.

Poppy prefers not to get off the bed.  She starts growling and giving out and grabbing mouthfuls of duvet.  So I have to have another row with her, it’s all a lot of hassle at bedtime. 

And she’s constantly making bids for freedom.  She headbutts the wooden fence panels around our garden until they give way.  Maybe she has a brain injury by now, actually.  And once she cracks the fence panel she starts chewing bits out of it until she can fit out the hole.  Poor eejity Marley follows her, and the two of them gallop around the estate causing ructions until one of our fantastic neighbours takes them in. 

Then we come home and have to beg forgiveness and prostate ourselves with gratitude, which is genuine, and buy another fecking fence panel.

Poppy at our six feet high fence.

Yesterday was a new low.  I was in work, and didn’t look at my phone until around 12.  I had several messages.  All from the neighbours.  All telling me that the boldest dog ever born had made another successful escape.  She was running around the estate causing mayhem and barking at people and being a complete nuisance.

I couldn’t just leave her to cause uproar and finish up with a good belt of a passing car, could I? I took a half day.  The poor neighbours were, by all accounts, run ragged trying to save the little fecker.  I couldn’t just sit in work and let them get on with it.  I don’t have that many holidays left, as it happens.  They seem to evaporate like my money does, with no explanation.  I do not consider using them up to collect a delinquent dog a good plan.

I had to take His Nibs’ car, and leave him in work.  As I drove I visualised her lying on the road, tyre tracks on her fur.  Or some poor small child with tooth marks in its hand.  I had myself wound up to ninety by the time I got home.

I got another call en route.  She was in a neighbour’s house. Rescued again.  I went straight to that house, on my arrival in our estate.  These very kind neighbours have a dog of their own.  When I got to their house, Poppy was in their garden.  This was, it transpired, because she’d been in the house, and decided she liked the look of the chair their dog is allowed sit on.  So she went for the Labrador’s throat, in the innocent neighbour’s kitchen.

The kindly neighbour was driving her car into our estate yesterday when she saw a streak of white fly by.  And she thought to herself that it looked like our dog.  So she grabbed her own dog’s lead, and followed Boldy Arse down to the village.  Where Madam was running over and back, across the main road, as the admittedly scant traffic built up around her.  Neighbour approached, but apparently it was like that scene in Rocky where he’s trying to catch the chicken.  I’m not surprised.  I can’t get my hands on Poppy in the confines of our kitchen.  There’s no way I’d catch her out in the world.

There’s a number of volunteers who clean up our village on a Monday morning.  At least I think they’re volunteers.  To be honest, for all I know they could be a chain gang on day release from Portlaoise prison, but I very much doubt it.  They all look like nice law abiding people.  One of the group decided to assist our neighbour.  With no success.  So another member joined in.  And eventually the entire group, and our neighbour, were in the middle of the village begging this one small dog to control herself and not throw herself under the traffic.   Where she would have been perfectly safe, as it happened,  traffic being at a complete standstill for some minutes at this point.

Eventually she was corralled into a corner, hitched up to a lead, and led back to our estate, to cause murders in her rescuers kitchen.  That dog will make an old woman of me.

His Nibs came home on the bus.   One of the reasons that His Nibs was so attractive to me, when we met back in the Dark Ages, was because he was absolutely gorgeous.  Another was that he had a car.  We lived deep in the country, and young lads with cars of their own, instead of just a loan of their parents car on a Saturday night, were like hen’s teeth.  His Nibs, being the independent soul he is, worked himself into the ground when he was a teenager, to keep his car on the road.  He’s always had a car.  He is not in the habit of taking buses.  Apparently it made him sick, and gave him a pain in his belly.  He wasn’t in the best of form when he arrived home, even later than usual, tired, and a little green around the gills.

He was even less pleased when he was informed that I had booked a dog trainer who is supposed to be brilliant.  He’s been recommended to me a couple of times.  He runs obedience classes in a field in town.  There can be up to twenty dogs at one of these classes.  We can’t go, because our dogs are so bold they’d fight with every hound in the place and the whole class would fall asunder.

Happily, it transpires that this man will come to our house for three hours, and train all five of us to behave ourselves together.  He is not intimidated by my reports of Poppy’s Houdini like adventures.  I didn’t tell him about the rest of her carry on.

I decided that in order to make the most of the three hour class, I should make a list of problems we’d like to address.  I started, but it got out of hand very quickly.  I’ve had to stop.  It was just too depressing.  In any case, their behaviour is so appalling at this stage that I think the trainer will know what’s what from the second he sets eyes on the little brats.

He hasn’t got an appointment until the second week of June.  By then at least two of them might have been squashed by a car on one of their escapes.  Or they may have finally eaten each other alive.  Or His Nibs and I might be in a home for the bewildered.  But if all goes well, I’ll report further.