The last day or so has been a rollercoaster of excitement, expenditure, fatigue and a sprinkling of emotions along the lines of "wtf have we done?" You may recall I mentioned in a blog from a few weeks back that I'd sent Sid and Knickers out to get a new chain for the chain saw and they'd ended up at Pheel's, who has the tools to make his own chains (:hail: Pheel) in his handsomely stocked workshop. What I didn't know (or I'd never have sent them round there) is that there were a litter of newborn Lab x Springer pups in close proximity to said workshop, and the unwitting, ripe for the plucking duo were cordially invited in to see them. Much cooing ensued and frankly, by the time they got home, the deed was done and we were going to have a puppy whether I liked it or not. My only recourse in such a situation was to sigh gustily and make sure everyone knew that I personally have more than enough to do as it is and will not be taking an active role in puppy husbandry. Uh-huh. Right then.
Fast forward a few weeks and we all troop round to Pheel's to choose a puppy. I leave this to Sid, of course, mainly because it's his puppy (let's be clear) and also because he has a very good track record in choosing animals - or recognising when animals have chosen us. The puppies are glorious little chocolately sausages of loveliness; unbearably, unfeasibly cute. We all die a little of cute overload and, little girl puppy chosen, troop out again, pausing only to consider why one man, even one such as Pheel, would need two arc welders, to visit the cold room full of geese and turkeys, and to make off with a brace of pheasants.
Fast forward a few more weeks and Sid is becoming unbearable - that is to say, more unbearable than the simple expedient of being French can explain away - wanting to collect his puppy. We arrange with Pheel to go round on the appropriate day (now a couple of days back) at the appropriate hour (6pm) to collect her. Puppies are now the cutest, chocolatiest, chunky little buggers imaginable. We are handed our puppy, exchange the relevant formalities and make off to the homestead, Sid cradling his little one in his arms and me driving as though the car is made of bone china.
Much cuteness was had throughout the evening although, rather disturbingly, we couldn't help but notice the complete and utter absence of any of the normal signs that the puppy is about to "eliminate". Ha! Such euphemisms. Sid made the mistake of leaving the puppy unattended in the lounge for a couple of moments, whereupon there followed the rapid fire application of several wees (one on the sofa) and, rather incredibly I thought, three little puppy poos upon the carpet. Unfortunately for Sid he only noticed one of them when he stood in it, **in his socks**. I then had to rescue a hysterical Frenchman while attempting to contain fits of uproarious mirth, by removing the offending sock from his outraged foot and running quickly from the room with it to the bin, after the fashion of Inspector Closeau with a bermb. It's ok, we shrugged, surely the puppy will soon show some signs to give us a clue as to what will be imminently unleashed. It's just the settling in period.
Bed time arrives and we troop up and down the stairs, bearing an array of puppy beds, water bowls, puppy pads and other small hound paraphernalia. Puppy's opening gambit is to poo on the bed. We quickly opt for caution being the better part of valour and go fetch one of the large cat boxes, hitherto used by the meehoos for curling up next to the radiator. Puppy spends the night in the cat box, on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. We are awoken several times during the night by general whining, howling and the application of faecal aromas to the sensitive linings of our nasal passages. Sid takes to sleeping with his head at the foot of the bed, with a hand hooked into the cat box which is by now taking on the status of a Pandora's box of cuteness, perfectly juxtaposed with the noises and aromas of Satan's puppy.
The alarm blares its way into my consciousness a mere 5 minutes after I've closed my eyes and I proceed from the bed, bog eyed, bleary and assailed by rancid odours. All of my concerns and fears about having a puppy have been not so much realised as comprehensively whoopsied under my nose. What are we to do? Arrgghh. Still, vitnery coming shortly to do T's vaccinations so I'll ask her why said puppy is not giving any signs of immediate elimination. "Ah", she said patiently, looking upon me as one might a poor unfortunate fuckwit with a peanut for a brain, "the trouble is, they don't all read the text books." Kthx, very helpful I'm sure. Thanks vitnery.
The day proceeds (the day being the 30th) and as it does so Sid and I do a good job of convincing ourselves that the cuteness factor just about outweighs the random pissing and shitting marathon that is taking place. During one of a number of such instances, I remark to Sid that puppy's undercarriage looks suspiciously like a boy's to me, and surely that there is a very small pair of bollocks in the making, and isn't that a willy? All I really got was mirth in response - this is because I have never been allowed to forget wrongly sexing one of the kittens who turned out to be more Slim Jim and less Trim Trudy. So my track record wasn't really outstanding and to tell the truth I was a bit embarrassed to call Pheel and say look, are you sure this is a girl? However, it was when I saw (and felt, all over my hand) wee emerge from the suspiciously willy-like appendage beneath the belly that everything fell into place. I text Pheel "are you sure this is the right puppy?"
Ten minutes later, Pheel appears at the window. Upon entry into the house it transpires that he has a puppy under his arm and a very apologetic expression on his face. It turns out that there's been an almighty cock up and he has our actual puppy under said arm, while the one we've been nurturing and cleaning up after is actually destined to go with his brother to be a working dog for a farmer in Ashford! Much jollity ensues and Pheel leaves us to it it, taking Winky (as we have agreed to call him) back home with him and leaving us with the real Willow. Sid and I look at one another and consider the night we've just been through, and the very real possibility that another very similar scenario is awaiting us now that we are staring down the barrel of Having To Start All Over Again. We resolve that this time, she's definitely staying downstairs in the meehoo room.
After a couple of hours of being utterly bowled over by the megawatt cute factor of the real Willow, we nevertheless find ourselves trooping upstairs with an array of puppy paraphernalia, and settling little Willow on her bed on top of the ottoman at the foot of our bed. We can't help but notice small but appreciable differences - she doesn't shit on the bed, for one thing, or whine insistently. There follow a few moments where eye contact is not made in order to discourage further interaction and miracle of miracles, she settles down in her bed! And goes to sleep! In very short order we too are asleep, and bugger me if we don't all sleep through the night and wake, a little more refreshed next morning, noting the tiny but telltale lack of pungent aromas, bleeding eyes or melting mucous membranes. Now that's rather better. We begin to feel quite self-congratulatory. Jubilant, even. Positively cock-a-hoop! Not only that but she very definitely does show signs of needing the loo and we've already made quite startling progress in terms of the number of number twos undertaken outside and the generally smoother running of things indoors. The cats are wary but she will stay in the meehoo room without whining, and is quite definitely another ramp up on the cuteness scale: now we have our puppy.
So to recap: we now have 4 horses, 3 goats, 5 cats, six chickens and TWO DOGS. That's 20 creatures.
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