My perfect life (not)

There’s a blog I visit and read often. It’s a good blog because it’s written by a professional writer and because although the exterior of the thing always looks glossy and fabulous (nature, dogs, horses) and peaceful, the interior landscape of the writer sounds more or less interchangeable with your human experience, or mine, or anyone’s really. Different events and people, but same pain, angst and suffering.

So, here’s a blog that is not about my interior landscape. It is a post that would never appear on this other blog because these things just don’t seem to happen to everyone. Or maybe they do and have the sense to keep bloody quiet about it. This post is also designed for a certain member of the Wray Barton Wrecking Crew who has been having a torrid time lately, but has been the usual stalwart in the face it all. Perhaps it will make her smile. In which case it would all have been worth it.

The dog, have I mentioned the bloody dog on here? Oh yes. Often. He’s appeared in photos here looking winsome and he’s appeared looking snarly and people have commented on his looks and it’s all rather jolly having a dog to put on the blog on a slow day, or when he’s done something entertaining. The trouble is that lately the dog has been, literally, driving me mad. Or if not driving me mad, holding up a mirror to my madness.

We went out the other day, for a walk and thence to a pet superstore, only because I dared not return home without cat food (we had run out) and the cat was looking for my head on a stick by late lunchtime; she had not eaten since early breakfast and requires five meals a day minimum to maintain her usual surly and superior demeanour towards me. So I had to stop at this gargantuan warehouse of a pet shop because I didn’t have any cash on me and it’s the only place you can buy a cheap box of cat food with your card without the assistant hating you to your face.

As soon as I parked, which I did badly, hitting a kerb in the process, the dog started up whining because he knows that in that shop there is a pick and mix for mammals and birds which he likes to peruse. I took him in. We walked round and round the central island of pick and mix and he stuck his nose in various binnacles. Pink biscuits, yellow bones, multi-coloured bird seed and hay bars for rabbits – they have them all. It’s additive heaven. The dog enjoys it though and so did I until I realised that I had been conversing with him throughout…

I had started the chatting to him on the earlier walk and it didn’t really matter so much then because no-one was around but once I clocked myself in a busy pet emporium I had enough self-preservation left to realise what I might look like: a bit crazy. So then I told the dog, I really had to stop chatting out loud to him and could he just select his chosen pick and mix biscuits for me to put in a bag and then we could leave. Which, after some further deliberation and more accidentally verbalising what should have remained in my head from me, he did.

This will have to be continued. In my perfect life (not) I have to finish another thing I haven’t started yet and quickly tell the cat something, before I forget. Don’t worry though, I’ll get back to this story and it will so totally be worth the wait…

NO PICTURES OF ME IN A SHOP, WITH THE DOG, TALKING TO HIM, IN PUBLIC, BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE EMBARRASSING.

Posted on February 28, 2013, in Consumerism, Dogs and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

  1. For the dog, of course

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