Saturday, January 24, 2009

Sir PukeAlot

Bad night. VERY bad night.

Woken at 3am by the sound of a 40KG Labrador hurling his guts up outside the bedroom door. Try to get back off to sleep - maybe it's a bad dream, maybe it's real, but either way it can be dealt with in the morning. However, images of shattered pork chop bones floating in pools of yellow bile keep insinuating themselves into my consciousness and in the end I am so wide awake that I figure I might as well deal with it now rather than wait for it to congeal and dry into a horrid mess.

As I get dressed I ruminate on what a bad idea it was to give Harry the pork chop bones right before we all went to bed - but you try refusing a Labrador when he puts his chin on your lap and looks up at you from under his lids (remember that look Princess Di used to give to get everyone to fall in love with her?) with those huge brown eyes. OK, so we're weak, but we often forget that Harry has missed out on a lot of the treats that Benson used to get at his age just because he grew up in a time when Benson was having trouble holding his poo and so any treats liable to induce something of a jet-propelled nature were withheld from both dogs. The result now is that Harry is not used to these occasional rich treats, and I guess we all pay the price.

So I step out of the bedroom door to find the first pool of mess. Passing my study I see the next one just inside the doorway, and the smaller one right under my desk - has he been laying traps in revenge for the fact that I spent all say playing Spore instead of playing with him? Downstairs there are another four pools spread around the sitting room - I know that (thankfully) dog vomit does not smell anything like as bad as human vomit (why IS that?) but, regardless of that minor mercy, I do wish they would stay in one place until they finish chucking up.

I come down to find Harry lying on his bed, managing to cram both a "I'm SOOO sorry" look and a "Who me?" look on his face at the same time, and never quite making up his mind which one to go with. Dogs are always so upset when they throw up - to them it equates to crapping indoors, it would seem - and yet of course you cannot be remotely angry with them for being ill. Problem is, Harry seems to take the lack of admonishment to mean "OK, everything is cool, let's play" and starts to bound around through pools of vomit chucking his freshly laundered cuddly diplodocus in the air.

So NOW I get mad at him....

Long story short - I mop up the pools of sick and shattered pig bones with kitchen towels, Lynne follows behind with mop and bucket, and Harry goes back to sleep. It is 5am before I get off to sleep.... now I feel like crap.

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