The War of the Pansies

Lolly, aka Princess Furry Trousers, loves pansies. Shame is, so do I. And it was my digging, my fivers.
She stalks them, I stalk her.
This inappropriate admiration for botany and a nasty penchant for half five in the morning, however, is about as bad as it gets, and she is SO pretty and jolly that she is almost forgivable.

Friday evening found us perched in a small sitting room with a puppy trainer. Our mismatched seats, culled from a Dentist’s waiting room, arrayed around a disconcertingly large rubber mat. Most tempted to test its efficacy myself. A tenner for more than an hour of efficient “one-to-one” and away we went with effective little hand motions, a dog keen to Sit and Off and, oh, something else – I should have been born blonde – and our own paws stinking of cheap mangled sausage.

We then went to pick up T10 from his chum C9. We stood all adult with wine on the front garden to their pretty cottage facing the church in their beautiful village trilling in that parenty way, and Lolly crapped on the perfectly manicured lawn belonging to Mrs Northern Posh.
Exquisite timing.
Most very wrong grass.
I flapped around keen to show how well I remembered the vileness of other people’s dogs – not one to be Love Me Love My Dog, how tiresome is that? – and squatted dismally amateur with my green plastic bag and Mrs NP’s hose at which point her littlest, the dear sweet B4, scuttled out all sunshiny squeals and random trotting and armed with an inevitable homing instinct for the faeces…
Mrs NP went into screech freefall and I had a misguided moment involving B4, Mrs NP and the manic hose, but we were well tucked into our pinot grigio by then, which we managed to grip that necessary bit tighter while separating child / dog / poo / water, so I hope that we can say that a) my how we laughed and b) I think we got away with it…

Buoyed by her prowess in the poo department, an ear cocked for further instructions emanating from Asbo Jack way south in Exmoor, Lolly then pranced around with unpleasant eagerness in Mrs NP’s immaculately maintained flowerbeds.
Mrs NP twitched, and who can blame her, with that intensity of scrutiny being displayed by one so small and busy and wanton?
My yanking on the pretty pink’n’daisy collar’n’lead threatened to compromise the sloshing meniscus of my wine so I had to take ungainly gulps of that, so as not to waste a drop, while tottering inelegantly in pursuit of, what Countrymousie would doubtless call, my wheaten terrorist. While still managing to chat about schools. As you do.

A relief to get home even if that does signal cooking time and an interest to be shown – mine – in supper while Lolly dipped in and out of the flowerbeds here, rummaging and foraging and gathering pretty petals on her teddybear fur.
A second bucket of wine and it was hard to care either way.

The nights are still less than ideal, made vaguely bearable only by being able to call it summer.
I am re-connected to times of day I do not like.
2 in the morning while still at a party: tick.
2 in the morning to marry the sound to the likely scenario – Lolly dancing on her crate scrabbling at the door and yapping, and then stagger downstairs to deal with it / endeavour to ignore to show that this sort of behaviour is not to be tolerated: not tick.

We take it in turns, Mr C and I, and it is a matter of debate whether we will make our imminent 17th wedding anniversary.
(17 years, though, blimey, what an age is that. Seems like only yesterday etc.)

What actually seems like supper time is now, yet not even lunchtime, since Princess Wildebeest was up and on the go before 5 this morning, bouncing on her crate, eating the door.
You read that right. 4 something intolerable.
And straight out to nuzzle into the pansies, breathing in pleasurable wafts of a junkie’s fix.
Off to slaughter a puppy – furry pair of gloves anyone?? – she’s pushed that envelope too far today, and I did merely say that she was “almost forgivable.”