The Prodigal Collie
While we had our drunken orgy quiet holiday, our K8, Puppychild and the Mad Dog looked after the house and Sandy.
They stayed on last night and K8 cooked a lovely dinner for us. In return, I looked after Puppychild this morning. Her latest hobby is face-painting, which she does with coal-dust so all this morning she was the living image of Adolf Hitler.
But I digress.
As they were leaving at midday, somehow our Sandy got out. She did it very quietly so we didn’t realise she was gone.
Then there were a couple of loud claps of thunder.
Our Sandy hates thunder. It drives her into a frenzy and she acts very irrationally -a bit like a woman with PMT. So I went looking for her to make sure she was OK, and had enough blankets to cover her head or whatever. That’s when I discovered she was gone.
I walked up and down the lane in the rain whistling my head off. No sign. I began to get worried as thunder induced irrationality can have strange effects on her. Then, to make matters worse a neighbour stopped to say she had seen Sandy about a quarter of a mile away slinking into a hedge.
So I got in the car and drove up and down, and back up again. I drove sideways and up to the bogs and down to the village. I stopped and asked total strangers [most of them foreign]. I gave my phone number to the nice looking women I met and got chatting to the bloke who is building a house for our K8. Loosing dogs is a great way to meet people.
Finally Herself rang me to say a man had her [Sandy, not Herself] down by the village. So down I went and collected a very embarrassed dog. She was wringing wet, filthy and stank to high heaven of sh*t. but then so do Herself and I, so we don’t mind.
I suppose if we hadn’t found her, we would have to have been headline news on ITN, and the world’s meeja would have ended on our doorstep as we made impassioned pleas for people to keep an eye out on their holidays.
But all’s well that ends well. Sandy is back after her little adventure and is busy leaving muddy stains on all the furniture.
All I have to do now is find my pipe which got lost in the panic.
It’s the second damn time I’ve lost it today.
I knew Sandy would enjoy that book on existentialism I loaned her.
Your pipe is in your pocket. Or in the fridge.
No. I tried my pockets, the fridge, the bread bin, the coal bunker and the attic [even though I haven’t been up there in weeks].
Still no sign.
I have gone around the area, changing all the little posters I put up, from “Lost dog” to “Lost pipe”.
Which pipe was it?
I saw a pipe on Wednesday, but its owner didn’t have a beard, leading to two possible conclusions:
(i) the owner was you and that your beard is a disguise;
or (ii) that the owner wasn’t you and that the pipe therefore wasn’t yours.
The last churchwarden in our church used to do police style reconstructions to find lost things. It was very bizarre, but it did find my church keys.
It was my brand new all-singing all-dancing pipe that I bought from Elie in Belgium [see – some good does come out of there].
I like the idea of a reconstruction – I can wander up and down the road with a pipe in my mouth and the police can stop cars and hand out leaflets to job peoples memories.
Most of Wednesday, I was in a drunken catatonic state on the lounge floor, so it’s unlikely that was me you saw. Unless you were in a drunken catatonic state on the lounge floor too?
Say a prayer to St. Anthony.
That’s what my Mom use to tell me. Nah, I didn’t listen to her either.
Found It!
It had slipped off the passenger seat in the car when I did a handbrake turn in the middle of the Main Street.
I don’t know about the women you know but I don’t wedge myself behind the couch when I have PMT! Oh no .. I’m out there with all guns blazing!
Noice doggy! *bless*