Week 35: Freddie Mercury

It’s 12.30am and everyone is asleep except me. You can‘t hear a pin drop; there's no one about to drop one. For that matter, you couldn’t hear a set of cymbals drop either even if someone was throwing bits of spare drum-kit about because, my God, it is Windy. Blowing an absolute hoolie out there; something to do with the remnants of Hurricane Zeta reaching our shores (who names these storms? Clearly not English. I mean if it were an English person naming them, they would carry understated descriptions like Hurricane A Tad Blowy, or Hurricane Best Bring The Bins In). Anyway, it’s 12.30am and I need to get to bed because I will be up, probably, during the night and definitely fairly early in the morning with The Hound (Milo). He has, of course, been asleep for a couple of hours having Tiggered himself into a coma after another full day of bouncing. Milo can go about five hours overnight between widdles, so the logic of late to bed for me is that he will hopefully, having had a widdle at 12.30am, sleep through to when Gin (so called as she has determined that the clear liquid has Anti-Covid Properties. At least that’s what she tells us) gets up for another day of Teachering.

I pick Milo up from the sofa and he makes his really delightful, little half-awake snuffling noises as he comes around. I pop him on the towel in front of the door to the garden and he staggers a bit whilst trying to get his legs to wake up too. Outside it's mayhem. The beech tree, a 110 year old beauty with a trunk thicker than your average Nigel Farage supporter, is hanging on for dear life. As I unlock the back door, there is a thump from the garden; BT's (Boy Teenager) free-standing basket ball hoop is now of the free-lying variety. Milo is suddenly fully awake. I open the door, hanging onto the pup for fear he will be sucked out by the storm.

"Have a wee Milo" I say. He can't hear me. "HAVE A WEE MILO!" I try again. He starts to back into the Sitting Room, growling. Sod this, he is having a bloody wee or else. I pick him up and plonk him on the top step outside the door. He starts to bark and shake. Blimey, the poor little fella is proper scared. He is also now getting wet from that sidey-ways, fine rain (that soaks you right through). Milo is trying to get back into the house. He can't be afraid of the wind, he's been out in the garden many times in recent gales. Hmmm, what is it? And then I realise he is looking straight at the now-fallen basket ball hoop set. Ah the soppy sod. Well, there's nothing for it but to show him that the Big Dog (that's me) isn't nervous about it and to get out there. I debate whether to change out of my slippers (Big Dog Likes Slippers, but not as much as Little Dog likes to Eat Big Dog's Slippers). Nah, it's three steps down to a little bit of path in front of the mud that we optimistically refer to as a lawn; a little water won't harm the rubber soles of said footwear. I climb down, my glasses misting rapidly from the sidey-ways rain. Bugger, I'll be soaked-through before I've scooped Milo and popped him on the lawn. I turn to grab him when zoop-zoop-zoop! my legs do that bambi-on-ice thing. What the? Oh for God's sake, it's the slippery drain cover!

Amazing how much passes through your mind as you are pirouetting towards the ground. The principle thought I had was "Oh dear, this is going to hurt" followed by a squelchy thud. and then a "That's odd, it didn't hurt that much", and then "Why is the path soft, wet and slimy?".

I suppose I should be grateful that my mid-air twist took me off of the path and on to the lawn. Less grateful for it being Milo's favourite toilet-patch.

Still the hound had a widdle before we both retreated indoors, so not all was lost. Didn't stop him waking the house up at 4am when he decided he was lonely though. He came dangerously close to being converted into a nice pair of winter mittens.

His influence though is becoming increasingly positive. BT is now going out for a walk with him (and one or more of us) daily and is finding that he loves the beauty and quiet of the down-lands that are on our doorstep. He is sleeping through the night and getting up at a normal time; it's brilliant! Milo hasn't cured his anxiety of course; he is currently worrying about how he will earn money when he is unlikely to have qualifications, but he is a clever lad and I think he will find a way. We will do what we can to help of course.

These daily walks have been good for all of us. I can't remember a time since the kids were knee high to a grasshopper that we've (willingly) been out for a walk as a family. Neither BT or GT (Girl Teenager) have wanted to. At all. Ever. And yet, during Gin and GT's half-term break, the hound dragged us all through the mud on three separate occasions. And it was nice. And we laughed. And chatted. And enjoyed it.

GT has an interesting approach to dog-walking attire. The last trip out together included meeting Nana and Pops over in the woods near their house. Gin, BT and I were in jeans, rain jackets and walking boots. GT made an entrance in a small, black, leather mini-skirt and pink top, a pencilled-on moustache, whilst lip-syncing Freddie Mercury's vocals on "I want to break free". We persuaded her that this might not last being dragged through a bush by the hound, so reluctantly she changed. To her best Siouxsie Sioux gear. Including the wild hair. I suppose if you are expecting to be dragged through a hedge backwards, there's no harm in pre-empting the end result. Ah I jest (GT if you are reading this, you always look amazing. Even as Freddie Mercury).

So, all-in-all it was a pretty good week, only spoiled by the news that England is to enter a one month lock-down starting next week. Except it's only really half a lock-down, with schools still open (and Gin and GT still going in), but all the fun stuff being shut. Good news though! The Government is encouraging us all to go out an exercise outdoors. Bad news! All outdoor facilities are being closed. Even golf. Strange decision that; golfers spend more time in bushes, alone, looking for their ball than anything else. Or is that just me?

With that we enter week 36. Hmmm, with everything closing from Thursday, looks like I will have to polish the bike and pump up its tyres. Or stay in and eat.

Love & elbow-grease,

Mr H

x

PS I've just seen a post on Twitter from a lady I follow (@annjj) whose older and more worldly-wise dog was made so anxious by the noise of the winds during Fairly Serious Puff Zeta that he chewed through all of one side of a doorframe, so perhaps I should cut Milo some slack and put away my mitten pattern. For now.