Waking up to a thumping headache, a headache born of far too much of last evening’s scarlet Bordeaux, a bleary eyed cursory morning glance toward the bedside table only to spot what I thought had been the stuff of dissolving dreams, namely a post-it note I’d scribbled upon that read, ‘Miss Rosie Mayday Lily Eve Blamey-Steeden’.
A few four-letter words later, plus a question to self, “Did I really write that…what planet was I on?”
I’ll explain. After days and days of wretched insomnia, a genuine madness about me and my old adversary ‘corbeau sombre’ lurking on a branch in the immediate background, a promise made at sunset the previous day was to become a reality. ‘Miss Rosie Mayday Lily Eve Blamey-Steeden’…what a ridiculous handle if there ever was one, and I should know having written it…a puppy dog, a baby lurcher to be precise, was the promise made, and promises must be kept. What happened was, sat in the garden with Shirl d’Arc as the sun went down, me having taken advice from my good friend Frenchy Ted who has been successfully using this technique nightly for the last 200 years, that a bucket of wine would cure said insomnia…it did, by the way…I noted that Ms d’Arc was thumbing her way through a canine listing on her iPad, and from the corner of my eye, the little gal, a gypsy princess appeared. “Let’s make her ours, Shirl. She’s beautiful, just 11 weeks old, you say. It’s been a few years since Skipper snuffed it. It’s about time.”
“Are you serious? You are pissed after all.”
“True enough, I am a tad Brahms and Liszt. The thing is, as you well know, I’m sick and tired of ‘we don’t want them here’ Brexit morons, self-centered right wing grinning politicians and Corona mania tedium. They’re all doing my head in. Dogs never let you down. I want that one. She’ll save my sanity; she’ll change our world for the better and importantly, we’ll make double-sure she has a great life. Anyhow, are you good with that?”
“What do you think? Of course I am you stupid old fool.”
Early the next day, a visit to the farmer selling his delightful crop of puppies, a few quid and a car ride home, enter the renamed ‘Rosie’ into our lives. We’ve fallen in love with her.
Thus far Rosie has got the better of me. For example, me sat upon the loo, day one, the sweet love collared one of my slippers, rushed into hiding at an impressive rate of knots only to rip it to sheds. Did I care? Not a jot. When I found her I gifted her the other slipper…I’d not much use for it unless I have a foot amputation.
She’s had her inoculations and it’s only a few days away when Rosie can take to the outside world. We can’t wait. Thankfully dear Shirl has been training dogs all her life, so all will be well.
Rosie is a busy little rascal consuming all our time presently. For the immediate future she needs me more than I need putting pen to paper, hence I’ll be off the WP menu for a week or so. Good fortune to one and all. Regards, The Old Fool
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