As I scoffed my brekkie I
had a text. The most recent fruit of my loin wasn't planning on
visiting today. Which was a shame as I had some chores she could help
me with (read "do for me"). Lacking a lackey I got
on with the chores myself. I got the camping washing up bowls out of
storage and cleaned them all. I swilled out the camping water
containers. I dug out the camping cups and cutlery and got jiggy with
them. I planned to wash up the camping plates and bowls but couldn’t
find them. I am assured that they are in the shed. I shall hope that
those who assure me of this can find them.
I then took "Furry
Face TM" for a walk round the park. I let
him off his lead in the Bowens Field Wetland Park, and apart from a
minor incident with a dead slow worm he was as good as gold. Either
I’m getting more tolerant of his little foibles, or his behaviour
is improving with age.
I’d timed our walk to
arrive at the vet’s just in time for his appointment so he wouldn’t
have time to get fractious in the waiting area. On arrival he was
weighed. Just under ten kilogrammes. Kilogrammes means nothing to me;
in real terms that is a stone and a half. The vet then called us in.
She spent a little while fussing him, and I explained about his bald
spot. The nice vet explained about dogs’ anal glands, she put on
gloves, lubed up, and made like Edward Plumb. (For those of my
readers who don’t know the tale of Edward Plumb, just ask me – I
won’t regale it here).
Fudge was remarkably
cool with the concept of having a finger rammed up his bottom. Just
as the vet was having a particularly vigorous rummage she asked if
"Furry Face TM" had ever bitten at
times of stress and worry. If I was going to shove a hand up an
unknown dog’s chuff I would find out whether he was likely to bite
me before I got busy, but that’s just me. For all that it didn’t
seem to be an especially comfortable procedure, Fudge showed no signs
of getting aggressive. I could understand if he had, but I would have
been very surprised. He was as good as gold, and the nice vet lady
squeezed all manner of unspeakable stuff from all manner of
unspeakable places. With gloves off she gave "Furry Face TM"
a biscuit, and the two of them were immediately the best of friends.
Mind you if she’d got
equally gloved with me and then given me a biscuit I expect I would
have felt much the same.
The nice vet lady said to
leave the bucket on his head for a while, and gave me some cream for
the bald spot. Down his glands are empty he shouldn’t worry his
backside because of that, but he might have made it sore and he will
worry it now because it’s sore. Whilst she was at it she had a look
at his back leg; he does walk funny from time to time. Apparently
Patagonian Tripehounds occasionally get dislocated kneecaps, but he
seems fine at the moment.
I took "Furry
Face TM" home and as he slept off his
ordeal I drove out to Sevington to check up on one of my geocaches.
It had been reported as having been muggled. It had been. When I hid
the thing I’d dropped it down inside a metal post which supported a
public footpath sign. Tied to the top by fishing line it had been
fine for a few months, but I had a report at the weekend that all was
not well. I arrived to find that it had gone missing. Together with
the entire metal pole it was hidden inside, and the concrete in which
the pole had been anchored.
I’ve put out a
replacement cache – we’ll see how long this lasts.
After a spot of lunch I
attacked the laundry. I sorted my smalls and ironed my shirts, and in
the evening the tribes gathered in Somerset Road where I had some
Iron Brew. I've not had that stuff before. It's not bad. And so home
again where I applied cream to the bottom of a sulking dog. When we
went out we'd put the bucket on his head to stop him from biting
himself whilst we were out. He's managed to chew his bucket...
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