Memories of flower and bird and wind and world, and all the living and all the dead.
Monday, April 6, 2009
A la recherche du temps perdu
You know how it is with small dogs (emphasis on dog)? They'll shag anything. Legs, cushions, handbags. Big dogs need something a bit more ... Spot has decided that he really can't be bothered to sleep on Mossie's bed but it'll do nicely as a shag toy. Except, it's not quite the same as it was. Every so often, he wanders up to it and hunkers down to give it a good seeing to. But clearly, things ain't quite like they were and he turns round to give me a puzzled stare. Is this the male menopause? Nope. It's permanent. And pretty soon, you'll have forgotten all about it.
He picks up the bed in his mouth and hurls it into the corner in disgust.
Yesterday afternoon, I carried the box of Mossie's ashes to the Pooh-Sticks-Bridge and Spot and I said goodbye to him. Stood on the bridge snivelling while Spot lay on the bridge looking at me with a worried look. He probably thought that the loss of gonads was a small price to pay.
In the US, when you have a dog 'done', they can put little implants in so that they hang right. Evidently, it's the men who mainly choose this. I wonder why?