Tomorrow is my last day before heading off There. Ten days. Daughter for some of it, Son [possibly], friends, Humbug and Spot. As my son would have it, I have to leave the house tidy for the burglars, so I've spent the evening tidying up, doing a bit of ironing, putting stuff away and filing away some paperwork. Well, you can't bank on the burglars to come in and do that. After all, they're hardly Elves to my Shoemaker, are they?
Spot sits and watches and listens, dozing happily by my feet as if he's lived here forever. Occasionally, he rests his head on my knee for a hug. What an old shmooze.
There's a Jacob fleece over the back of the settee. While I'm tidying up, Spot follows me and brushes past it. Stops, sniffs and then, proving that there's life in the old boy yet, grabs it gleefully and promptly tries to show it a good time. "Gerroff!", I holler. Guilty, he drops it to the floor and I replace it on the back of the settee and return to the kitchen. He doesn't follow. That sixth sense, the one that becomes finely tuned by small children when they're silent, kicks in.
Back to the sitting room. He drops the fleece immediately and tries to claim that it was coming on to him. But there's a small tuft of wool sticking out of the side of his mouth.
I'll be glad when the hormones wear off. No soft furnishings are safe from Don Spotivani till then. And I'm hoping we don't get a cold snap over Easter since I'm not putting my sheepskin coat back on while he's still frisky.
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