…and I need somebody to come shoot me.
They’re including Daisy the Beagle, that robust stick-chewing, outdoorsy, about as un-lapdog-like a hound as you can get, in their attentions, much to her astonishment. Nobody’s ever, in her entire life, leaned down and cooed, “Awww, does her want to be petted, tooooo? Does her not wike seeing Minnie get allllll the pets? There, there [pets], what a gooooood girl her is! Ooooh, her’s so sweeeet!”
MIL has a truly geriatric black poodle named Minnie–senile, incontinent, can’t sit or lie down, her back is so humped and crooked. Auntie has a Yorkie whose name I didn’t catch that growls at everybody except Auntie. You better believe I’m giving that one a wide berth. They carry them around like babies. I’m getting fairly creeped out by it, actually.
Daisy is Not Happy that two tiny annoyances have come to stay (and drink out of her water dish–Minnie drinks huge amounts of water every 20 minutes), but with immense dignity is ignoring them, and has camped out temporarily under the table by the front door.
They went off this morning and left the hounds with me. The Yorkie was zipped into, I swear, an oversize ladies handbag and left under the dining room table. Minnie was allowed to run freely about the place, with Chucks spread liberally around. Thirty minutes after they left, I stood there in the kitchen and watched Minnie pee 18 inches away from a Chuck. So she went on the Temporary Restraining Cable, which is what we use to hook Daisy up when repairmen who she decides she doesn’t like come to fix things. Minnie made several more puddles before they got back, nicely spaced out among the three chucks that I scooted over to within her reach. Senile and incontinent, yup.
Now Auntie is audibly snoring on the couch behind me. The Yorkie in her lap is giving me the Evil Eye. Don’t worry, pooch, I wouldn’t dream of moving.
They’re all leaving Monday.
Yes.
ETA: Minnie’s a toy poodle. Of course.