Not that romance was off the cards. I did meet an actual German German Shepherd, which was a novelty, and, from his body language (if you know what I mean) he seemed very interested in me. But there was no magic. I couldn't understand a word he barked. He sounded so gruff and he wasn't my type: too tall, too foreign. As he drooled and foamed at the mouth, all I could think about was rabies, not babies. And he was called Hitler too. Or Hitler 2. Or maybe it was just his nickname, I couldn't tell. His owners only spoke German.
|Hitler, you're not sticking that tongue down my throat.|
So the master and I were at the cabin, just the two of us, without the mistress. She stayed at home, busy with school homework and seeing friends, and he needed a rest from her coughing.
The weather was gorgeous, despite it being September. The air was clean, the sky was blue and the patio doors remained open all morning after his sneaky fried breakfast at McMillans. I don't blame him. He didn't want to upset me after my curious barfing incident in the night: another Dentastix chewed but undigested returning to stain the bedroom carpet. He didn't complain; he loves me so much.
After writing his yawn-some novel for a while, in the afternoon he took me on a long romantic walk at Lamahamish. I was surprised he braved the potholed track in his new Seat Ateca but I guess he wanted to try its 4x4 feature. It was bumpy as hell in the boot whatever suspension type he was using.
The car park was empty, despite the fine weather, and it felt like we had the world to ourselves. We climbed the hill, making him breathless and regret wearing his best trainers. He calls them his best trainers but really they're only his best ones because he hasn't thrown the old ones out yet, despite them being worn and holey of sole. He'd forgotten just how much rain had fallen during the week and hadn't anticipated the mud.
Now, I love mud. It's great for the skin and leaves such wonderful aromas on my coat. And if he'd caught me rolling in it, he would have been justified in shouting "Not 'expletive' mud". But he didn't. There was no mention of mud in what he screamed. Because I rolled in horse droppings.
It's not often I get a bath. It's not often he cleans his car. It's not often he buys a replacement car air freshener. But all three happened this weekend. Thanks to our dirty weekend.
On a sad note, we saw a dead bambi (not on TV), lying on the verge of the road. It's lifeless brown eyes were wide open, all four legs rigid pointing towards the tarmac, body contorted awkwardly. We'd past it the night before but weren't sure what it was. In the clear daylight, it looked like it could have been enjoying the sunshine, lying so still, maybe even sleeping, if not for being undisturbed by the noisy vehicles flying past.
Is this why they call it countrycide? Maybe we shouldn't repair country roads so drivers are forced to drive slower. Give the animals a chance to get out of the way. I hope it died quickly and someone removes it soon.
And that I dry quickly or the master will not let me into bed tonight. I really don't want to sleep alone.
I wonder where that Alsatian is.