It’s official: I miss the kids terribly and can’t wait to see them in a few hours. It’s been eight loooooong days since I last cuddled them.
Also official: organising dog sitting is a big, fat pain.
My advice: never get a dog as revenge on your duplicitous husband. (He didn’t want a dog, so I marched out and bought one without telling him. Then I sent him a picture of the kids with the puppy captioned: “I have some bad news.”)
Unfortunately, the only person I got revenge on was myself. When my duplicitous husband left me six months later, I was stuck with the dog. I couldn’t paint the town red after work because the needy little furball was waiting impatiently for me to come home.
I’m heading to Newcastle this morning to collect the kids from my parents’ place.
I’ve organised a Frankenstein-style cavalry to ensure the dog doesn’t bark too much while I’m gone and provoke another nasty note under the front door from my neighbours. One of the eldest’s school friends is going to mind him for the day. Then my sister is going to mind him for the night. Then he’ll be dropped at my house to be entertained by my sister’s dog until I return. I’d been planning on staying a little longer in Newie, but it was too much of a logistical nightmare.
My parents refuse to have him at their house because the last time they visited me he pissed extravagantly on a tablecloth I’d laid on the loungeroom floor for a kids’ picnic dinner. It didn’t make the best impression.
So it’s a flying visit to the town I love. I’ll return for a longer one when a local biddy who accepts payment for dog minding (and therefore is less inclined to complain about Charlie’s terrible behaviour) returns from her latest European jaunt … her second this year … dog minding obviously rewards handsomely.
My sister offered to adopt Charlie recently. The kids were horrified and refused to even countenance it. They adore Charlie and he adores them.
People keep telling me I can’t let that sway me from commonsense, but I’m afraid it must. The kids have already lost their nuclear family, their home, their chickens and their bunnies. I can’t take Charlie away from them too.
I just can’t.
So I am stuck with him for the three days the kids are with my ex. Well, I’m stuck with him every day, but it’s the days when I could be socialising that are cramping my style most.
And I’m cornered into looking for a dodgy house to buy – that I can barely afford – rather than some glammy, economical, fuss-free apartment. Charlie would be a nightmare in an apartment. The neighbours would revolt.
No, no, don’t speak! I don’t want to hear that I’m sprouting crazy talk, that the dog must go, that it’s ridiculous to let a small, black furry thing influence my property decisions.
He can’t go. He must stay. So I guess that means I should just cuddle him and stop complaining.
OK, lips zipped.
Song of the day: Florence and the Machine “Dog days are over” (no they’re not)