It is Monday. Again.
I lie here disconsolate and sighing and, what with them busying themselves with bicycle pumps and truly fascinating conversations about who’s bircher museli pot has more cinnamon, they fail to notice my anguish….
After a weekend of long walks, muddy paws and bonding, this abandonment feels especially cold. I even bloody pretended to enjoy chasing the luminous yellow ball they kept chucking down the river path on Sunday. She was so pathetically eager every time she threw it [badly] and cooed ‘fetch Maggie fetch puppy good puppy,’ I didn’t have the heart to do what I wanted and drop it in the Thames. Finally, seeing it stolen by a whippet who sprinted off with it, watching her thunder down the path chasing said whippet and calling ‘excuse me oh excuse me sorry sorry’ to no avail, filled me with a warmth and cheer I haven’t experienced since I first discovered the chewable tassels on the hall carpet.
Still. They are leaving. And I am sad.
I take some comfort in the fact that his shirt really does not go with his trousers and that her cycle gloves and leather jacket make her look like an extra from Michael Jackson’s Bad, but not even that can really alleviate the funk I’m in... Apart from maybe plotting their downfall... and chewing the hall carpet tassels... and weeing under the bed.
Yes, that is what I will do. … Maybe this isn’t going to be such a awful day after all.