Righto. First, let me offer you all my sweeping apologies for failing to properly observe St. Patrick’s Day. Honestly, everywhere else, it seemed, were St. Patrick’s Day specials and such, and at Bramble House, I think we barely managed to put out a few knick knacks. I hung the Irish Flag in the shop window. Damned pathetic of us, and I admit, I was a bit ashamed by our lack of celebration. By way of a vague explanation, there has been a lot going on and I honestly didn’t think of anything we could do until it was really too late to do anything about it.
By way of a longer explanation, I have a skill-set that is not necessarily ideal for retail. I did, more or less, fall into this business by accident, having received my PhD from the University of British Columbia in Curriculum and Instruction* (specifically, a philosophical paper that largely critiqued the failure of universities to uphold their own ideals about Education. You can imagine how well that went over when I sent out applications to work and continue my research into the ways that universities have failed its own mandates of progress. Ha ha.) So, I ended up helping my mum and sister with Bramble House, and eventually ended up running the place. AND, so, here I am, a wonderfully brilliant philosopher, but a not-so-wonderfully-brilliant retailer.
I have learned to live with that.
*(I can’t recall if I went on about this somewhere else, which would make this suspiciously repetitive. I also might have mentioned it in other blogs and deleted it, and I might have done that several times, so itseems like I repeat the bit about the university as often as possible. My memory is a tiny bit porous at times. I may also be in denial about my own arrogance. HA. Is she joking? I don’t know! Am I?)
So, I started out with a decisive “First…” as if I had a planned “Second;” however, I don’t actually seem to have a Second. But I do have a horror story about What the Dog Ate.
Saturday night I was at my sister’s house, with friends, for a wee dinner party. Barney the dog was with us. My sister has a couple of cats, and every time Barney comes to visit, he races to the cat food dishes and tries to consume ALL of it before someone can grab the dishes and get them off the floor. It’s astonishing how much he can eat in a couple of seconds. Then, he hoovers around the kitchen, eating every crumb from the floor. Following this usual routine, on this particular evening, he started working on the stairs to the backdoor, where – apparently – bits of food (or something that smells like it might have been food or something like it) could be scraped, gnawed, and licked off of the steps. He did that for about 20 minutes. And then he disappeared. Once I realized he was missing, I lurched up from the table, “WHERE’S THE DOG?” not because I was worried he might have injured himself, but because I knew he was eating, something, somewhere, and likely it wasn’t actually food.
Meanwhile, in the basement, my sister had already cleaned out all the litter boxes, but she had left the plastic bag of kitty poops on the floor, for a disposal at some later time. Well, too late, right? I went clattering stupidly down the stairs, while Barney – who had ripped a hole in aforementioned plastic bag of kitty poops – was trying to cram every last bit in his mouth before I could reach him.
I was yelling, “No, god, no! Drop it! Drop it! DROP IT!!” but he was not yielding, so I then tried to fish out the poops from his mouth with my fingers, but I keep yanking back reflexively, because it’s POOP and nothing in me wants to actually touch it, but there was a lot of it and I knew I had to get some of it out; oh but he was chewing on it the way one might if they had shoveled a grand handful of popcorn in their mouth, trying to work it with an almost unhinged jaw, swallow, chew on it, gulp some down, unhinge the jaw again, chew, gulp some down…
I shooed him up the stairs, cleaned up what I could. And then he spent about 15 minutes wandering around the house, still chewing on the kitty goo in his mouth, getting it out of his teeth. I imagine it had the texture of peanut butter. The kitchen stank of it (not peanut butter.) GODS! It was really one of the more disgusting dog-related incidents of my life.
Not too long following this, he curled up as the flatulence commenced, whining occasionally because kitty-poop-flatulence is a bit painful, but he did survive it, I survived, and finally relaxed after brushing his teeth when we got home (because “you lick ME with that mouth!”) and so, yeah: another exciting chapter in the continuing horrors of What the Dog Ate.
Have a Happy Snowstorm!!