Dead Things

 

IN CASE THE TITLE HASN’T WARNED YOU, THIS IS ANOTHER OF THOSE POSTS YOU DON’T WANT TO READ IF YOU ARE OF A SENSITIVE NATURE.

It has not been a great day.  It is still VERY VERY VERY TOO HOT*.  VERY.  And it’s supposed to go on getting hotter till Saturday.**  I went bell ringing (again) tonight, at Fustian, and even the experts were hiding at home with the curtains drawn—there were only six of us—and some of us didn’t ring very well.  Ahem.***  It’s a small ringing chamber and people are relentlessly warm-blooded and furthermore they will breathe, adding overheated dampness to the thick curdled atmosphere.

I didn’t get up very early† and then I had to DO THE WATERING and one way or another it was later than it should have been when I got the critters out†† so arguably I wasn’t paying as close attention as I might have if it had been about twenty degrees cooler.  The hellhounds are worse in this heat than I am, which is restful in an annoying sort of way.  The hellterror . . . not so much.  HEY!  WE’RE OUTDOORS!  ISN’T IT FUN!  LET’S RUN AROUND OR . . . OR SOMETHING!  It’s the or something that causes the problems.  I’d already suspended her upside down while holding her mouth open to shake out some cat crap but she was only going through the motions with that one because just running around and trying to eat bumblebees (NOOOOOOOOOOOOO) isn’t sufficiently exciting and she wants me to play with her.††

But then she did the deadly darting thing and her jaws closed on something else.  Even when I’m chilly and alert I can’t move faster than the deadly darting thing.†††  So I clamped her between my legs again and started trying to pry her mouth open.  This is, as I’ve said here previously, usually surprisingly easy, because to my considerable amazement she acknowledges my right to interfere.‡  Today . . .   Whatever this was, she wanted it.  The beady little varminty eyes were boring into mine.  This was making me prospectively nervous before I finally managed to crack those jaws and . . . and . . . I was pretty sure what was in there was furry.  I DON’T WANT TO TOUCH THIS WITH MY BARE HANDS.  I DON’T.  It took me at least a minute to lever those bull-terrier jaws open far enough that I could conceivably shake whatever it was out—and whatever it was was LARGE and it DID NOT WANT TO SHAKE OUT.‡‡

It was a dead mouse.  It was a very dead mouse.  It was a very dead mouse with its insides coming out.  AAAAAAAAAAAAUGH.  I’M GIVING UP DOGS.  AFTER THIS IT’S GOLDFISH ALL THE WAY.  CHENILLE GOLDFISH.‡‡‡

I was probably still shaking with trauma and overwhelming grossness when I got down to the mews.  Hellhounds did what they could to cheer me up by eating their lunch.§  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  I was settling down to do a little work with my lunch and . . .

FOUND A SLUG IN MY SALAD. §§ AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH.  And Peter, that fiend in the guise of a lettuce-washing husband, ISN’T GOING TO BE ALLOWED TO FORGET THIS ONE EASILY.  I put my foot on his neck and made him beg for his life.  I’m wondering if maybe I can get a bottle of champagne or a minor piece of jewellery out of this one. . . .

* * *

* My little max/min thermometer which is in the shade in the back garden, registered 98.9°F some time in the last twenty-four hours.  I did say it’s a barbeque pit back there in the afternoon.  Those lovely brick and flint walls hold the heat in.  But the BBC, bastion of truth and honest reportage,^ is predicting the upper 30s/90s generally over the next few days, and not limited to small walled town gardens that catch a lot of sun.  The funny thing is that a lot of my garden—due to those same walls—is shady.  But the middle third is a blast furnace, and the back wall is hot to the touch.  There’s a lot of frelling advice going on about surviving the heat—which boils [ha ha ha ha] down to ‘stay cool and keep hydrated’.  Well duh.  You are also warned that you’ll have to water your garden EVERY DAY and baskets and small pots twice.  I KNOW.  SHUT UP AND GO AWAY.  But my favourite piece of advice is to put ice cubes around your plants for slow release watering.  Are you frelling JOKING?  An ice cube is going to give one gasp and vanish in a puff of vapour, I don’t care what you’re using for mulch.  I also wonder where you’re getting all these ice cubes.  Your average garden is going to soak up a lot of ice cubes.

^ Google ‘Jimmy Savile’.

** Whimper.  Also, I’m expecting house guests.  I hope they’re self-motivated and heat-proof.  Here are the keys to Third House.  I’m going to go lie down now.

*** Fortunately one of their other regular non-experts was there to share the guilt.

† When did I ever get up early?  Not since I started the blog.  Which I tend to be writing at 1 a.m.

†† You’re also supposed to walk your hellcritters either early in the morning or late at night.  DIDN’T I JUST SAY SHUT UP AND GO AWAY?  The hellhounds are pretty self-adjusting.  They flump along outdoors like wet spaghetti and come indoors and collapse.  Pav tends to come home with little fiery squiggles zooming off her and it takes forever for her to cool down.  I tried sprinkling her with water which she thought was very funny, so I turned her over and sprinkled cold water on her tummy.  She thought this was FAAAAAABULOUS.  Anyone sprinkled cold water on my tummy I would bite them.  Hard.  I don’t care how hot I was.

††† Might I suggest chasing a nice ball?  BOOOOOOOOOOOORING.  There’s no urgency or screaming to ball-chasing.  Pav likes life on the edge.

‡ I met another bull terrier fan today and he was all over Pav, which is fine, but he was also telling me stories about his bull terrier, which is clearly a dangerous menace to society and I’m thinking nooooooooooo I don’t want to hear this.  She’s very docile, he said of Pav, not entirely approvingly:  Bull terriers aren’t usually docile.  Well.  Um.  Yes.  In the first place she’s bred for it but in the second place I HAVE PUT A CERTAIN AMOUNT OF TIME INTO PERSUADING HER TO LISTEN TO ME.  IT DOESN’T ALWAYS WORK, MIND YOU, BUT SHE DOES SHOW SOME SIGNS OF CIVIL OBEDIENCE.  Gaaaaaaaaah.  People.

‡‡ Your average piece of cat crap shoots out pretty easily.  —I did tell you if you’re a delicate flower you should not read tonight’s post.

‡‡‡ I bet there’s a knitting pattern for goldfish.  Probably in Rowan kidsilk haze stripe.

§ The hellterror ate hers, of course, but this is hardly worth mentioning.  Is she breathing?  Then if you give her food she will eat it.

§§ Note that I tweeted this in the first rush of horror, and over the course of the day I think it’s become my most-retweeted comment ever.