Remind us why we have dogs?

 

I'm numb with cold* and exhausted.  I tweeted earlier that our once-a-month tower practise at Old Eden was tonight and in this weather it was going to be a big ugly plague-ridden rat-king sort of ratbag, and I was not wrong.  Furthermore there were only eight of us for six bells, and three of the eight were beginners, which meant that the five of us who more or less knew what we were doing (the other four more, me less) were ringing nonstop on these frelling bells which had to be yanked by main force back up with every stroke.  I have told you about Old Eden's five—the fifth bell—before, that it's the nastiest of the six, and that I have decided I'm going to learn to cope with it.  We were ringing mere plain hunt, which is the pre-learning-real-methods pattern that slightly-beyond-beginners ring lots of, which is completely simple-minded once you're past that stage and you can do it in your sleep.**  But it does involve dragging your bell down to the front*** and then heaving it out to the back again and after about three minutes of this on the five I was feeling both rubbery and light-headed and thinking, I'm going to have to ask to stop.  Fortunately our current beginner was being a twit so Niall called us to stand before I had to do anything so ignominious.†  But the entire evening was like this—to the extent that about a quarter-hour before the end Vicky sat down and said okay, that's as much ringing as I want to do.  Vicky.  This is like the Statue of Liberty saying sorry, my arm's tired, I'm going to put the lamp down for a minute.

            But I think all systems are ungo at the moment.  I overslept.††  I decided we were going to have a proper country hurtle anyway, so we did.  This morning Hampshire was a fogbank.  We got to the field on this particular walk that hellhounds are usually allowed off lead for serious hurtling action.  Naturally they instantly disappeared in the fog.  I assumed they would re-emerge before I got totally hysterical, and they did.  But I suspect evil deeds out of hellgoddess' sight and shout.  Because Chaos threw up—twice—on the way back to the car.  You frelling dog.

            We were thawing out††† at the mews when I heard the awful sound . . . and made a dive for the dog bed‡, snatching up the nearest newspaper‡‡ and frantically stuffing it under Darkness' nose just in time . . . for him to throw up all over my hand.  Okay, it's not terminal, and the newspaper and I did keep it off the bedding.  Insert somewhat hollow cheering here.  I can't get the smell off my skin.  I've used up most of a bar of soap and am contemplating a baking-soda poultice.  However, I received this from Southdowner this morning (reprinted by permission of the author):

Fell asleep last night (this morning actually) with laptop on knees, comfortably ensconced among 4 bull terriers on sofa, rest of dogs in dog beds on floor; wake suddenly with start as I'm first hot & damp, then cold & soaked. Nameless bull (I have my suspicions derived from forensic assessment of projectile flow) has vomited copious watery fluid over me, sofa, floor, blanket covering sofa, and of course my laptop. Dogs all want to stay on sofa as warm and comfortable. All are sleepy (bar one who pretends to be sleepy) and they look at me with little squinty eyes. I am NOT sleepy any more. I am now nasty dragon lady who is squelching as she hoicks, cajoles and expedites their exit from room. I take all nine dogs in garden (4am, cold, dark) – they are not impressed. Neither am I. They know, and I know they know – how do I know they know? Because it's very quiet out here, no gallivanting so beloved by bulls, they say "it's the middle of the night, I was seriously comfy, I NEED my sleep". Such dedicated couch potatoes!

No more vomiting, no evidence of sickness or disease – I suspect that the culprit is now feeling fine and having a hard time restraining themselves from catapulting off the walls – only the dire necessity of not being turned into a steering wheel cover restrains them.‡‡‡ More beady-eyed looks and hunched shoulders – how could you do this to us in the middle of the night? We all troop back in. The dissembler hides in full view; if they truly are healthy and well enough I may just kill them… aaarrrgghh! I mop up, I change, I mop up some more. I avoid eye contact with a kitchen full of dogs who just want to go back to bed except that this cruel evil person is preventing them.

Finally I have a clean floor, clean but slightly damp sofa, pile of washing for the morning. I find splashes on chair legs and wipe away. The smell of regurgitated food begins to fade. I think about reintroducing dogs to sofa… and I see the laptop, dripping with gunge that  Lovecraft must have described at some point. Deep breath. And another… I realise I am breathing stertorously like a bull§ about to charge.

So. It's nearly 3 hours later. By the time I cleared up it was 5.30am, that limbo when you haven't had enough sleep but if you go to bed you won't get to sleep for ages and then the morning will be over by waking up time.§§ I stayed up. I watched my laptop blinking "USB is not recognised/not working/needs removing" signals for an empty port which had only been touched by fumes if that.

The computer seems fine now. The dog(s) seem fine. I won't wake them up to check as they are all sleeping so soundly if the snores are anything to go by. Remind me, why do we have dogs???!!

Indeed.  Or ring bells. 

 * * *

* Peter, muttering to himself, has just taken off two layers of jumpers and gone to sit at the far end of the sitting-room-kitchen space.  The end next to the garden door where there's always a draught, despite curtains and a rolled-up towel against the sill.  At my end the oven's been on to roast a chicken and I'm still crouched over the electric fire turned up HIGH.

** And frequently do, on Sunday mornings.

*** Of the row of bells.  Remember that you can only move one place in a row, and that all methods are based on the bells moving around as the rows are rung, and in all the early methods you bong twice at the front and the back.   So for plain hunt the order of the bells is:  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, then 2, 1, 4, 3, 5, then 2, 4, 1, 5, 3, then 4, 2, 5, 1, 3, then 4, 5, 2, 3, 1, then 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . . and then you turn around and go out to the back again.  Here:  http://www.merrix.eu/BellRinging/methods/plain_hunt_5.htm

The point is that when you're moving down to the front you have to pull in, and make the bell strike a little sooner, and when you're moving out to the back you have to pull harder, to get the bell UP, and to strike a little slower.  Moving your frelling bell around like that is MORE WORK.

† Whereupon Colin, whom I may therefore forgive for other transgressions, firmly took the five away from me.  He's been ringing for fifty years, he can ring anything.  Including Old Eden's bloody-minded five.

†† Like, duh.

††† I decided it wasn't quite cold enough for the hellhounds' new serious winter coats this morning.  But by the time the sun went down^ it was cold enough, however, and SINCE WE'RE SUPPOSED TO HAVE SLEET TOMORROW AND SNOW ON WEDNESDAY I should have lots of dranglefabbing photo opportunities.  ARRRRRRRGH I AM SICK OF THIS WEATHER.  And have I mentioned that hellhounds like to eat snow, which then gives them the runs—?

^ At about half past noon

‡ And anyone who tells me smugly that a dog won't soil its bedding will be instantly killed.  Lots of dogs prefer to lose it, whatever it is, in their bed because they feel safe and comfortable there.

‡‡ Which fortunately did not have Peter's crossword in it, or I might be a divorcee tonight.

‡‡‡ Very nice image.  I have always favoured the hearth-rug threat.  In Hazel's case—who was our show-dog runt-of-the-litter whippet—I said it was going to be a collar.

§ . . . terrier? 

§§ Oh gods.  I know this one so well.  I get most of my reading done around dawn.