So, Simon. He was a fairly large dog, a short haired black coat with tan markings – not unlike a Rottweiler, but much less heavily built. He was a very easy, good-natured dog, rarely misbehaved, and this led me to assume that he would never do so.
One Christmas Eve, we were invited to my mother’s house. I went first with the children (this would have been before Ro came along) and the Sage was due to arrive at a certain time … he didn’t. He was very late, over an hour late and I was quite anxious. Finally, he turned up and I didn’t get cross. I asked. Good move, darlings, I recommend.
Because he had arrived home to change and found a touch of chaos in the hall. We had a great big Christmas tree, you see, that reached up to and beyond the top of the banisters in the landing above (does bannisters have one or two n’s? Both seem correct, according to the spellcheck, but one n looks right to me), and I’d put the presents we’d received under it. And evidently, one of them was a sizeable Stilton cheese and Simon had smelt it and thought, jolly good, that must be my prezzie and surely no one will mind if I open it just a few hours early?
He’d scoffed the lot. Apart from what he’d mashed into the rug, which was a fair bit. He’d probably eaten two or three pounds of ripe blue cheese though.
Anyway, the Sage spent an hour washing the rug – which is the nice Turkish number that’s in our present hall, for those of you who’ve visited and then he came on, so it was a good job I hadn’t been cross.
The aftermath … we shut Simon in the back scullery for the next three nights in case of repercussions. But there were none. No squits or sickness, just a happy and healthy dog with a remarkably glossy coat. Stilton. Good for dogs.
Sorry for another Christmas story, BW.