Our dog Tilly is normally very well behaved. The other evening, I couldn’t find her. Eventually, I looked in the last possible place, which was the cloakroom, and let her out. The next morning, when she didn’t greet me as usual. I checked the cloakroom door and couldn’t open it. She had got shut in, scratched the door and rucked up the carpet. Eventually I managed to open it just enough, first to let her out, then me in, and it took me some minutes to persuade the carpet to lie flat enough to open and shut the door freely.
Since then, we’ve propped the door open each night. But because of that one time, the paint has been scratched off the door and marks gouged in the wood. Stupid dog.
My old dog Chester, still much missed, often used to sleep in there. Sometimes, he would lie against the door and refuse to move and you had to push hard, he resisting all the way, until you finally burst in. He used to lie along the wall, with the result that the wallpaper is quite grubby there – I like that wallpaper, which goes really well with the painted Edwardian washbasin which we bought from neighbours who bought a nice Edwardian house and proceeded to take out all the attractive original features and sell them – since we were about to move here, we shrugged and took advantage of it as they were going to do it anyway. I don’t want to redecorate, but I can see the time approaching – it’s coming up to two years since Chester died and marked wallpaper is less and less excusable.
Chester liked the cloakroom because it was cool in summer and there was a constant supply of delicious toilet water. How is it that male dogs love drinking from the toilet? I’ve never known a female to do so, but all dogs, as soon as their legs are long enough, love a refreshing slurp. I’ve never been a very girly girl, and felt left out in girly pursuits, but that sort of thing makes me realise that blokes, of whatever species, are something of a closed book to me too.
I’m playing the organ in church tomorrow. No one has told me the hymns. Pfft. If I’m not given warning of what to play, it’s not my fault if I play a succession of random notes in the wrong rhythm is it.
Blimey, it is tipping down. England in August, huh.