Monday, January 09, 2006

Nelly Cries Her Eyes Out

If there is one thing I really don't appreciate it is bad news the minute I get in from a 25 hour stint in Spide City. Yesterday I got back at 4 and Bert wakes up and says to me,

We're a dog down.

What! Which dog? Where's Scruff?

Scruff's OK. He's away out with Hannah and Zoe.

Where's Rosie. What's happened? Is she alright?

Her and Paddy have been away since 8 this morning. Paddy's back about half an hour but there's no sign of Rosie.

What! And you're lying there!
So it's on with the wellies and out to the fields. I'm out roaring ROSIE! ROSIE! I wish I could whistle but I can't so I just plod around the perimeter of the fields shouting out for her every 5 minutes or so. Nothing. I'm imagining her shot or worse. What's worse than being shot? Being half shot lying, dying like a dog (literally) in a ditch. This image is so heart-breaking that I start sobbing. I hear whistling coming from the planting. Bert is out tramping the fields too and whistling (lucky bugger that he can). I'm sobbing and shouting. After half an hour I decide to give it up. It's starting to get dark. I'm hoping that she'll be in the yard when I get back but she's not.

So I wander around the house distraught. I end up on the sofa and I'm crying my eyes out. I never cried this much when Danny (best dog ever) died. Hell I never cried this much when Daddy died. Then this brown thing appears at the door. Doesn't even look ashamed. She's not supposed to be brown. She's supposed to be black and white. But she's brown as mud. Was I pleased? I was. Sort of. It meant I could stop crying.

Bert and Hannah are crap at looking after the scunging devil dogs. It takes me to keep them at home.

It was only when I went out to call Bert home than I properly realised that the poor bloke was poorly. He had man flu. And he still went out dog-hunting. That's how scared of me he is.


Ronni said...

I'm so glad she showed up! I know what it's like to be slogging around, looking for a lost pet, and expecting to find it dead on the road, or something.

Once again, you've made me feel good.

I've been watching Sharon Rocha discussing her daughter's murder on Larry King, who is one of the worst interviewers in the history of television!

I cried.

Mr Bolan said...

You big girl. Oh, hang on...

Still, glad she is home. I remember picking our first pussycat from the road, with his skull half-caved in, him mewing, and driving to the vets where he was put down. Worse, was to be told by the Cat Protection People that as we had let him out before he was six months old (eh? who could keep them in that long?) it was our fault he got killed. Mucho complaining to them, and I never recommend thon place near Newtownards to anyone.

Nelly said...

Pets. Who'd have them? They give a lot of trouble & heart break as well as fun & joy. Pisher McGhee aka Harry de Cat has struck again. He really likes Hannah's bed. How far is it to Newtownards from here? At the moment he's seriously in need of protection.

Beowulf said...

It's about that far *holds arms out*.

Nelly said...

It's ok Beowulf - he's managed to 'worm' his way back into Hannah's good books. He's sitting on her right now watching Shameless with her. Which just about sums him up.