“SADIE! OFF!” is something I seem to spend the majority of my days screaming at the moment. And, to be fair, I might as well be pissing on an old sponge for all the good it does.
I’ve spent six years effectively living away from home – including 3 at Uni, 2 living on my own and working 2 jobs and 1 living, working and studying an MA in London – so moving back home to live with my Mum, 2 kid siblings and a massive dog, however temporary, wasn’t the easiest of changes to settle in to (don’t get me wrong, I’m eternally grateful to my Mother and can never fully repay her for the favour she’s currently doing me. She’s pretty amazing)! But, at a time when minimal stress is of the essence, it’s the dog that’s become the most impossible to accept. This is the story of Sadie the big, bad, fluffy bitch…:
So, one day my Mum gets an idea in her head – “I’m buying a dog. There’s one I’ve always wanted. A Pyrenean Mountain Dog” – she excitedly squeaks down the phone at me as I’m sat outside the ominous London tower block, freezing my not-so-tiny bottom off, after a 10 hour shift at work. Now, there wasn’t a moment that went by where I didn’t think this was a good idea. My Mum has always loved dogs and after the year she had previous to this, somewhat extravagant, purchase I thought she deserved it. And after many, many pennies spent and an extra clause in her tenancy agreement, the dog arrived.
Now, I don’t know if any of you know anything about Pyreneans, but they’re incredibly stubborn, intelligent dogs that only do what they want, when they want, get restless/bored easily and are – to their credit – very good with children. The last statement I have no problem with. Many times I’ve witnessed, to my horror, my kid brother and sister trying to ride the dog like a horse or pull her tail and she’s just sat there and taken it. Not even growled. Amazing, if you ask me. And, The many times I’ve witnessed this I’ve felt incredibly sorry for the dog that the kids put her through all this rubbish. If I was that dog, I would have gone for them by now! It’s the other baggage I have the issues with.
When I lived away in London and would come home only on the occasional weekend to visit, the dog’s stubborn and restless ways wouldn’t bother me so much. I just kept my stuff behind a closed door, kept my back against the wall and shouted when I felt she’d over stepped the mark. I didn’t particularly like the dog, I’ll be honest, but what the hell – she was like a screaming baby I could give back to the exhausted Mother whenever I’d had enough! Obviously, this changed as soon as I moved back and the screaming baby became like MY screaming baby.
Even now I’m sat in my armchair, trying to think of good things to say about the dog and I can just see her in the opposite room, jumping up at stuff, knocking stuff over and trying to eat my new pet rats (fair one, I guess, they are tiny little animals she’s never seen before). But she’s just come back from a long walk – shouldn’t she be tired out? Please? No? Bollocks.
I know, right now, she’s just acting like any dog would – but this is the final straw in a long line of destructive and irritating behaviour…
A few days ago my Mum popped out to run some errands for no more than half an hour. The kids had just run on their merry way to school, Jeremy Kyle had just started (yes, my Maternity Leave does consist of a lot of daytime TV) and it was just me and the dog. For half an hour. Not a problem, right? Hahaha. I wish.
In that half an hour the dog managed to cause as much chaos as Stalin did for the Soviet people over his pretty long reign of terror.
Firstly, I make myself a coffee and grab myself a banana – a little morning tradition that has become one of the highlights of my day – and I come back in to find that she’s up on my Mum’s sewing table, chewing confidently on a roll of expensive Christmas ribbon. Whilst I meticulously clear this up and put it away in it’s rightful place, she moves into the Living Room – where my morning delights are lovingly sat waiting for me in front of a bit of JK – and starts drinking half the eagerly awaiting coffee and steals the banana.
A sharp intake of breath and a steady count to ten and I managed to stop myself going as purple with rage as the girl who turns into a Blueberry in Willy Wonka. “That’s fine”, I exhale through gritted teeth, “I wasn’t that tired after a night full of being kicked in the ribs endlessly by a rapidly growing baby, anyway, and there’s last night’s pizza in the fridge”. So, off I hobble (hey, pregnancy is uncomfortable!) to get a slice of cold Dominos pizza. Brilliant! A bloody good excuse to gorge, at least. Well, yeah, the dog thought so, too. As a sneak, as quietly as a pregnant cripple can, out of the kitchen with a slice of meaty pizza hanging out my hungry and sleep-deprived face, the dog – never missing even an ant fart at a sleazy London nightclub – just can’t stop herself. Bounding over and forgetting she’s twice my bastard size, she jumps up onto my shoulders and tries to slobber all over my breakfast. Correction, my second breakfast. Again.
I could deal with all this drama if A) it didn’t all culminate in her running into the conservatory, taking an object of large sentimental or monitory value, taking it into the garden and ripping it to shreds as a final “BUGGER YOU!” to the shouting, beatroot red, flesh-bag, stopping her from enjoying her destruction-filled morning or B) this didn’t happen EVERY SINGLE SODDING MORNING FOR THE LAST 2 MONTHS.
It’s safe to say she’s an intelligent dog who’s personality has come straight from observing the kids’ behaviour and adopting it as her own. I’m now surrounded by a house of creatures who confidently think, continuously, “you’ve told me off, but you’re not Mum so I’ll do it anyway and cause you an enurism in later life. You know, just because I can”. Yeah, thanks, dog (!)
Long story short, does anyone want to purchase a lovely, caring, energetic and fun-filled MASSIVE DOG? I won’t tell my Mum if you won’t…