“You know I only friended you on Facebook so I could stay in contact when I was away because you never check Viber on your phone Mother?” was one of the first things 17 year old daughter Lulu, blurted out when she arrived home after her U.K. trip on Monday.
“Please, please don’t unfriend me,” I pleaded. "I told all my friends!"
“Just don’t do anything stupid to embarrass her!” my friend Emmsie had warned when I boasted on my timeline that I was now joyously ‘friends’ with said daughter.
“Mother,” continued Lulu, “You put a up a stupid Facebook post about me and then you put a photo of me as a baby on your timeline AND tagged me.
Three strikes and you’re out, sunshine. That’s my policy.”
So I’ve been VERY careful for the last two days and so far so good.
The “three strikes” comment rang a bell with me this afternoon when I called in to the Vet on my way home to pick up Celine (the Fox Terrier’s) menopause medication.
(We’d noticed she’d been having mood swings, suffered mild incontinence and was flinging off the bed sheets at night begging for us to turn the air conditioner up and wondered what was wrong with her for months.)
I’ve often considered popping one of her tablets myself just to see what might happen but as my pal Kyles says, it would probably just enable me with the ability to scratch the back of my ear with my right foot and stimulate a penchant for dried pig’s ears.
But... I dogress.
Our vet, Dr P., is a brilliant, medical professional who possesses a genuine tender love for all creatures great and small… but he scares me a bit; I think it’s his authoritative South African accent.
“So Pinky,” he nabbed me as I was standing at the counter, “I see you cancelled Pablo’s de-sexing operation a second time.”
It was true. I’d made a second appointment during the September school holidays and consequently cancelled it because of my mother.
“You do know some dogs die under anaesthetic?” commented Mum over the phone, adding bleakly, “As long as you’re prepared for the worst.”
It took me about five seconds to decide I just couldn’t take the risk of losing my baby Chihuahua and chickened out on the deknackering once again.
“These little dogs develop prostate cancer at about five or six years old if you don’t get them fixed up. Do you want to risk that?” niggled Dr P.
Now… even though I’m MENSA material (Mildly Effective at Narrating Stupid Anecdotes) I accept the fact that someone else may know better than me... especially someone with a doctorate in science and about thirty years of experience; so I guess I’ll have to book Pablo in for a third and final time in the Christmas holidays.That way I can be home to cosset him with chicken soup, aspirin and ice packs for his misplaced goolies.
So I’ve been VERY careful for the last two days and so far so good.
The “three strikes” comment rang a bell with me this afternoon when I called in to the Vet on my way home to pick up Celine (the Fox Terrier’s) menopause medication.
(We’d noticed she’d been having mood swings, suffered mild incontinence and was flinging off the bed sheets at night begging for us to turn the air conditioner up and wondered what was wrong with her for months.)
I’ve often considered popping one of her tablets myself just to see what might happen but as my pal Kyles says, it would probably just enable me with the ability to scratch the back of my ear with my right foot and stimulate a penchant for dried pig’s ears.
But... I dogress.
Our vet, Dr P., is a brilliant, medical professional who possesses a genuine tender love for all creatures great and small… but he scares me a bit; I think it’s his authoritative South African accent.
“So Pinky,” he nabbed me as I was standing at the counter, “I see you cancelled Pablo’s de-sexing operation a second time.”
It was true. I’d made a second appointment during the September school holidays and consequently cancelled it because of my mother.
“You do know some dogs die under anaesthetic?” commented Mum over the phone, adding bleakly, “As long as you’re prepared for the worst.”
It took me about five seconds to decide I just couldn’t take the risk of losing my baby Chihuahua and chickened out on the deknackering once again.
“These little dogs develop prostate cancer at about five or six years old if you don’t get them fixed up. Do you want to risk that?” niggled Dr P.
Now… even though I’m MENSA material (Mildly Effective at Narrating Stupid Anecdotes) I accept the fact that someone else may know better than me... especially someone with a doctorate in science and about thirty years of experience; so I guess I’ll have to book Pablo in for a third and final time in the Christmas holidays.That way I can be home to cosset him with chicken soup, aspirin and ice packs for his misplaced goolies.
Mrs Menopause and her future eunuch.
