Pinky's Book Link

Saturday, October 26, 2019

It's Not About the Size of the Sausage


I happened to be sitting between my principal and the school librarian during a meeting last week as the staff deliberated over the titillating task of refining and pimping a dreary mission statement.

The teachers in the room had just concluded a half hour’s heated discussion on whether the word, ‘promoting’ was more effective than the word, ‘enhancing’ and I had wanted to slash my wrists or at least break for a cup of cyanide-laced tea. 

We’d broken into groups and now it was just the three of us work-shopping an innovative slant on the word, ‘community’.

“My dog’s in season,” I suddenly blurted.

A stunned silence fell over my two companions and after a moment of scrutinising me with a curious look in his eye, my principal cleared his throat and said, “You really just blurt out whatever happens to be on your mind, don’t you, Pinky.”

It’s true.

I hate that quality I have, of ejaculating non-related, often inappropriate comments into conversations, or worst still, opening a conversation with something bizarre and totally random. I’m sure many people assume I have something mentally wrong with me. Or that I’m extremely impetuous and erratic.

I think I put people off sometimes.

But now that I’ve broken the ice and told you that little story, you won’t be shocked or put off when I tell YOU that…

my dog is in season.

Little Polly has become a woman.

As you know, we have three male dogs in situ, however, they have been fixed up except for one, the unfortunately named, Willy.

Willy is an arthritic, sixteen-year-old terrier which makes him 112 in human years and he’s unlikely to bother getting off his hammock to wee, let alone do any vigorous mounting.

Scotto did mention he’d observed Willy has developed a bit of a spring in his step in the past few days, but Polly doesn’t fraternise with him alone anyway. 

Whilst some of you might be thinking, ‘please don’t tell me she’s going to dedicate an entire blog post to her bloody (literally) sausage dog’, you don’t need to worry. 

So, what is this blog post about if it’s not about the sausage?

It’s about growing up.

I think I have finally done it. 

Grown up that is.

Last Sunday, Scotto came in from mowing the lawn and this is what transpired.

“Sweetie,” he panted in an alarmed tone as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Have you noticed your back windscreen is smashed in?”

I put my crossword down and stared at him.

“What are you talking about?”

“Something has gone right through your back windscreen.”

“Something?" I arched a gentle eyebrow. "It was fine last night. You must have hit a rock when you were mowing and it’s flown up and done it,” I replied calmly.

He began to shake his head in denial. “No, it would have made an exploding sound and I would have heard it,” he replied as he fiddled with the industrial ear protection hanging around his shoulders.

I saw him take a gulp.“You were wearing headphones and the mower was so loud the dog was shivering in terror on the couch. Do you really think you would have heard glass shattering over all that?” I said with the serenity of Mother Teresa.

His face crumpled and he shrugged in defeat, then he sat down on the couch to dial our insurance company.

As I continued to non-violently fill in my crossword, I listened to the pitch of his voice on the phone gradually rise in fear as the conversation progressed.

Um... Can you check if the policy is under the car registration number if it’s not there under her name?” he was saying in a mildly panicked voice.

My eyes remained rivetted on the Sunday Mail puzzle page and my breathing was that of a Zen master’s.

It seemed there was no insurance policy.

“Surely I haven’t been driving my new car around the rugged countryside sans insurance of any kind?” I purred like a cat waking from a restful sleep. (Scotto looks after all the stuff like insurance and taxes and boring paperwork you see.)

“Of course not,” Scotto stammered, the back of his neck reddening. He grimaced. “Just let me call another number.”

After a bit of frenetic to-ing and fro-ing (which I listened to with the tranquillity of a Tibetan Monk), the insurance people found the policy, and all was well, except that they couldn’t come and fix the windscreen until Tuesday.

“You can take my car to work, Pinky,” Scotto magnanimously offered.

This meant he’d be driving my car around and that annoyed me because he’d adjust the seat to fit his long legs and it’s taken me eighteen months to finally get it right. 

But did I retort in a shrewish or snappish manner that his car is a horrible povvo car because it doesn’t self-lock and you have to use a key?

Did I whinge that I’d just filled my car up with ludicrously expensive petrol so I would be ready for the week and not have to go to the servo?

Did I become aggressively assertive and yell at Scotto because spiders and snakes now had easy access and in the future weeks I could be attacked by a venomous creature without knowing about the colony of funnel webs breeding on my backseat floor?


No I didn’t, because I have finally grown up. Seems like Polly is not the only one.