Friday, 22 July 2011

Going to the dogs

Murdoch has been engaging in some pyschological warfare recently.  He has various weapons in his armoury, including 2am vomiting (he sleeps in the other room - how does he manage to wake me up with it??!?!?), a dry cough that culminates in a noise that sounds like a cat coughing up a giant furball and waking me up at 5am (at the weekend!!!!) by standing beside my bed and staring at me.  As you can see, a couple of his ploys involve interrupting my sleep.  I think he knows that I'm shit if I don't get enough shut-eye and he thinks he can use this to his advantage.  Good luck with that my little furry nemesis.

However this week his weapon of choice has changed.  As if it's not stressful enough having a dog named Murdoch at the moment ("Did you name him after Rupert?" "No I effing didn't - who would do that?!") this week he has decided to worry me half to death by deliberately running through vegetation that he is allergic to until his entire head puffs up in hives. I've had to buy jumbo packs of Piriton to keep him from combusting.  I'm serious, his right eye swelled up so much last night he could hardly see out of it and he gets all sad and floppy with it too, wanting to come and sit next to me and lean against my leg.  Poor little guy.  See, my heart is melting - damn dog is playing me for a fool!

Well not tonight he's not - he's got a sleepover at the Dog House while I glam up and go to our corporate summer party this evening.  I had an accidental dress buying incident yesterday lunchtime which I have since managed to justify in my head (it was in the sale etc etc,) and I'm ready for some fun times tonight, although I do need to be a little bit sensible and get on the last train home.  If anyone sees me staggering drunk at Waterloo later tonight, can they gently pop me onto a train and hang a sign saying Farncombe around my neck?

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