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January 2013
Mr Muffin on family
problems
I haven’t been in
touch recently because things haven’t gone too well here, and, frankly,
I’ve been feeling very depressed, but I think now we’re on course for
the spring I might start to feel like my old self again.
First, John’s been
poorly. When he had to go into hospital before Christmas, Daff thought
we’d be better looked after at Fen Bank, and although they looked after
us very well, it made us feel as though we had problem parents who had
their children taken into care - I didn’t want to be part of a
dysfunctional family. I wondered if we would ever go home at all, as
Daff had already downsized us by giving up Tom and Sally-Meg; she said
she couldn’t cope with six dogs and a poorly husband, and felt we would
all be better off if there were fewer of us here. She thought it would
be best if Tom and S-M found new forever homes as they were very noisy
and she was afraid one of the neighbours, who tends to complain about
the least little thing, would make a complaint to the Council - this
would have made us look even more like a problem family. It didn’t
take long for S-M to find a new mum and dad, but Tom is still at Fen
Bank. It’s lovely and peaceful without him; as you know, sometimes he
really did my head in, but he was Faune’s bestest friend ever (she
said), and she was devastated for a week or two. She still hopes that
if John continues to improve, Tom will come back to us, but I think that
would be a very bad idea, as we all fit in so well together now and I
for one, don’t want the boat rocked.
John was in that
dreadful hospital in Boston – Daff said he’d have been better in a
kennel in our vet’s hospital than in there, as at least they would have
made a diagnosis and, hopefully, make him better. As it was,
apparently, he came out much worse then he went in, although I can see
he’s much more himself now. He’s going for a second opinion in Norwich
next month – I wondered if it was that referral place that Bluebell
attended for about 18 months, but I understand it’s for groan-ups
only. I feel sorry for groan-ups, because they never seem to get as
good medical attention as we dogs generally have.
Auntie Cath and Uncle
Daz fetched us home just before Christmas – it was good to be back on my
settee, but Mr Paddy seemed to have forgotten his rightful place
(upstairs, on the landing) while he was away, as he often sits on my
settee now, so I either have to lie on the floor or sit with him. I’ve
no intention of letting him think the settee belongs to him, so I push
him up to one end and use his bottom as a pillow. Unfortunately, this
means Daff has nowhere to sit, but she manages by perching on the edge
of the seat. Mr Paddy goes to bed at nine o’clock, so after that she
can sit where he sat, and I can snuggle up to her. If I lie down the
right way round, she will tickle my head; she tells me the view of me
the other way round isn’t nice at all, but I can’t see it, so why worry?
Daff has decided to
have the downstairs bathroom converted into something called a ‘wet
room’. As I see it, a wet room is like a giant shower, and I really
enjoy a shower. At the moment, I have to use the one in the en-suite
off the main bedroom, and that’s OK, but it would be much easier for me
not to have to go upstairs to freshen up. Daff said she’d made this
decision because she was sick of her doctor saying they’d have to think
about moving if John got any worse. This sends her into a fury, as the
last thing she needs, she says, to cope with is to sell up a house, buy
a new one and pack up all the clutter she’s accumulated over the last
thirty years. Having a wet room would, she said, be much easier if
anyone got really ill, but I think she’s actually done it for us hounds
– all four of us could have a shower together the day before a dog show,
which would save no end of time, and Discit could be scrubbed clean
every time she rolled in fox poo, which is most times she’s been down
the Patch, nauseating creature. The smell nearly makes me sick, so I
dread to think what it does to the groan-ups.
The bad thing is, the
workmen are imminent. They will dig up the floor with a pneumatic
drill to get the drains at the right level; the noise will be dreadful
and Daff will get very bad tempered. A kennel at Fen Bank might even
be preferable to this. We shall see.
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