Daphne Ledward, Garden Planner, Gardener, Author and Broadcaster

Muffin's Blog

Mr Muffin on family problems    by Mr Muffin

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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