Flour Babies.
On Wednesday, I got home for a brief window between an appointment with my dad and meeting Glyn at The Sun to set up equipment for Mostly to find my flat like this:
That's right: it was that age-old 'dog got into the flour' situation.
Except the scene was a little more complicated than this; not only had the dog got into the flour, he'd trampled it with similar success into the sofa, his bed and the front room carpet, before returning to the kitchen and somwow shutting the door behind him, locking himself in. When I put the key in the front door, I could hear him moaning, and when I released him from his baking-based prison he was panting and stressed and needed a good long hug to calm down again.
There was no point in getting angry as by that stage it would never read what I was telling him off about, and ultimately he'd grown so wound up he just needed attention to bring him back from anxiety. It was just frustrating that I'd been gone just long enough for the carnage to occur and for him to have potentially have been worried; it was also frustrating that I'd now have to clean up the mess.
To be fair, I'd looked at the flour tin that lived on the unit under the kitchen window a number of times over the past few weeks and thought to myself, "I really should move that", but I didn't and the rest is history. By leaving it there I'd made myself complicit; I may as well have left a trail of dog treats leading up to it.
It's not that the dog's particularly naughty - he really isn't - but like most pets, he opportunistic. Today was little different, when I got in from taking my recycling bin to find the soup that my wife had made for lunch all over the kitchen floor while a soup-stained dog came up to greet me licking his chops. I'd dropped the ball for just a few moments and he metaphorically leapt on it and refused to hand it back. I've learnt my lesson: I'll never leave the house again.
That's right: it was that age-old 'dog got into the flour' situation.
Except the scene was a little more complicated than this; not only had the dog got into the flour, he'd trampled it with similar success into the sofa, his bed and the front room carpet, before returning to the kitchen and somwow shutting the door behind him, locking himself in. When I put the key in the front door, I could hear him moaning, and when I released him from his baking-based prison he was panting and stressed and needed a good long hug to calm down again.
There was no point in getting angry as by that stage it would never read what I was telling him off about, and ultimately he'd grown so wound up he just needed attention to bring him back from anxiety. It was just frustrating that I'd been gone just long enough for the carnage to occur and for him to have potentially have been worried; it was also frustrating that I'd now have to clean up the mess.
To be fair, I'd looked at the flour tin that lived on the unit under the kitchen window a number of times over the past few weeks and thought to myself, "I really should move that", but I didn't and the rest is history. By leaving it there I'd made myself complicit; I may as well have left a trail of dog treats leading up to it.
It's not that the dog's particularly naughty - he really isn't - but like most pets, he opportunistic. Today was little different, when I got in from taking my recycling bin to find the soup that my wife had made for lunch all over the kitchen floor while a soup-stained dog came up to greet me licking his chops. I'd dropped the ball for just a few moments and he metaphorically leapt on it and refused to hand it back. I've learnt my lesson: I'll never leave the house again.
