This half-term* we hosted a
lodger dog-dger when The Hub offered a dog sitting service for friends who were going away.
I resolved to harden heart, veins and arteries because
we I do not want a dog. Not now. Not yet. So at the beginning of the week, I was all about ignoring the dog.
No, you three go ahead on the walk with Maisie. I have stuff to do here.
Mummy can I give Maisie her breakfast and tea** everyday?
If you mean that dry crap that makes me hurl whenever I smell it, then abso-fucking-lutely. . . Sure, hon.
I did not look at that dog. I did not talk to it. I also made it clear that The Hub would be in charge of dog poo.
Mummy, Maisie just did a big poo in the garden.
Daddy’s in charge of poo, remember?
Dad’s gone to London, remember?
As the week progressed, whenever I looked up, I’d see those eyes, boring into me, telegraphing an urgent message:
By the time I decoded it, I was a goner.
“We are the Borg. Lower your shields and surrender your ships . . . Your culture will adapt to service us. Resistance is futile.”
Who’s a good girl then?!! Who’s my girl?!! C’mon Maisie! Good girl!! Good girl! Walkies!***