Dear Rt Hon We are concerned about Sir Humphrey’s operation. The Boys say to tell him that an aesthetic (as Ronnie calls it) is no sweat and you get spoiled rotten when you wake up. In fact, don’t be so sure that it will be 5pm before you’re out of your misery. That’s what the vets told me with mine and they were almost begging me to pick them up at 1.00pm.”Lively, aren’t they?!” they said. I know I was adamant at the beginning that I wouldn’t let them sleep with me but I’m so glad that I weakened. Obviously it’s a bit different for you a) because Sir Humph is a tad larger and b) because hubby Finbar was there first. But at the risk of sounding incredibly soppy – but then I know you will understand – it is the most heart-warming experience to sleep and wake up with them. We have had some problems negotiating territory but I insist that they don’t sleep on the pillows. ‘Fine,’ they think, ‘she can have the pillows, we’ll have the rest of the bed, fair dues.’ When I settle down to sleep, I slide them to the bottom of the bed but then wake up to find them curled round me, especially since the nights are getting colder. I go to the loo and come back to find they have crept into my warm spot, so I slide them to the bottom of the bed, then wake up to find them...and so on. They never wake me up but I love to know they are there. Then comes morning. Ronnie’s tail starts wagging before anything else moves, then he opens an eye, checks whether or not I am awake enough to put my glasses on before I go to the loo (a sure sign that I’m getting up for real this time.) By the time I get back, he is sitting up waiting for me. George may have rolled over, but little more. George, as ever, is pristine when he wakes up, just like people in the films. Ronnie is not. His normal, scruffball, daytime appearance would be described as sleek compared with the way he looks first thing – fur on end and in every direction all over his body, eyes obscured by tangled fringe, and fur on one side of his face flattened where he has been lying on it.
By the time I’m dressed and go to get the leads, Ronnie is awake, stretching and standing, waiting for his halter to be put on. George is on his back with legs in the air, making it impossible to negotiate the halter and lead, especially as he seems to have become boneless overnight. “OK, babies, come on” I cry cheerfully when I have finally got it on. George’s look speaks volume, mostly phrases ending in ‘...off!’ I usually have to lift him off the bed and stand him upright, whereupon his legs go limp and he flops to the floor. Ronnie is raring to go, waiting at the door. George eventually stands and takes an age to stretch. “In your own time then, George, but it’ll soon be lunchtime, at this rate.” We get outside the door, Ronnie is downstairs like a flash and George...decides to have a rest on the top step. I have been known to drag him down the stairs, a bit like Christopher Robin and Pooh. As soon as the fresh air hits, he is OK and the day begins. I know the books all say I shouldn’t have them on the bed but I love feeling that I’m sharing every minute of their day and we don’t have the terrible separation at night-time. JP 20.10.2000
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AuthorElderly Cornish woman of substance. Archives
April 2018
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