Five signs that my dogs are trying to kill me.

I realise I’m nuts to own two dogs when I have pretty severe ill-health and live in the middle of a busy town. But I’m more than happy to drag myself on my belly to the local park to exercise them, and there’s also the security of two women living in a house that EVERYONE in the town knows has two dogs in it. That said, I’m starting to wonder if my dogs have it in for me. Things have happened. Worrying things. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if my dogs are in fact, cats, wearing dog costumes…

You see it all started when…

– I was cleaning upstairs last week. You see I had a really stunningly gorgeous gothic visitor calling, and wanted everything…just so. Anyway, I was finished and as I walked down the stairs I tripped over one dog, barely caught myself, only to have the other dog walk out in front of my legs. Face met door in a symphony of pain.

Learn the phrase “symphony of pain.” Situations it applies perfectly to, are going to come up a lot in this article.

– Of course there’s also the many, many burns on my arms. No. My dogs aren’t putting out cigarettes on my skin, though I suspect that if they could, they would. But Lulu, the tiny half papillion, half who-the-fuck-knows, has over the past few months found herself a hobby. That hobby involves nudging my arm with her head, WHEN MY HAND IS INSIDE THE LIT LOG BURNER! Insert sizzling noise, Amanda swearing, and a dog sidling off.  This leads over the coming days to repeated symphonies of pain anytime the burn is near anything hot, cold, hard, soft, or canine.

– Then there’s the decking. We have a large, walled in, decked area outside of our backdoor for the dogs. It’s easy to wash down with a garden hose, and keeps them from taking it into their minds to go playing in the nearby traffic (most of the time at least.). Sounds great doesn’t it? It would be but for one thing, well two things really. Winters poop, and Lulu deciding that she’s going to tear Winters poop apart, and spread it liberally across the decking, thus making a disgusting, and in the wet weather that dominates Ireland, slippery death-trap. I know, I’ve landed flat  on my back three times in the past few months. And as I lie there, surrounded by my own personal symphony of pain, I swear I can hear evil sniggering in the background.

– Don’t you love squeaky toys? The way those rubber chickens, and pigs give your beloved pets hours of joy, and happiness as they walk around holding them in their mouths, squeaking them constantly. Until your brains feel like they’ve started to run out of your nose, ears, eyes. But that’s not how they’ve decided to kill me with those rubber menaces. Oh no, a stroke just isn’t evil enough for my pair. No, I believe that they carefully place those toys, right where I’ll step on them, while I carry a cup of scalding hot lesbian tea to the living room.

Imagine the scene, Amanda, humming happily to herself carrying in one hand a piping hot cup of fruit tea, in the other four delicious biscuits. She steps through the door into the living room. The two dogs watch on with bated breath as the enemies foot lands right on the over-sized rubber, squeaky chicken. The chicken squashes, and slides on itself, letting out one sharp, ear-shattering squeak as Amanda’s leg flies out from underneath her, sending her plunging to the floor. Amanda finds herself on the floor, a goose-egg sized lump on the back of her head from the door-frame, scalds on her arms, and a symphony orchestra tuning up for a gutsy performance of something by Wagner in the key of ouch in her back.

– Finally we come to last Sunday, visitors had arrived, and the dogs were duly put out the back so that they would be unable to drown our guests in dog spit. Unfortunately the back gate was open. Lulu escaped, and made a mad dash in to traffic. Several mad dashes actually, and being a good puppy-mommy guess who was right behind her…the little bitch tried to get me to follow her under a truck.

It was when I got her back home, put her in her cage and sat down that I first came to the realisation that my dogs want me dead. After all why else would all of this keep happening to me?

You at the back, put your hand down, my clumsiness is not up for discussion today.