Ooooh, it's Thursday - the weekend is nearly here, my darlings! Just hang in there. And if it helps, I'm here today to bring the next installment of the FRAIL HUMAN HEART Blogtour, which is making a visit to Teens on Moon Lane, a new book blog that I love.
I'll be doing one of their 5-4-3-2-1 guest posts later on in the year - either August or September - so I'll be sending you back over then, but for now, check out today's snippet because it's the last... tomorrow, I'm pretty sure, we start on the juicy spoilerific deleted scenes (*le gasp!).
Kids don't usually start making pathetic whining and crying noises the second you get them into the car or scrabble with their wee paws on the floor to try to escape. Or basically ignore you for twenty-four hours afterward because they feel so hurt and betrayed that you would leave them in that strange place (even though they've been going to that 'strange place' once every two months for two years).
Left to itself, Finn's hair - much like that of the cocker spaniels from whom he is descended - would literally grow until it brushed the floor. It's silky and gorgeous, but not at all practical for a dog who loves to splash through muggy, twiggy coppices and leap into green, weed-filled ponds. Once it reaches a certain length it not only drives me crazy but him - he'll start getting itchy and scratching and chewing at himself, and has even made himself quite sore on previous occasions.
What's more, grass seeds, those tiny weapons of mass destruction, will work themselves into the long
When grass seeds burrow into your dog's feet it causes them terrible discomfort. They'll often do even worse damage to themselves trying to chew the painful splinter out and then you're off to the vet's for surgery. I can check Finn's feet twice a day for grass seeds, but once his fur reaches a certain length it just becomes impossible to be sure he's seed free, and if I never have to see him whimpering with pain, with blood spurting from between his toes as he seemingly tries to bite one of his own paws off again, it'll be too soon.
I used to do his grooming myself, with the help of a heavy old shaver that belonged to my brother and my father to hold, lift, and turn Finn, and help me get him in and out of the bath. I couldn't do it alone after I had the prolapsed disc in my spine. But now that dad's gone there's no one to help me. So every six to eight weeks, during the spring and summer months, like clockwork, we head to the groomers... and I become Bad Mummy The Betrayer to my dog for a day.
Honestly, wish me good luck. I'll need it to deal with the emotional blackmail alone...