I Love My Dog and my Dog Loves Me

I have just fed Nutty his dinner of lightly poached organic chicken (from M and S, I pray it is not halal - fifty percent of lamb is now halal in the UK, so under the cosh of Muslims have we become).

Talking of beastly halal, listen to this. At Christmas I met up with an old flatmate who I hadn't seen for over twenty years and we hit it off straight away, it was just like old times. We were chalet girls together in Crans Montana and had a wonderful time. We were both too lazy to ski and spent all day (after finishing our very cursory domestic duties) in the local patisserie, gorging on cakes and endless creamy cappuchinos. Result was we both staggered back to Blighty having put on a stone and bursting out of our cords. She married an old Etonian Welsh sheepfarmer and disappeared to a place called Mould in North Wales and I never saw her again. Neither of us were great at staying in touch, besides she disapproved of my decidely non-Etonian fiance (a good natured but socially insecure Geordie). But it was lovely, none the less, to reconnect with her and her lovely husband.

Now I have nothing against farming, but when her hitherto lovely husband said with a cold shrill laugh that he sold off his old ewes (knackered presumably after enduring endless births and having their lambs stripped away from them, again and again) to the halal abbatoir "they pay us really well", haw haw, " so why bloody not!" I inwardly shuddered.

My pal had insisted Boyfriend on a Short Fuse and I stay with them on the halal farm in Mould but I knew I never would. I mean, where is his loyalty to his stock? I guess I am very bourgeois, but where is the common decency it it? How desperate can they be for money that they sell these old girls off to some wretched abbatoir where they do not even get stunned before having their throats cut?

Poor old Teflon-dad is completely gutted because he has to close one of his factories in Surrey (which his father opened in the 1930's) because it has been losing two million pounds a year. But he has kept the place open for years, solely out of loyalty to his hard-working workforce who have stuck with him through thick and thin. Many other bosses would, and have, relocated to China or wherever the running costs are cheaper, but he refused to do this.

I am so proud to have him as a father, just imagine having my pal's husband as a rello? Thank God for great mercies, is all I can say.

I prayed to Francis of Assisi and Archangel Ariel, the patron saint of animals last week, and I must report that Nutty has been doing very well ever since. Part of me still holds out for a spectacular remission, or just for his mouth tumour to shrink a bit or not get any bigger. As it is, he is in fine fettle, eating like a trouper, taking his medicines and being his usual loving, sweet-natured, stoic self. We are so lucky to have this extra time with him to spoil him and show him our love.

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Boyfriend On a Short Fuse Is In A Saintly Mood

Felt tired and run down today. I’ve felt quite well under the circs, but we haven’t had heating for nearly 2 weeks and it remains absolutely freezing inside and out.

I haven’t slept very well the last 2 nights which hasn’t helped. Funny to think that only 7 weeks ago I was happy in my ignorance, fretting over small things, not aware that the cruel bomb that my beloved dog has inoperable cancer was about to be detonated. Certainly the past seven weeks have been greyer and gloomier, coloured by this devastating news.

But our lives and minds change shape to deal with the news and life goes on. I no longer cry every day, only as I’m going to sleep.

Spent all morning on dreary personal admin, searching for relevant car documents so we can secure our all necessary Kensington and Chelsea car parking permit. These things are worth their weight in gold and I have witnessed many tearful interactions with desperate K and C inhabitants, begging the harridan faced creatures who man the `car park shop’ for their permit. If for some reason you are not on the database you need to provide an arcane list of documents including a firearms certificate.

Oh, imagine living in the 60’s, and being able to park where you wanted, imagine how much less personal admin there must have been. We can only dream.

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse was blowing a gasket this morning. It has transpired that I may have shredded the car insurance document (I am not admitting to this mind), cue terrible rages. I quickly slipped him his Valium and peace was restored.

I called a dear old pal, R, who I haven’t seen for ages since she has been in India fighting her ghastly-sounding money-grabbing rellos. I meant to call her about Nutty but have felt so flattened I just hadn’t got round to it. I called and she was only round the corner from the dreaded Car Parking Shoppe where she lives, so we met in Wholefoods for a coffee.

To cut a long story short, the three of us (that’s her, me and Boyfriend on a Short Fuse) have decided to spent half the year in sunnier climes and half the year in London. I voted for Hawaii, Boyfriend on a Short Fuse for New Zealand and she is keen on Goa.

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse at his most saintly, fetching water and coffees for us. All my girlfriends think he is wonderful. He is definitely in a better mood these days, the Valium is really working - or maybe the Prozac is kicking in at last.