Saskia and Eric

What can I say, the boy’s a fool, always has been, always will be.


But, third morning in a row I get served cornflakes for breakfast, no milk, no sugar, I know somethings gotta change. I mean, I like people food, show me a dog that doesn’t and I’ll show you a sad motherF******, but dude, I need meat, dog biscuits, all the good stuff, served in a clean bowl and Eric, wake up call, Bro, 12.30 is not breakfast time.

I’m lying on the couch, looking around, while he sleeps off another Black Ops all nighter, clothes everywhere, pizza boxes in teethering mountains, and yeah, I’ve already checked them out for left over slices, does that make me a bad dog?
On the table there are bits of computers he’s going to fix, right, opposable thumbs are just wasted on some people and books, big, big piles of books.

I’ve got a basket here somewhere, last time I saw it he was using it for dirty laundry, which was nice, for a bit, but man, it got rank and I know rank, I’m a dog, so I upped my place in the food chain and moved on up to the couch, which is the only good thing of her leaving, well, that and the constant supply of take away food containers and his relaxed attitude to washing up. He calls it plate licking, I call it helping out.

But, it’s time to face facts, Eric is not a lone wolf, he is not doing this solitude thing well and much as I like this whole pets on furniture regime and a distinct absence of baths, the cornflake thing has gotta stop.
It’s time I got him a new mate, time to get a grip, time Eric, to get to the Supermarket, the dog park and for dogs’ sake, time Eric, little dude, time to change that t-shirt and make with the laundry programme.

When she was here, paw on heart, we didn’t get on. Too much
“bad dog, off the sofa”
“bad dog, off the bed”
“bad dog, in the bath”

You can the pattern there, but, the place was clean, my bowls were clean, Eric was clean and walk times were regular.
So, I’m prepared to sacrifice the pizza, the chow mein, my end of the sofa and the low level recreational cushion chewing . I’m trying to give that up, but its been emotional here, we’re both feeling it. He plays the guitar, I chew the cushion, coping strategies man, coping strategies.

I need to get him out there, out in the world, I kick hard, right onto his butt, there’s a groan, a mumble, a general movement. Lets back it up with some sharp barks and then onto face licking.
Dog breath, does it every time.

He’s up, we’re good to go and lets face it, I need to go, really need to go.

Out the door, catch sight of myself in the mirror, do the puppy eyes, yeah, I still got it.

Eric’s lost a bit of weight in the last couple of months, needs a hair cut, shave, he’s working that vunerable soul look.
Ladies, here we come
We are a killer combination, fragile and fabulous.
We can’t miss.
Clean bowls, regular meals, happy days, here we come.

About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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