In some of my past Father’s Day posts, things have taken a mundane or even scatological turn. In the interests of continuity this post will be no different. Poor LSB- he earns his moniker for a reason.
What the man needs, above all else, is an uninterrupted night’s sleep. I don’t think he’s had one since 2009, and even those were scarce because we used to live beside a Daniel O’Donnell super-fan who would croon plaintive ballads with gusto at all hours. Strange sort of a fella: on occasion he’d decide to play evangelical tapes featuring the Rev Willie McCrea, delivering a full-on hell-fire and brimstone sermon. Ruined many a moment, did that neighbour and his antics.
Speaking of Satan, and other things ruining your sex life, we may have two of his willing servants here, in the form of our cats. Not a moment’s peace to they give us, determinedly scratching at our door and mewing pitifully for their pre-dawn snack. Yes, you read that right: PRE-DAWN. Soft-touch that he is, LSB wends his way downstairs to heave food into a bowl. It’s a wonder he hasn’t broken his neck on the stairs because they are quite narrow, especially for one in a somnambulant state.
‘Just put the bastards out,’ I hear you shout at your screen, but alas, they have honed a myriad of ways to torment. If we DO put the tortoiseshell outside, she has found a way to land at our bedroom window, from where she yowls, sometimes standing on her hind legs for emphasis. Relaxing it is not: looking up to see her demonic little head and wild eyes demanding to be granted access.
The dog, not to be outdone, was also in fine fettle this morning. Hearing LSB up and about, ministering to the demands of cats, she begged to be let out too. I woke up alone in bed, and found both dog and husband in his study on the sofa together. ‘I just gave up on sleep,’ said LSB miserably, staring ahead while robotically stroking her back. ‘She cries if I stop,’ he added.
‘Is that shit on her paw? I said, instead of ‘Happy Father’s Day,’ by way of greeting. Reader, it was. In her excitement at her early excursion she’d ploughed through some of her own excrement. How lovely. Off to the bathroom then, to fill a bucket and don a glove and soak a cloth and tend to soiled paw.
She then had to be walked early, so Himself did that while I went for a run. I did buy him brunch later though, by way of thanks.
Frankly he deserves more than pancakes and bacon for his trouble.
Still, he’s an easy-going sort, and as long as he has an hour in the evening to play ‘Doom, The Dark Ages’ (with his trusty hound on the bean bag beside him,) he seems happy enough. Apparently it’s actually set in hell, so it says a lot that this is where he turns for light relief.
