A clever person once said that the best way to housetrain a puppy was to get yourself a nice, firm, rolled-up newspaper.  Then every time the puppy messes in the house, you smack yourself very hard on the head with the newspaper whilst repeating ‘I must watch my puppy, I must watch my puppy’.

So listen, we’ve taken on a very new puppy, one that probably shouldn’t even have left her Mum yet.  Ergo, we’ve resigned ourselves to living in a sea of piddle for a good few weeks yet (’Jeez’, says Hubby, ‘I might have to invest in some scuba gear’).  We realised pretty quickly that there was no point in scooping her up every time she attempted to pee and rushing her outside.  The reasons being:

1. It’s raining
2. By the time she’s ‘assumed the position’ she’s already started and therefore you’re just allowing her to leave a big trail of wee between wherever she decides to go and the back door.
3. She’s already peed by the time you lift her up, and even though she always manages to do another one outside, she’ll still always have another ‘in the barrel’ ready to go again when you get back in.

So we decided to adopt an ‘on the hour every hour’ routine, where if she pees in the house it’s just cleaned up (ignore the bad, praise the good), and then she’s taken out regularly (as well as after meals, and before bed etc) just to get her used to doing her business in the right place, where she gets tons of praise and cuddles for doing the do.  Eventually she’ll get the picture.

This morning, then, saw me trying to clean up two puddles of pee, plus a long line of piddly footprints leading away from said wee, whilst supervising #2 making pancakes for breakfast, washing Bert’s bed (yep, she peed on that too), and trying not to step on her.  Then, bringing his plate back from the table, #2 fell over a strategically placed laundry basket (oops, my bad) and fell sprawling to the floor, whacking his arm on a box of Stella (also left strategically on the floor, this time by Hubby) and smashing his plate.  Bert fled trembling into the utility room, everybody else suddenly found somewhere else they really had to be, and I was left trying to pick up shards of china, whilst simultaneously pushing the puppy away with one leg, clearing up the mess left from #2’s culinary efforts and mopping up her earlier emissions.  While all this was going on, she sauntered to the middle of the kitchen and calmly left a fresh puddle for me to clear up.

Right, said I, enough.  Well, actually what I said was ‘OY!  WHERE THE F*CK ARE YOU LOT?!  I’M NOT THE ONLY PERSON IN THIS HOUSE RESPONSIBLE FOR CLEARING F*CKING TABLES, WIPING COOKERS, CLEARING UP DOG PEE AND SUPERVISING THIS BLOODY PUPPY Y’KNOW!!!!’, (what a lady) but you get the gist.

A family conference ensued, where we decided that, for the time being, we need to allocate a ‘toilet corner’ which we can cover in newspaper and encourage her to use.  At the moment, as soon as she wees, it’s instantly cleared up and she’s not getting the message that there’s a particular thing she should be doing, it’s just a ‘pee and go’ kind of thing.  So ‘toilet corner’ has been created in the corner just between the kitchen and the lounge, and we’ll be putting her on there on a regular basis, then when she gets used to it, we can start to move it closer to the door.  In the meantime, I think I need a lie down.

So today’s FP is dedicated to that most wondrously lazy and patchily hirsute of individuals, the Bertmeister, aka Burpy, the Biffer, Biff Sniff, Sir Biffington Sniffington, Bishous, Mumma’s bubby (sorry), the fella, the geezer, yer wan, that f*cking dog!!!, and any number of other stupid nicknames depending on how loved up we’re all feeling and whether he’s nicked one of your trainers and you really, really need to go out in a hurry.

‘Tis a glorious thing for a greyhound to be retired to a comfy sofa rather than being, er, retired in a completely different, somewhat euphemistic way.  I’m a realist, and let’s face it, people aren’t exactly queuing up to adopt a retired greyhound, and there’s a serious glut, which is a shame as they’re rather good company.  And for a greyhound quite as utterly, totally, completely, thoroughly, uselessly rubbish at racing as Bert was to have lived to have seen his fourth birthday is practically a miracle.  Thanks, Jen.

Once, when we were at the races, I remember #1 asking someone how long greyhounds live.  ‘Hmmm’, came the answer, ‘depends how good they are’.

So here’s wishing the gangling, clumsy great duffer a happy fourth birthday.  He might be shite at racing, but he always seems to get to the sofa first.  Bless.

So okay, I know at this exact precise moment it’s still Thursday but I’ll be FAR too busy tomorrow to post anything so you’ll have to indulge me.  What’s that you say?  Why will I be busy?  Well, dear reader, I’m having a PARTAY!!

You see, people, in Ireland you definitely have to go with the flow a bit.  A party can often start for the most inane reason.  For example, last Friday we popped over to D Next Door’s sister A’s house to pick up #2 who was round there playing with little K, and ended up staggering home some time after 2am, sans child (he stayed over having lost the hope of ever dragging us home somewhere around 11) and last night turned into a bit of  a sesh round D’s (Hubby popped in for a chat, cracked a beer with D, then other people popped in and suddenly there was a houseful and, well, it’d be rude to leave), so we ended up staying until 11pm (headaches all round again this morning).  And this, apparently, is only the beginning of the summer barbecue season.  Now you know why the kids here have such bloody long school holidays, it’s because the parents are planning on being so hungover they can’t possibly do the school run for three whole months. 

Anyhoo, so we thought we’d get in there quick and invite all the lovely people we’ve met here for a little gathering: D and the kids, obviously, C and his lovely wife C (the ones with the boat) and D’s sister A and her Hubby J and their kids, and T & L who live next door to A & J, T who fixes the cars and his wife G, and probably a few other stragglers from GAA (that’s Gaelic Football to you foreigners, heh).

We got the usual burgers and sausages, etc, and I thought I’d marinate some chicken in different stuff like honey, mustard and soy, and Thai green curry paste, etc and do kebabs with various dips, plus those minced lamb kebab things and then just round it all off with an enormous plate of pistachio brownies and ice lollies for the kids.  Drinks-wise, I thought as well as wine and beer, we could whizz up a big blender-full of Frozen Strawberry Daquiris just to get things going, plus various non-alcoholic fruity smoothies for the children (no, don’t worry, I won’t mix them up and get the kids drunk).

So Hubby and I went up north again today (the £ being terrifically bad against the Euro, it’s cheaper for us to do our shopping there) and came back with a car load of food, beer, wine, champers and….er…jelly.  Yes, jelly.  Well I’ve always wanted to make jelly shots and… oh dear, this could be another late one.

So blimey.  Can you believe it’s a whole year since we agreed to ‘foster’ Bert while Jen found him a home?  I can’t quite remember life before Bert, but I’m sure it was altogether less funny and considerably tidier, but with much more room on the sofa.  Ahhh, tell you what, though, I have fond memories of that time: picking up this enormous furry, muddy lump from an outdoor pen at the kennels: ‘flippin’ heck’, me Ma said at the time, ‘are you sure that’s a greyhound?  It looks more like a camel’.  And then, having been warned by Jen that he was a bit nervous, swiftly deciding that he wasn’t really that nervous when we’d been licked and kissed until all of us were dripping with smelly slobber.  Into the bath he went, then, taking the combined efforts of me, me Ma and #1 to heave him in there, where he stood looking very bored as we scrubbed and showered enough fluffy sludge off him to construct a whole new dog.  I seem to remember feeling a bit like a giant teddy bear after he proceeded to have a jolly good shake, covering us all in wet fluff, which stuck like glue.  I also remember blow-drying him after which time he was so gorgeously soft and fluffy and smelt so good that we all had to have a quick hug, slobber or no.

Before Bert, one could always guarantee one’s shoes were where they’d been left, and not tidied up into a little nest somewhere nice and quiet, and of course solo visits to the loo, in fact, solo visits anywhere in the house are a thing of the past.  Still, we’re all used to walking with a waggy, furry growth attached to our legs now and can even negotiate the stairs without too many problems.  Visitors still quake at the sight of a large furry torpedo heading in their direction, but we’ve become adept at heading him off before they’re on the receiving end of two enormous paws straight to the chest and a thorough wash to the kisser.

Okay, so he’s a bit gangly, very moth-eaten, slightly bald, has horrendous breath that smells of dead people, sleeps in weird positions with his wedding vegetables (what’s left of them) on show and stands in front of the Wii at the worst possible times (’Muuuum, Bert ruined our game AGAIN!!!!’), but he’s our moth-eaten, bald, useless, stinky, annoying Bert and strangely, we’re rather fond of him. 

In his favour, he’s also disgustingly cute (he currently has his head on my lap, looking lovingly into my eyes whilst simultaneously nudging my elbow - it’s tea time), incredibly cuddly (even now he’s lost his outside-dog kennel fluff) and so darn stubborn (sitting down and refusing to budge when it begins to rain half way along the boat road, and walking in concentric circles when he has to have his coat on), that frankly you can’t help but love him as much as he loves you.

Happy anniversary Bert.  Oh, and thanks must obviously go to Jen, for realising that English Towers was definitely the place where he’d be able to spend many more years spreading himself out on the sofa, getting everyone tangled up in the lead because he’s decided to walk backwards, hurling himself down the stairs when we come in, turning round three times before falling off the bed whilst trying to get comfy, watching TV with his head on my shoulder and having to breathe in his evil fumes, and pulling my arm out of its socket while he tries to chase rabbits.  You can tear up the foster papers girl.  He’s staying.

Okay, ’specially for Jennifer, then.  Here’s a Bert photo to entertain you until Monday.

Ah, the greyhound: companion of kings… majestic, affectionate, adorable, a bit lanky, a bit more stupid, a teeny bit bald and motheaten and those ears?  Well, they’re plainly ridiculous.  He did sit still without his lead on for about two minutes though.  Result.

So this is how we woke up this morning.  Hubby’s back soon.  Bert’s going to have to stop thinking he’s human any minute now…..

So there’s not much progress to report on the toothbrushing front.

No, Bert….you see, you’re supposed to… oh never mind.

So cleaning, then.  What a totally pointless activity.  I’ve been considering this fact recently as Hubby is away (miss you, darlin xxx) and in his absence, I have inherited the role of ‘only person who ever bothers cleaning the telly’.  Hubby was always top man for this job as, well, he’s the only person who really gives a shite.  And it’s his telly, and it’s bloody enormous and new-fangled and techno-fabulous (Imagine a huge great black patio door on a stick with lights all round it), and nobody else really dares touch it.  He’s a bit like Bert with his bone.  If you even look like you might be headed towards it, a low rumbling grumble will develop somewhere in the direction of Hubby, and said person will quickly divert and pretend they were just wandering over to look at the sheep out the window.  The trouble is, the bloody thing attracts dust like you wouldn’t believe.  Hubby has a special chamois leather thing, the sole purpose of which is to keep said new-fangled techno whatnot sparkling clean.  I, on the other hand, sprayed a bit of Pledge on it (not the screen, I’m not THAT stupid) and pushed it around a bit.  And now the dust has congealed into long streaks of sludge and looks ten times worse.  Bloody cleanliness.  Bloody telly.

And then, while we were out the other day, Bert decided he’d add to my woes and knock over one of my vases of birthday flowers.  They were in the bay window behind the sofa and looked very pretty.  When we came home they were at an odd angle and Bert was strangely not very happy to see us.  Instead of silly jumps and mad wags and attempts at face licking, he scurried into the kitchen in that well known greyhound manner known as ‘better scarper, I’m in the shit’.  The water from the flowers, being a week or more old, was nicely green and smelly and, mixed delicately with all the dust bunnies behind the sofa, had created an interesting pool of grey-green sludge.  Well, that was the final straw.  Shamed by my second pool of sludge in less than a week, I decided there and then to do some cleaning.  So basically, then, I’m completely knackered.  I’ve hoovered, mopped, dusted, cleaned out the fridge, chipped all the crusty toothpaste off the taps and even moved the office around so that my desk is by the window, giving me a fine view of the cows on the hill that goes down to the lough.  I should point out here that my kitchen was spotless already - I can’t work in a yicky kitchen - and my beautiful, wonderful, gorgeous, shiny oven cost us so much money that I feel duty bound to remove even the teeniest speck of ick in case Hubby decides I don’t need it and takes it back to Harvey Norman.

Here’s my newly cleaned and repositioned desk.  And now it’s not covered in CDs, newspapers, magazines, cookery books, phone bills, electricity bills, receipts, lottery tickets (3!  I might well already be a millionaire) and various pages of my book (how’s that proofreading coming on, J?) you can see it’s made of wood.  Who’d have thought it, eh?

So here’s one for all Bert’s greyhound laydees: a full frontal, no-holds-barred gynae shot.  Woohoo!  Honestly, he’s such a strumpet.