Sunday, then. The village smalls: a gang that forms ever larger (it’s kind of like one of those balls of Bert-fluff on my kitchen floor: as it rolls along the skirting board it attracts more all the time) decide to chip in two quid each and hire the astro-turf down by the pub undertakers pundertakers for an hour to play footie.
On returning, we find an alarming sight: blood. Lots and lots of blood. Bert rushes to greet me and he’s covered in it. It drips down both front legs, is splodged across his back, smeared all over his face and runs the whole length of his tail, splattering the walls liberally as he wags. We panic. Checking him over, there’s no obvious signs of injury so I despatch the still-sweaty kids to check the house.
More horror awaits us upstairs. In my bedroom, #2 reports that there is blood all over the carpet and the bed. Worse, the lounge looks like Sweeney Todd’s barbers - blood is splattered across Bert’s bed, the hearth, the floor and - gulp - my lovely sofa. #2, turning all detective, appears with evidence. It seems that in our absence, and feeling a bit bored, Bert has decided to investigate Hubby’s overnight bag - still only half unpacked from the night before. He’s found the wash-bag, tipped it out, eaten the toothbrush (you know he’s got a bit of a thing for toothbrushes), discarded the toothpaste after an exploratory squeeze, and extracted two disposable razors, which he obviously either sniffed or licked. Next he has taken the trainers and arranged them on the bed, all the while bleeding profusely.
With these clues, we go back to our prime suspect, who is sulking in the kitchen so he can’t bleed on anything else, and concentrate on inspecting his mouth. Ah, and there it is - he’s sliced the bottom of his nose with the razor and that’s dripping onto everything else. I make a quick exploratory of the mouth - there’s a couple of nicks, but frankly, unless he’s bleeding to death, I’d rather avoid being in there for too long. I can just picture the scene earlier as he licks his paw and finds it covered in blood, so he licks again and there’s more blood! Turning around, he sniffs his tail to see if it’s bleeding and - yes! It is! How strange - wherever I sniff seems to be bleeding…. This obviously continued until practically his whole body - and the entire house - were liberally sprinkled.
Drastic measures are called for. We wallop a bit of cotton wool on the offending cut, then whack a great big bit of plaster across his nose to keep it from dripping on anything else. Sweeney Todd is not impressed. I phone Jen and ask for her refund department. Apparently it’s closed on Sundays.
