neighbours...

This blog post is addressed to the old bat who lives round the corner from me.

Last week you had a go at me for not picking up a tiny bit of dog poo from the gutter, when my bloody greyhound had the shits and I'd run out of plastic bags. I apologised profusely, and asked if you had a plastic bag I could use. You gave me a dirty look instead, and those aren't much use, so I couldn't do anything but walk on.

Today, you see me walking Indigo, and watch me from halfway down the street (in the rain) while I pick up his poop. Yes, see, I pick up after my dog. And then I put the securely tied bag in the nearest bin. Which happens to be a wheelie bin, and not a dog-poo bin, because guess what - there are no fucking dog poo bins. The lady who lives in this house has a dog, she's seen me use her bin before, and she doesn't have a problem. You, old bat, do not need to wait until I'm walking past and shout at me. Would you like me to leave it in the street? Would you? I'd rather put his shit in a poo bin, but there isn't one. Nor do I have a wheelie bin of my own to put it in. Any bin will do at this point. It's a rubbish bin. No-one is going to be eating their dinner out of it. Now fuck off. Before I train Indigo to shit on your doorstep.

La weekender

Fuck you, word count. Fuck you in the ear with a rusty spoon.

I really, really need to clean house before the mothership lands this evening. I want to be outsiiiiide where it's sunny and nice and perfect rowing/sex weather, and instead I'm going to pick up bunny shit and dust.

And the sock is going well; I'm not sure I like it so I'm going to start a different pattern and see which one I prefer; this one is a bit unlovely - I'm not sure the changes in stitch suit the wool (which is wierdly crappy and weirdly great at once)

Craft Excitement

Exams are approaching. That means it's craft time!




Apparently, procrastination can also be constructive. Even if I fail, I will now have a warm head. Which'll be handy for when I move into a cardboard box.

bunny love

I love my bunny. I thought i'd proved this to him spending a whacking chunk of my boat savings on vet bills, but apparently he begrudges the loss of his leg more than I thought. Oh yes. He wants revenge. He needs to know I love him, that I'll do anything for my poor little tripod bunny.

He's playing on my guilt. I can see it in his eyes, he knows I feel terrible for not spotting the lump earlier, for having his leg cut off so he falls over and for laughing when he does.

He's making me clean his bum.

He's got me standing in the bathroom, cradling him and picking caecals out of his fur with my fingernails, then washing his backside with water, carefully sponging around his stitches so it doesn't hurt. While he nibbles on my t-shirt, and I'm thinking, please don't chew my boob, please don't.

I love my bunny.

bunkin

Pete has lost his leg to cancer. He's awake, the operation went fine and all is well. I'll update as and when I know what's happening.

now

i hate it when every little thing becomes an insurmountable task.
I hate not being able to remain calm, that becoming angry makes it worse.

Pete

The bunkin has either an abscess with massive amounts of scar tissue, or a tumor - the former being strange because it appeared so quickly, the second being rare in bunnies as it appears relatively skin-based. If it is a tumor, it's also grown quickly, which may have led to the center necrotizing. As it is, he went to the vet this afternoon (as I only saw it this morning) and had a drain put in; he's now on baytrill with a side order of pinapple juice; I'm going to be syringing baby food into him tomorrow, which he'll love. Almost as much as he loves his buster collar.