Operation Little Dog

 I don’t want to write about politics anymore, except that it’s so bonkers, no one will believe it in the future. 

At least 14 parties, now, while we were worrying that we might be prosecuted if we went for a walk with two people. The R rate of parties is now bigger than the virus ever managed. A Prime Minister who condoned or attended them, walking round the offices, popping his head in and saying, “Having a great time lads? Jolly good! Carry on!” Staff going to the Co-op with a suitcase to fill with booze and ‘wine-time Fridays’ in the office.

One party, hosted by a director of communications, the current editor of The Sun, was on the evening before the nation watched the Queen sit alone at her husband’s funeral. 

The Prime Minister has now gone into hiding (again), citing Covid rules that no longer exist. (A member of his family has tested positive). He is waiting for the results of Sue Gray’s enquiry to tell him if he was at a party or not. Do we trust this man to have the nuclear codes if he needs someone else to tell him if he was at a party?

Meanwhile, his mates are briefing the press that Sue Gray is about to find that whatever happened, it wasn’t illegal. So much for independence. 

This morning’s news tells us that Boris is WhatsApping everyone and telling them to delete all incriminating messages under the title of Operation Save Big Dog. What a child!

I am currently being distracted by Operation Little Dog, which I’m sure you are going to find much more wholesome.

It’s not possible to explain how empty a house can be when a dog that has been part of your family for 13 years dies. At every sound; scuffle or scratch, you look to see if you’ve misremembered and a little furry face will appear around the corner, hoping for a walk. But you are caught in a strange situation, where the need to have a dog in the house fights with the thought that your last dog is actually irreplaceable. 

I’ve never tried to call a drug dealer but I imagine you get a similar response that cairn terrier breeders give you.

“How did you get my number?” they hiss into the receiver.

“No. I’m sorry, I don’t have what you are looking for, I’ll give you Someone’s number but don’t tell them I gave it to you.”

In the limbo phase between wanting to get a puppy and not wanting to replace the dog I’m driving myself nuts. 

We went to look at some, thinking that a puppy would choose us. It didn’t happen though. They all looked sad and the Long Suffering Husband looked completely miserable. My son wanted to take then all home and I just wanted to find a breeder that was exactly like the one we got our last dog from. 

While conservatives are busy deleting messages titled big dog, we are looking at little dogs, which is a lovely way to spend your time, even if you can’t make a decision.