This morning Terry and I were abroad early this morning, rubbing and polishing the house and the dreaded dog egg collection. Dog eggs and rain, a combination that even the best pooper scooper struggles with. We woke to terrible dark overbearing skies; clouds dashing like Machiavellian ghouls morphing and re morphing with tumultuous zeal. We took the dogs out to settle them so they sit calmly with us in the van whilst the open house takes place.The heavens opened soon after we got back home. As soon as we cleaned a floor one or other of the dogs would tramp through again, and what ensued was like an old Benny Hill scenario with Terry and I scuttling behind two very excited dogs, rags in hand polishing the floors behind them. We were just finalising the house ready to give the estate agent the keys for the open day when I heard Terry curse. He called the dogs names and even before he told me, I knew. They’d climbed out of the bay window which we had open to air the front room.
We handed the keys to the estate agent, barely listening to what she was telling us; we were both and had been both running terrible scenarios through our heads about our mutts. Terry rang the police for the second time in as many months to report them missing. There had been a report of them in an area about 2 miles away but on a very busy road. As Terry sped, yes sped to the area I set up a Facebook alert in a couple of community pages. However much social media is slated, when used well and for good, it is a marvellous tool. We began getting reports of sightings, all leading to Browndown, a very large area of designated beauty that is both beautiful but dark, wet and bordering a once notorious estate. Our hearts sunk. I rang the police again, no update. I rang the dog warden and left the details, we stopped in garages and left details. We circled and circled our town and all sighting stopped after Browndown. The time of the open house had been and gone and we hadn’t even noticed. Eventually we headed for home, both quiet and neither of us talking. I cooked ablated breakfast for us at 1pm and when we finished we took a hand set each and started calling vets. And still no news. Finally a Facbooker suggested The Ark, a RSPCA rescue centre. I rang them as Terry was talking to yet another vets practice, both giving out the same descriptions and information, almost synchronously when in my ear I hear the words of the receptionist being shouted across a room “what colour were the two Staffies that were bought in earlier”? My heart literally leaped as I shouted to Terry “I think they’ve found them”. He ended his call and was trying to talk over me whilst I listened joyfully to hear it confirmed that our dogs had been found. I strained to hear what I had to bring with me; Terry was literally pushing me out the door to collect them and I was crying with joy causing the receptionist to cry too.
We arrived at The Ark and as if our bond was indelibly written over us the team beamed through a room of people and said “Ah, you’ll be here for the Staffies”. Which indeed we were. It took an age for them to be processed and we learned that they had reached quite a way and further than they’ve ever been before. Someone had managed to corner them and call the dog warden who bought them in. Bodie had abjectly refused to be loaded into a cage and had snapped twice at the handler. I have never seen or heard of that behaviour before. When they were eventually reunited with us they were both pathetical grateful and shell shocked by the cacophony of animal voices. We loaded them into the van and drove them gratefully home. Via the Facebook campaign a lady admits to clipping Bodie on her right side but said that she not fallen and had carried on with Vinnie on the mad escapade. Perhaps that’s why she snapped at the warden. They both slept following a sausage feast which was in no way a reward but definitely a ‘glad to have you home’ kind of treat. I rang to let my parents know as they had kindly been circling in their car too.
After we’d rescued our mattress from the garage and cleaned up the belated breakfast dishes we decided to put our feet up and have a well deserved nap. Whilst we languorously chewed the cud and flicked through the channels we both expressed some concern that we hadn’t heard from the agents. Perhaps nobody liked the house. We both began ridiculous soliloquies about what might have put the buyers off. Perhaps that bit of bumpy mastic by the door? Maybe they didn’t like the minimalist kitchen or the workshop is too big? On the subject of the kitchen, I could become a bore. We have truly designed a totally ergonomic kitchen that works for both lefties and righties and requires little bending down or stretching up but plenty of rotation. Working in there is like taking part in a serendipitous unchoreographed dance routine triangulating between fridge, cooker and sink.
It was not long ager that the phone rang and I saw the agents number flash up. Well the reports were favourable with interest from all 3 parties. The first is awaiting her husbands return from sea next weekend and is returning. The other two are both interested but the agent hadn’t been able to lower the loft ladder so will be coming back for a second viewing whilst we are here. They are wanting to expand into the loft, apparently. We will hear more on Monday. A good start but no offers as yet. We have bought ourselves some lottery tickets and are sitting waiting to see if we have won anything 🙂
The night skies are lit in fantastic neon hued pyrotechnic displays which Terry and I would love to be experiencing. Sadly we are inside with the blinds shut, windows shut and doors closed. Bodie is absolutely freaking out at each and every explosion. She is a picture of abject misery; shaking, drooling and fusing the bed to literally vibrate. She is inconsolable and we are getting slowly drowned in saliva – joy!