Monster Madness

Things he likes...socks, feet, clothes pegs, piddling, runners, the sweeping brush, whaling and whining like a Banshee, lying in the sun, piddling everywhere OTHER than on requisite scattered newspaper, leaving squishy smelly quelque chose under the kitchen table, dried up pigs ears, the radio, the dishwasher, the belt from The Middle’s dressing gown, chewing rugs, chewing the kitchen chairs, dandelions, daisies, chewing (did I say that already?), piddling (did I say that already?), licking my toes, stones, dust. Yes, his name is Monster, the new addition/nuisance to the household. Why, oh why in the name of all that’s good and holy, did I agree to it? The kids had us plagued so we acquiesced. Presently eau de wet dog wafts up from the floor where he assumes his position, throwin out the zzzzs on top of my feet. An old t-shirt of mine is now his blankie. Bowlby’s psychology attachment theory is certainly true for dogs, cause this little monster won’t leave my side. I keep standing on him, hitting him on the head with the dishwasher door, forgetting he is there. He never forgets though, whines when I leave his side. Now there's one for Dragons Den, puppy soothers. The Middle is great with him, The Youngest gets upset when he disturbs her beauty sleep and The Small Man will rub his belly in between Euro  matches. The house has gone to rack and ruin with our four legged adoptee. It’s all that I have been warned, like having a baby in the house again. I was more nervous bringing the dog home than I was leaving the Coombe in Dublin nearly 13 years ago with our Small Man. I didn’t have a dog as a young wan growing up, there was no space. Thus my canine schema is nil, nada, I haven’t the foggiest. I do recollect the dogs being a tad looper on our road, they wouldn’t know what a leash looked like, don’t mind a pooper scooper. Footballs lobbed into gardens of cranky old dears with cantankerous dogs were dinner. Tennis balls during games of Rounders were made short work of when the mutts got hold of them. There was forever a chorus of mothers roarin at the kids to mind the dog shite on the green area supposedly allocated for children to play in. 
I scoffed and poo-pooed (did I mention deposits of soft brown nuggets) at one of the friends in Thame when she mentioned puppy school for her dog. I threw my head back and laughed heartily...Ah Jaysus, yer not serious! Now I see the merits of outsourcing same, especially if you’re sure of  your breed of dog. But for our bundle of joy its heritage is questionable. A doggy Who Do You Think You Are would have its work well cut out on our fella. Surprise! It’s a half terrier half donkey. Now, there is allegedly a look of a Spaniel to Monster, so I’ve been told by those more up to speed on canine physiology. He'll be a challenge for the tofts at Crufts this year.  He's our little Monster, and we're mad about him.