A lot of you commented on Miss B’s “I Mean Business” noise during the whole WalkingForJesus Man thing. She doesn’t often make that sound. Of course, most people she’s pretty neutral on; she saves her affection and excitement for other dogs.
Odd Trundles is exactly the opposite. Other dogs are okay, he supposes, but what he really likes is the PEOPLES, and he will schnorgle them endlessly and gleefully–
What? What’s schnorgle? Well, it’s the sound a bulldog makes when he’s so excited by everything he’s sniffing that he starts to drool and snuffle it all back up. Odd Trundles is a McSchnorgle on his mother’s side, he informs people, it is a very old and proud name. I am also of the opinion that the McSchnorgles were fierce competitors in the Highland Games. And why, do you ask?
Simple: because of the time Odd tried to eat a toilet seat.
Getting out the door in the mornings during the last school year was a combination of Speed Racer, Ninja Assassin, endurance and agility training, and just sheer goddamn crazy. Thankfully, the Little Prince won’t need to be driven to and picked up from school anymore this year, so I can breathe a sigh of relief.
Anyway, often I wouldn’t have time for more than coffee before I had to hit the road. I tried, once or twice, choking down an energy bar in lieu of brekkie, but that just made me nauseous. I had to wait until I came back home for proper breakfast, then scramble out the door and get my run in. So, feeling pukey while driving or while running was my choice. Most times I picked running, because at least then I could toss my cookies without breaking stride. Vomiting while driving is not a good time.
However, some mornings I was hungry, and had enough time after coffee to get a Larabar in me. That particular morning I finished the last few bites while I was in the master loo (I will spare you the, um, details) but had to get going immediately after, and in a fit of what-the-hell, I didn’t throw the wrapper into the lidded rubbish bin. No, I set it, for some reason, atop the closed loo seat and hustled to get the Prince to school.
It was a nice seat, too. Bamboo. Nickel hardware. One of the first things I bought when we moved into the new chez. Never cold like other seats can be in the middle of winter. *sigh*
The Prince hopped safely out of the car and I was home again before long. I slammed the downstairs door, and immediately knew something was Not Right. For lo, I was not greeted by a wriggling Miss B (I’ve missed you so, I thought you were NEVER coming BACK, you’re here, let’s go do fun things!) or the sound of La Llorona Bulldog wailing from the top of the stairs (I’ve MISSED you, I KNOW you’re home, thought you were NEVER coming back, can’t CLIMB DOWN THESE STAIRS because I am TOPHEAVY *snortwhistle*), as those very things greet me after every sortie forth from Chez Saintcrow, especially trips to the mailbox or front steps. *eyeroll*
Instead, I heard suspicious silence. Not even the scrabble of paws on hardwood.
“Oh Jesus,” I said, and it must have echoed up the stairs, because I began to hear a furious amount of noise interspersed with bulldog screech-weeping, as if there had been another Prisoner of Zenda Trundles moment.
I didn’t crate him, I thought, and hightailed it up the stairs almost on all fours. Because if I hadn’t crated him, and he was into something, and Miss B wasn’t coming to greet me, well…it could only be dire.
I made it to the top of the stairs, almost tripped, banged my shoulder into the wall, and found out two things. One, that the weep-wailing was coming from behind the master bedroom door.
Which was closed.
Which was most emphatically NOT how I had left it.
“Oh, fuck,” I breathed, as the wailing reached new heights. I took off for my bedroom, almost couldn’t get the knob turned in time, banged my forehead a good one on the door, swept it open, and found I’d been right to worry.
…To Be Continued