flossing the cat

The dog has bad breath. And by bad I mean gruesome.  For example, if you were to rate smells on a scale of one to ten, where one represented good, bacterial vaginosis would be one, and Daisy’s breath would be ten. “Any chance you can take Daisy to the vet?” I say to my husband. "Her breath is rank.“ The dog has heard us talking about her.   She is wagging her tail. This is because she has no self-esteem. Zero. You could literally say anything:  Let’s put Daisy on a one-way flight to Korea.  OR: Daisy smells like she's been sampling Mike Pence's pump-action yoghurt rifle.  OR:  Daisy is a bigger twat than Michael Flatley. And she would STILL wag her tail.  My husband takes her to the vet. “Could you take a look at her teeth?” he says to the veterinary nurse. “My wife thinks her breath smells.”   “I can’t see anything”, says the nurse, taking a look. “Is your wife, maybe, being a bit neurotic?” I am a...

It's been a while since I blogged. The reason, dear readers, is this:  DAISY. (No relation of Kiss lead singer Gene Simmons, in spite of the tongue) Yes folks. A couple of months ago, we acquired a dog. A two-year-old boxer called Daisy, whose role was to shake our family out of its iPad-induced inertia, and get us out and about. Like the von Trapp family. But with poo bags. But what we hadn’t quite accounted for was the sheer magnitude of Daisy’s walking habit.     The fact of the matter is that Daisy likes walking.   Daisy like walking more than Lord Sewel likes to wear orange bras and leather jackets whilst snorting coke off the chest of a prostitute. Daisy likes walking more than Gwyneth Paltrow likes to give her nether beard a good old steam clean. Daisy likes walking even more than she likes the smell of asshole, which, my friends, is saying something. All of which means I now spend seven hours a week walking Daisy, when I could be blogging,...

A contagious strain of hypochondria is sweeping through our house, thwarting all attempts at physical activity. The ten-year-old points to a cluster of tiny spots on her forearm and informs me she is allergic to sunlight. Her eyes shimmer with the kind of longing I recognize from my own teenage flirtation with exotic maladies. “I   don’t have ANY allergies”, says the five-year-old, developing a pronounced limp as she approaches us. “But the back of my knee hurts a lot.” The five-year-old has acquired a range of issues that affect her mobility.  The back of her knee is a total bastard, but there is also an itch under the nail of her big toe, and a surface scratch on her calf, which reminds her of the vulnerability of human flesh. “Such a drama queen”, says the ten-year-old. The ten-year-old has a short memory. Last year, she was THIS close to putting “crutches” on her wish list for Father Christmas. Also, those who don’t have to walk anywhere, i.e. amputees, paraplegic...