I have no idea how it happened, I was probably drugged, but we have a puppy in the house. Apparently she is going to live with us for the next ninety-nine dog years, which is quite a commitment. I was a little concerned about that as the only commitments I generally make are those concerning events at least a month away, which gives me time to get out of them.
The alternative scenario is that the puppy, which technically belongs my daughter Katy, a co-owner of this site (she is the one who held us at gun point when we agreed to this farce) will leave us when said daughter moves into her own place. As that is about as likely as Jimmy Savile being voted in as the president of UNICEF, it looks like it’s going to be here for some time.
Katy heard on her pet problem sensor…I think it’s an iPhone app that informs her of any dog throughout the world that needs help…that some bastard had tied up a couple of puppies to a fence near Caine Road with wire. So cruelly was this done that one of the puppies suffered a broken leg. Why is it you never see this kind of thing being perpetrated when you are walking by with a baseball bat in your hand?
Predictably, Katy was onto the case in seconds and onto the ferry in minutes and was giving us phone reports from the SPCA within half an hour. My darling wife approved the acquisition while I was tied up and gagged on the sofa. In no time, Katy was back home with a puppy.
It’s some time since we lived with a puppy. Our other dog Ruby, now 10, was the last one. Discovered in a Causeway Bay pet shop, Ruby the Cocker Spaniel apparently secured her tenure as our dog by licking my wife’s hand in her cage (the puppy’s, not my wife’s). This was considered to be “a sign” that she was “the one”, much in the way that the next Dalai Lama reveals himself to Buddhist scholars every 60 years or so.
Anyway, the business of choosing a name was next up for discussion. After discarding such possibilities as Mistress of the Universe, Beyonce, Wardrobe Malfunction, HRH the Duchess of Cornwall, Shit Machine and Mel B, my daughter settled for Lunar. It was Chinese New Year after all. When I explained to Katy that it should be Luna (Roman goddess of the moon and also a character from Harry Potter) rather than Lunar (relating to the moon), I was dismissed as a pedantic nuisance.
So the new puppy is named Lunar. It isn’t amusing and it doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, but it is a kind of homage to the biggest Chinese festival and perhaps part of the love and attention she receives will somehow find its way back to help control the phases of the moon.
All this is getting a bit sentimental, I know, but with the addition of another female to the household, making it a six to one ratio, I won’t be overly surprised if I start menstruating any day now. Luna has lived with us for only a week and we are already more attached than we thought possible. Apart from Katy, obviously. Lunar sleeps on her new red bed, follows everyone everywhere, and is spoilt well beyond any sane degree. More alarmingly, the bloke who owns the DB pet shop can be seen rubbing his hands every time we walk into his shop to buy more puppy stuff. Again.
Although displaying a willingness to learn, there are, admittedly, some tasks Lunar is finding surprisingly difficult. At the age of six weeks, she still cannot make the coffee or operate the clothes washer and the other day, while we were changing my guitar strings together, I asked her to hand me a pair of pliers but she brought me a kitchen mat. There are also some other simple tasks Lunar seems to be having trouble with, such as vacuuming the carpet, changing channels on the TV and clearing up her own poop.
Still, I suppose we should give her a couple more weeks to get a grip.