How to... Sleep

This column is inspired by a recent trauma suffered by my Mum. How important a good night’s sleep is, and how many things conspire against it!

The most efficient way to ensure years of fatigue is to procreate. To date my toddler niece has woken up her mother by ramming a finger forcefully up her nostril; pulling up one eyelid and shouting “Helloooo!”, and being sick on her face.

Almost as good as small children are pets. It’s vile when the cat brings in a mouse and crunches it on the duvet, so we keep the the door shut and listen to him yowl and scrat the landing carpet instead. Then every morning (the exact time varies, but it's always too early) the dogs decide they’ve had enough of each other’s company and need to come and see Mummy urgently. Molly took all the paint off the kitchen door before we started tying her to a table leg, while Bessie employs shrill and frantic barking.

Insomnia can be a horrible, persistent disorder and admitting to it brings a raft of well-meant but utterly useless advice - surprisingly enough, it has already occurred to most insomniacs to try warm baths, hot milky drinks and flipping "Kalms”!

Anyway - back to Mum’s tale of woe. One night she was awoken by a sinister “Ssk... Ssk... Ssk... Thump... Thump... Thump...” noise in her bedroom, “like something being dragged out of a pond”. Opening one eye, she was petrified to see a white, blurry face looming at her in the darkness. Drenched in sweat and heart beating wildly, she scrambled for her glasses and snapped the light on... to find my niece’s 30” tall, mechanically-powered “Hello Kitty” doll had somehow activated itself and walked across the bedroom, getting jammed on the side of the bed.

My favourite part of the story is that in her indignation she dumped said toy on the spare room windowsill, whereupon a neighbour later complained that its leering visage gave him a nasty fright as he was walking back from the pub.

Insomnia is never a problem for our cat.

How to...

When Molly was very small I took her to a puppy class where a smart lady of a certain age was complaining vociferously that her cocker spaniel wouldn't "do his business” on walks, only in the garden, meaning she had to dry his wet feet twice. As the adoring owner of two dogs and a cat, if that's the worst mess she has to put up with, she's lucky!

Cats are mercifully fragrance-free, but inclined to bring in between 1 and 3 rodent victims a day, plus most of the Welland Valley on their paws. Surely I can't be the only cat owner who has to shake the bottom sheet out of the window mid-week to get rid of the crunchy bits?

Talking of the cat - who is a loving brother/ grovelling little git - he regularly brings Molly a freshly-killed mouse to suck. Unfortunately, we often don't realise immediately, then Molly hides it down the sofa cushions for later. It is upsetting to be searching for the TV remote and make contact with something squashy, damp and furry.

Face licking is another delight. One of my friends - yes, I mean you, Mrs P - stoutly maintains that dogs have “healing mouths” when Molly decides to provide an unsolicited face-wash. (To be fair, she hasn't seen her eat as much sheep poo as I have.) I also spend most of my toddler niece’s visits shouting “Molly. Will you stop licking that baby!” and brandishing a damp flannel.

Perhaps most disgustingly to non-pet-people, Molly is a closet alcoholic, and furtively dips her tongue in my wine glass given half a chance. I’m ashamed to say that I tend to think “Ah well, alcohol's antiseptic" and sip on unperturbed.

I consider myself winning, though, because none of my pets have pulled the same trick that Mr Jeebs, my parents’ much-loved CKC spaniel, pulled on Dad one night.

Suffice it to say that he never puts his shoes on nowadays without shaking them out first.










Molly considers herself an essential pre-wash stage for plates.


Footnote:
In case anyone thinks I'm exaggerating, yesterday we had the following conversation about our second dog:

Oh god! Bessie's face is covered in brown stuff - is it poo or just earth?

I don't know. Sniff her.

Moors Explorer

Yesterday we went on the North Yorkshire Moors Railway. It was not a stress-free experience, although for once Molly behaved absolutely impeccably.

Tooth-grinding first occurred in Whitby station car park, which aside from costing an eye watering £8 for the day, required you to input your entire car registration number. This demand, combined with a very small QWERTY keyboard at hip height, didn't suit the railway's typical customer, a 76 year old struggling to see in their Variofocals. I stood in mute agony for a full 10 minutes waiting for my turn.

The first 20 minutes of the journey was brilliant, then a large, garrulous Greek-Cockney family sat down opposite and by us, and the old-school magic was somewhat lost as father and son loudly debated the cost of CNC milling machines. These were replaced at Goathland by a younger family, and here the fun really began. The parents, clad in that Gore-texy kind of stuff that wicks away moisture at such a rate you can easily dehydrate, didn't speak to each other once. Dad concentrated on getting Quavers into his 3 year old, like a council worker feeding Christmas trees into a chipper, while a baby grizzled away on Mum's lap. I know babies whinge, but it's the most irritating sound when you're not a parent yourself. I flung myself and Molly out of the train like a champagne cork when we finally got there.

Of Pickering I will say little, except that it is quite a challenge to while away 2 hours there in the rain. The churchyard was full of Suzys, which freaked me out, and the High Street full of snarling aggressive dogs which had a similar effect on poor Molly.

The return journey was 6-seater carriages, making choice of neighbour even more important. The people we ended up with sucked in their breath over their teeth when we asked if they were dog-friendly, before relenting when they saw how small she was. They were okay, but the man in particular was not backward in coming forwards with his opinion on dogs in general, and I was relieved that Molly fell daintily asleep on my lap for the entirety of the journey. She took revenge on behalf of canine-kind by stealthily farting throughout.

Well behaved pets welcome

We have brought Molly on holiday! She has had a tremendous time, romping on the beach, playing in the sea, meeting lots of other dogs...

She repaid us by barking madly every 15-30 minutes through the night, seemingly every time a seagull five miles away flapped its wings.

6 nights to go. I am NOT in a good mood.

15 hours

10.30pm - prepare for eight blissful hours in the arms of Morpheus.

10.55pm: woken by dog barking its head off. Go downstairs. Try to relax dog with kindly words. Return to bed.

11pm: dog starts barking again, if anything more frantic and desperate than before. Go downstairs. See if dog wants wee. Dog barks shrilly outside. Fear lynching from neighbours. Grab dog and haul indoors. Put dog to bed in very firm tones.

11.10pm - 11.59: listen to husband's signature Nocturnal Symphony with variations. Consider homicide, or moving into spare bed.

12.01: move into spare bed. Sleep fitfully. Too cold. Keep lying on knot of dressing gown cord.

6.39am: face of spouse swims into view. He appears to be dressed. Find out his car won't start and he needs to be at Market Harborough station for 07.10 train.

7.20am Arrive home, call RAC. Shower. Unload dishwasher. Break dip bowl. Sweep up shards before dog eats them.

9.00: RAC man says will have to take car to Dealership. Have only driven car once before, but no option. 18 miles in torrential rain with every f***ing cattle grid underwater.

9.50: Counsel RAC man over layabout brother in law.

10.10: Return home to overexcited and full-of-beans dog. Wonder if it is too early for a nap, or gin.

12.40: Demented squawking is overheard. Swallow flying around bedroom. Have a bit of a thing about birds.

12.42: Attempts to rescue swallow (while maintaining stance of hostage in bank robbery) result in it getting stuck in the sash window.

12.45: Traipse around village looking for someone to help. Can't find anyone suitable.

12.55: Gird loins, think logically, free bird. Run screaming from room feeling like Tippi Hedren.

1.10: Swallow still hasn't found open window. Curse same. Ring father for sympathy.

2.00: Bedroom seems quiet, if a bit soiled. Do some work and await next disaster.

Resolutions update, 13 weeks in

I will stop using “I’m only taking the dog for a walk” as an excuse to go out looking like Worzel Gummidge’s scruffier cousin.

Erm, I kept it up for two weeks them reverted to my Compo-like ways. Best not mentioned. Success: 1/10

I will not get hopelessly drunk in the kitchen as a Pavlovian reaction to hearing “Sometime Around Midnight” by Airborne Toxic Event.

Achieved on two occasions! Success: 10/10

I will come up with a semi-convincing answer to the question “So, what have you been doing with yourself all day?”

Realised there's absolutely no point doing this, because however comprehensive a list is supplied the husband interrogator will scan it with a slight sneer that suggests they could have done it in half the time AND gone for a 10 mile jog, even if you know they haven't operated an iron since 2007. Success: 5/10

I will NEVER again use Cambridge park-and-ride.

Achieved. By not having gone to Cambridge. 10/10.

I will not buy any more body lotion until my current stockpile of nine unopened tubs is used up.

Achieved, but a struggle. Superfluous day cream was bought instead. Success: 8/10.

I will not go through my parents’ fridge, sighing heavily as I discard bottles of ketchup that expired in 2008 and miscellaneous furry cheeses. In fact, I will stop commenting on other people’s hygiene full stop, as it is surely only a matter of time before somebody punches me on the nose.

Achieved, by the hand of fate. Poor old Mum broke her ankle and by the time I went to visit, my aunt had cleared out the fridge. It was quite a shock to find it full of edible food.

I also maintained a fixed smile when someone was banging on about there being no need to use washing powder because some weird hippy eco-pellets that "aerate the water" do the job just as well. (These have been proven by Which? Magazine to be no better than nothing. But my smile did not slip.)

Success: 9/10. One point deducted for judging her inside.

Real resolutions

I will stop using “I’m only taking the dog for a walk” as an excuse to go out looking like Worzel Gummidge's scruffier cousin.

I will not get hopelessly drunk in the kitchen as a Pavlovian reaction to hearing “Sometime Around Midnight” by Airborne Toxic Event.

I will come up with a semi-convincing answer to the question “So, what have you been doing with yourself all day?”

I will NEVER again use Cambridge park-and-ride.

I will not buy any more body lotion until my current stockpile of nine unopened tubs is used up.

I will not go through my parents’ fridge, sighing heavily as I discard bottles of ketchup that expired in 2008 and miscellaneous furry cheeses. In fact, I will stop commenting on other people's hygiene full stop, as it is surely only a matter of time before somebody punches me on the nose.





NB This list has been accused of being under-aspirational. I can only say that that person obviously doesn't realise how addicted I am to scruffiness, fridge-tutting and the purchase of unnecessary toiletries.

November

In November life in the Southwold household became dominated by one word: MUD. A combination of heavy rainfall and clay soils means that there is now literally nowhere to walk the dog that she won’t come back looking, but alas not smelling, choc-dipped. A waterproof doggy trouser suit had been suggested by a well-meaning acquaintance, but when showed to Molly her response was profane in the extreme, including the phrase “I wouldn't wear f***ing tartan if you paid me in sardines, Mother”. Work on a disposable, cling film-type alternative was halted when Molly began to lose consciousness, although Simon maintains that she was just holding her breath to scare us.

July

In July three became four when Molly joined our little family. If you have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Molly, imagine a black feather boa with five sets of teeth and a bad attitude. Simon came home from work that day with a squeaky toy cow, which was at the time bigger than the dog. After five months of vigorous play, Cow is now missing two feet, one ear and part of her udder, but has gained an astronomical bacteria count.

February

February was the month in which an anaesthetised Timmy-cat was separated from his testicles. Unlike Harvey before him, this was performed by a qualified veterinarian and not an ill-judged leap over a rusty barbed-wire fence. To everyone’s relief Timmy didn't show the area undue attention and thus avoided the ignominy of a Buster collar.

It's still raining cats and dogs

As of Wednesday, Chez Southwold contains a 10 week old Schnoodle puppy as well as a (just about still a) kitten. The puppy is oblivious to the kitten. The kitten (twice the size of the puppy) took one look, and ran three quarters of the way upstairs to eye the new addition unhappily through the bannisters. He's only come in to bolt some food since. I haven't yet worked out what this says about cats and dogs.

(NB for sensitive souls: puppy is not allowed upstairs, so kitten gets his usual nighttime fuss and cuddles!)

How to... Choose a pet

I am one of those hair-covered sorts for whom a house is not a home without a cat or three. I react badly to people who claim they don’t like animals, much as if they had told me they didn't enjoy ”Bullseye” or gin. Pets are brilliant, and here is a guide to choosing the right one for you:

Rabbits: there is something innately sinister about the thought of an adult owning rabbits. That said, baby rabbits are the softest thing in the WORLD. If you must purchase, try getting them from a petting zoo where they’ll be used to being handled and you won’t be guilt-tripped into buying Mr Bunny’s Dream Hutch, a pink diamanté water bottle and a pair of Emma Bridgwater feeding bowls, a snip at £314 the lot.

Reptiles/tarantulas: whilst their skins are undeniably great for taking to school for Show & Tell, I personally prefer a pet for whom the best outcome is something more than ”it doesn't bite me”.

Cats: God's way of telling you your furniture is too nice, cats are wonderfully soft, clean and self-sufficient. Unfortunately they are also contract killers who will deposit endless corpses on your pillow. Furthermore, they are shameless thieves of the glass of water you put by your bed in case you wake up thirsty in the night.

Dogs: if you want to own a dog, first consider your response to the following questions:

1) Do you mind if your clothes, home and car stink for the foreseeable future?

2) Can you watch 14 episodes of Blue Peter back-to-back without weeping? The relentless enthusiasm of its presenters will clue you into the mutt mindset, where almost everything is a wonderful new surprise. Oh wow, food! Oh wow, a shed! Oh wow, a pheasant! Oh wow, faeces!

Horses: I wouldn't know, because despite working hard at school and passing all my piano exams, my little sister was the one deemed worthy of a pony. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

The downside of being an animal lover

Tonight I think my cat is dying, so permit me a bit of self-indulgence.

I've known this little boy just about five and a half years - he was my husband's cat - and I really didn't like him to start with. Grumpy, noisy, inclined to brawl - I used to joke that he was the reincarnation of my grandfather, especially when he would come in at 2am making a hell of a racket, ensure that everyone was fully awake and then pass out for nine hours.

But just as I loved Grandad despite his foibles, I came to love our scrappy little Persian. An experiment in breeding that didn’t quite go to plan, he features an underbite worthy of a cartoon bulldog and fur the texture of cotton wool. He is chronically clumsy and famed for his ability to fall off tables when asleep. He will not tolerate being groomed and has to go off to be shaved under anaesthetic once a year, coming back looking like a little grey shammy leather, wobbly on his legs.

And I adore him. His fur is rainclouds over the sea and his little monkey face and black rubber lips - even that damned underbite - render him the sweetest, funniest-looking cat I’ve ever seen. He also has the most human personality of any animal I’ve met. Once, when I intervened in a standoff between him and a border terrier, he accidentally scratched me on the nose and I would swear to this day that he felt guilty - he sat and watched me for half an hour afterwards looking very contrite.

He is only 12 and I am not ready to lose him. I only took him to the vet because he seemed a bit short of breath, and the next thing I knew words like heart failure (at this point, the least worst outcome) and chest tumours were flying around the consulting room and favours were being called in at another branch to get him an X-ray first thing tomorrow.

I am on the sofa next to my boy, drinking him in, watching his little chest rise and fall at what is clearly too fast a speed, and I hope more than I have hoped for anything in a long time that he isn't lost to me just yet.

Are you a cat or a dog person?

Not entirely sure where this originated (http://i.imgur.com/p3JVL.jpg) but it made me laugh.

Just to make it 3 for 3

Friend came round at teatime saying she'd had a nice time at her son's: husband and I simultaneously realised we forgot to feed her cats this morning.

The number of rodent corpses on her carpet indicated they had taken matters into their own hands paws.

Trauma two.

Correction. It was a live mouse, just about. He, and the slipper, have been placed in a nearby hedge.

Trauma

The kitten hid a dead mouse in my slipper, which I then put onto my bare foot.