Pushing Them On

We have a problem. It is self induced, but nevertheless disturbing our sleep. It concerns Buster, who is a bully. He is also spoilt (NOT by me) and very greedy. Guess who's the culprit?

The problem is that for some time now he has decided his breakfast time is any time from 5.30am – well, when it pleases him really. Matters are not helped by the fact that yesterday Himself decided to give them their tea at 2pm. Even by my maths, that is a long time until breakfast. But I digress.

When he decides it's time for grub, Bussie jumps on the bed, strides past me, purring purposefully, and waits to see if he gets a reaction. He doesn't, usually, or not a favourable one, so he then stomps over to Himself, and circles the pillow like a looming hangover.

Himself grunts, and turns over. Grunts some more and Bussie waits, with an imperturbable expression. He then crouches by Himself and prods his nose with a paw. If this still doesn't get the desired result, he extends a claw, and rakes the end of Himself's nose.

By now Mollie has woken up and is squeaking with excitement at the idea of BREAKFAST, egging Bussie on.

By this time one of us has usually given in, and stumbled out of bed to go to the kitchen.

Some time ago we decided this was ridiculous and we had to Push Them On, as Himself says. Somehow it all slipped back, so on Saturday I decided Enough was Enough. So we've had three mornings of lying there, crouching under the duvet while Bussie stanks up and down the bed. (Stanking is a Cornish expression. Quite descriptive I think.)

So far we haven't given in, and I am determined not to. Whether Himself will last the course is another matter.

Falling in Love

This wasn’t written to keep you in suspense – honest. But time was against us.

The good news is that Bussie is in love. The bad news is that he’s still not eating.

The object of his affections is, I would say, in her mid thirties with a very expensive looking wedding ring, (platinum at a guess), long dark hair, chocolate brown eyes and hands that stroke and beguile. She’s called Helena.

Green coated Helena met us at the vet last night, called, ‘Buster’, and instantly he was angelic submission. Never seen anything like it. It turns out he’s been in a bad fight, is covered in scabs (at least they’ve healed) and has an abscess and a temperature. No wonder he’s off his food.

Of course I was full of remorse that we should have taken him up earlier (particularly given Helena’s wonderful ministrations), but she said that it probably hadn’t made any difference. (I think she was being kind.)

So Bussie had a long term antibiotic jab, another one to reduce pain and anti-inflammatory and she hoped he’d start eating soon. If not, to bring him back on Saturday morning. (I’m going away for the weekend which could be tricky.) I left the vet nearly £50 worse off but glad that he was on the mend.

We got back and – hoorah! – Bussie had a very small bowlful of food. Since then he hasn’t had anything, not even water, so I’m worrying again, but at least he came in and slept on our bed last night (we’re keeping him in till lunchtime as advised by the lovely H, to his silent fury).

We got home then had to feed animals and change before being Taken Out for dinner at the Greenbank, a hotel at the bottom of the hill with a restaurant overlooking the harbour. The reason? A dear friend’s father is staying there and wanted to take his two daughters and us out to celebrate his birthday, which was last night. Well – how could we refuse? (And why would we?)

We were a bit late as Himself had to have several Large Ones before going out, ‘because I’ve been worried about Bussie, Pop.’ As if I hadn’t been. Just before we left, he split his wine all over the paper and over his new trousers. It looked as if he’d wet himself. I snorted unsympathetically while Himself mopped himself up and walked, rather stiff legged, down to the hotel.

We had a wonderful evening (trying not to look at the eye watering prices on the menu) and, fortified by excellent company, wonderful food, and the fact that he’d already had half a bottle of wine, Himself didn’t feel the need to overindulge in wine with dinner, but contented himself with a mere two or three glasses and thoroughly enjoyed himself. There was a moment, towards the end of the evening, when he started singing The Sheik of Arabi, which is always a dangerous moment, but Mel and I quickly shut him up and all was well.

So we didn’t get back till about 10.30 feeling utterly spoilt. It’s a long time since I’ve had such great food (I had beetroot and goats cheese souffle) and the wine was out of this world.

What was even better was that the animals hadn’t fallen out, and Bussie spent part of the night on our bed again. I just have to get him to eat now.

If we win the lottery I’ll take him down to the Greenbank and tempt him there. But I might have a Plan B just in case.