Huge great steaming piles of shit
No, I'm not talking about my writing. That's for you out there to decide, not me. This is less metaphorical and more actual huge great steaming piles of shit. Or to be more precise, wide, thin, steaming puddles of shit, and lumpy lakes of vomit.
A little back-story. The Horse Doctor and I arrived here in deepest darkest Fifeshire a week ago, accompanied by three dogs. The cat stayed behind, for now, and the Horse Doctor returned to Wales last Sunday. The dogs and I are still here.
The dachshund in particular likes it at the farm. There's an endless warren of old steading buildings to wander about, full of all manner of unspeakably foul things to try and eat. Sometime around about Monday, he must have come across something particularly tasty, and not wanting to share it with his friends, at least not just yet, scoffed it all down in one go. I've no idea what it was, but past favourites have included mouldy dead rat, discarded sheep innards, rotten horse food and all manner of herbivorous animal shit. The more horrid the better, as far as the dachshund is concerned.
Only this time he might have gone a little too far.
My parents and I went to Dundee on Tuesday night, to see The Last King of Scotland. It was a great movie, only slightly ruined by the fact that the paper said it started at six, when in fact it started at a quarter to. Arriving at a quarter past, normally just in time to avoid the annoying ads, we came in a few minutes past the start. Still, I don't think we missed anything crucial, and Forest Whittaker gave an astonishing performance as Idi Amin.
Movie over, we wended our half-hour way back home, with the prospect of a late supper slow cooking itself in the Aga, only to be greeted on our return with this:
Help! The dam's burst.
Now this wasn't all of it. Not by a long chalk. This is just the slight pond of liquid and semi-digested dog muesli that was swimming in front of the little space by the Aga where the dogs sometimes like to sleep. There was about twice as much, a veritable Lake Nasser of regurgitant, right in front of the door ready to greet us, and interspersed between, little flat pools of foul-smelling dark brown shit. There was even some hiding under the kitchen table, where it was too dark to see and you ran the risk of putting your feet in it. Yum.
On Wednesday evening I took my parents down to Edinburgh airport, there to start their holidays in style with a night at the Airport Hilton. Little did they realise they'd be spending the next night in another airport hotel, just outside Heathrow. I've still not heard if they've made it to Florida yet.
But I digress. We were talking about real shit, after all, not just having a shitty time. When I returned from Edinburgh and opened the door to the kitchen, it was to be confronted by yet more lakes of unpleasantness to clean up. At least the floor's been washed thoroughly over the last few days.
Throughout all this, the dachshund seemed remarkably chipper. He ate his meals with everyone else, and came for long strolls. But all the while he was hiding a terrible secret. Last night, whilst my little brother and I were bicycling through the woods to the pub, in the snow and impenetrable darkness, he was concocting yet more unpleasantness. So when I got home, exhausted and slightly merry with beer, it was to this thoughtful welcome:
Starting to firm up again
I've cleaned up more than my fair share of dog mess over the years, and I can tell you that the liquid, sloppy stuff is really not nice. At least the floor is linoleum and easy to clean. What the photographs don't do justice to is the unique aroma of upset tum; I'll spare you any more description than that it's something you wouldn't want to smell.
This morning, I was full of trepidation, expecting the worst. But against all the odds, the floor was unblemished. Could this be the start of the recovery? I'm not going out tonight, so maybe I won't have to wade through great steaming piles of shit this time.
What? Me?
A little back-story. The Horse Doctor and I arrived here in deepest darkest Fifeshire a week ago, accompanied by three dogs. The cat stayed behind, for now, and the Horse Doctor returned to Wales last Sunday. The dogs and I are still here.
The dachshund in particular likes it at the farm. There's an endless warren of old steading buildings to wander about, full of all manner of unspeakably foul things to try and eat. Sometime around about Monday, he must have come across something particularly tasty, and not wanting to share it with his friends, at least not just yet, scoffed it all down in one go. I've no idea what it was, but past favourites have included mouldy dead rat, discarded sheep innards, rotten horse food and all manner of herbivorous animal shit. The more horrid the better, as far as the dachshund is concerned.
Only this time he might have gone a little too far.
My parents and I went to Dundee on Tuesday night, to see The Last King of Scotland. It was a great movie, only slightly ruined by the fact that the paper said it started at six, when in fact it started at a quarter to. Arriving at a quarter past, normally just in time to avoid the annoying ads, we came in a few minutes past the start. Still, I don't think we missed anything crucial, and Forest Whittaker gave an astonishing performance as Idi Amin.
Movie over, we wended our half-hour way back home, with the prospect of a late supper slow cooking itself in the Aga, only to be greeted on our return with this:
Help! The dam's burst.Now this wasn't all of it. Not by a long chalk. This is just the slight pond of liquid and semi-digested dog muesli that was swimming in front of the little space by the Aga where the dogs sometimes like to sleep. There was about twice as much, a veritable Lake Nasser of regurgitant, right in front of the door ready to greet us, and interspersed between, little flat pools of foul-smelling dark brown shit. There was even some hiding under the kitchen table, where it was too dark to see and you ran the risk of putting your feet in it. Yum.
On Wednesday evening I took my parents down to Edinburgh airport, there to start their holidays in style with a night at the Airport Hilton. Little did they realise they'd be spending the next night in another airport hotel, just outside Heathrow. I've still not heard if they've made it to Florida yet.
But I digress. We were talking about real shit, after all, not just having a shitty time. When I returned from Edinburgh and opened the door to the kitchen, it was to be confronted by yet more lakes of unpleasantness to clean up. At least the floor's been washed thoroughly over the last few days.
Throughout all this, the dachshund seemed remarkably chipper. He ate his meals with everyone else, and came for long strolls. But all the while he was hiding a terrible secret. Last night, whilst my little brother and I were bicycling through the woods to the pub, in the snow and impenetrable darkness, he was concocting yet more unpleasantness. So when I got home, exhausted and slightly merry with beer, it was to this thoughtful welcome:
Starting to firm up againI've cleaned up more than my fair share of dog mess over the years, and I can tell you that the liquid, sloppy stuff is really not nice. At least the floor is linoleum and easy to clean. What the photographs don't do justice to is the unique aroma of upset tum; I'll spare you any more description than that it's something you wouldn't want to smell.
This morning, I was full of trepidation, expecting the worst. But against all the odds, the floor was unblemished. Could this be the start of the recovery? I'm not going out tonight, so maybe I won't have to wade through great steaming piles of shit this time.
What? Me?
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