“I’m sorry,” said mum.

Then I made Mum lunch, and when were leaving to go to the osteopath. I said, “I’ll leave him in the garden.”
“No you can’t do that. The neighbour’s will complain.”
“Fuck the neighbours. They’re out anyway. We won’t be an hour.”
“No, they’ll ring up.”

The neighbour’s on the posh side had rung up months ago when the dog was barking in the garden on account of my sister bringing her dog into the house. My sister’s dog is not to be put out.

At the osteopaths I learnt a new duty. In order to help mum walk better, I should insert my thumb into the roof of her mouth and push upwards, while pressing down on her head at the same time.

“You’ll have to pick up the ointment for the dog’s ear”, said mum, on the way back. So I parked on the double yellows, and went in to the vet. In the vets, sitting on the floor was a small ugly pug, with one of its back legs stuck out straight in front of it. “That’s not normal,” I thought. Its owner half dragged it out of the surgery, as it sort of bottom shuffled in a desultory effort to do something to aid its own progress, with its arse on the floor, back leg straight out, pointing forward. At least Kerry only has a scabby ear, a pus-sy eye, and voluntary and involuntary incontinence.

In the ointment pack was an instruction to arrange an audience with the vet in December if not sooner, on account of the repeat prescription for the ointment for the scabby ear. The last alternative to this somewhat ineffective treatment was an operation with a bill of £675.

When we came back the dog had pissed over the kitchen floor.
Mum said “The dog’s got to go.”.

When we eventually got back to mum’s, I crested the wave of several more calamities. There’s a lot of, “While you’re here, will you just………..”

“Why doesn’t the bedroom door stay open like it used to?”. I moved a small wooden unit full of Waterford Crystal, moved the bed, and a large painting, but it still won’t stay open like it used to. Then there was “Where’s the lid of the germolene?”: I had no idea.

Then I phoned the doctor’s surgery in search of the incontinence service. The doctor wanted to know why mum needed the incontinence service. Some questions leave me quite slack jawed.

I described my day to my husband and son.

Billy said, “ah poor Kerry. But he’s got to go. He’s too much for you mum……..How do you feel about it?”
“Really sad,” I said. “But who’s going to take him to the vets?”
“Andy.”, said my husband. “Andy hates that dog”
Andy is my brother in law. He rarely visits, and when he does he moans about the dog.
“Well at least I’ll have my mum again,” said Bill.

Which is quite sweet except that he’s 26 and last night I did his ironing and hung up his washing for him AND I was making him dinner. What else does he want from me?

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