Heavenly Beverley : The Beagle has a Fit of the Vapours.

Monday 25 January 2016

The Beagle has a Fit of the Vapours.

The last few days have been quite tiresome, as far as the weather is concerned. Hot, sultry and sticky. Michael has been finding that his tee shirt is always sopping wet and most uncomfortable when he has finished yet another day in the East End Gallery. Unfortunately, as #1 renovator, the buck stops with him in the work department.

Last night was particularly beastly. No effort at all still had the capacity to raise a sweat. And I definitely wasn't glowing. I had rivulets of moisture gathering under my boobs and running down my back. I went for a swim to cool off and improve my disposition. Bliss. After doing running laps of the pool's diameter, I plunged all the way in. My wrist was wet but I didn't care. I was in ecstasy.

I sat in my towel next to Michael and we watched "Dead Man's Folly", one of the few Agatha Christie mysteries I hadn't seen. Midnight, we were still sufficiently cool to go to bed with the house flung open. Needless to say, we were both starkers with no covering whatsoever.

Two-thirty and I was awoken by the most amazing lightning show. The night sky was flooded by light in all directions. The rain was imminent. The growling thunder had begun but was pretty insignificant compared to the dazzling white flashes surrounding the House that Rocks.

We flew out of bed and secured windows, doors and brought the pirate parrot into the laundry. Sascha was starting her thunderstorm anxiety shaking and wide-eyed hyperventilation. Pip, the most alarmed of the Three Stooges in everyday situations, was relatively unbothered. And the Beagle was nowhere to be found.

We bellowed her name above the rain and the hail. We looked for her in the bathroom, the toilet and under our bed - all her standard haunts. We were just becoming panicky when Michael discovered her jammed between our of our bedroom chairs and the bookshelves. She was not amused.

Returning to bed, the storm continued with some fairly impressive cracks of thunder. The cat had joined us by this stage, defiantly indignant that her night routine of snoozing on the front verandah had been interrupted by almost horizontal rain.

Morning dawned, a gloomy and grey sky. The Beagle hadn't moved. She was still not happy. She only left the bedroom, reluctantly when Michael waved the vacuum cleaner at her. She retired to her top bunk of the dog's bed and resigned herself to Bad Health.

About lunchtime, we started to worry about her. Was she succumbing to some ghastly disease? Had she devoured something quite so rancid she'd given herself food poisoning? Was she dehydrated or having a nervous breakdown? We dismissed the last idea as we concluded Ruby's brain was not fulsome enough to have a neurological discombobulation.

Michael had returned to work at the Gallery. Desperate, I tried the last possible ploy to get her out of her bed. I offered her the remains of the rissoles we'd had at lunch. In her bed. Her recovery was remarkable. She licked the container clean and then tottered into the kitchen to inspect it again where I'd left it on the floor.

We have decided Ruby might be a bit constipated, possibly due to mild dehydration, as Michael witnessed a close-up of her ablutions on the back lawn. A combination of her roundness, lack of exercise, all her bloody hair and her anxiety obviously led to a temporary nervous collapse.

I say temporary as Michael has just dished up the dogs' dinner. Ruby devoured her dinner with customary enthusiasm and left nothing!