My house is being gradually destroyed. Not just by three small children with their sticky hands and numerous indoor ball games. The number one culprit is the Labrador puppy, Clover, who at nine months is clearly suffering from a severe bout of teething.
Each morning when I come downstairs to prepare breakfast, I examine the latest destruction. Her favourite past time it seems is to gnaw on any available wood and lately I have noticed corners of the walls disappearing where she has turned her attention to plaster. My skirting boards, doorframes and drawer handles are all but ruined and small pieces of wood regularly lie scattered around the kitchen floor. When I scold her with my firmest and most assertive voice, refined at the Border Terrorist’s dog training classes, she looks at me curiously with bits of plasterboard hanging from her jowls, as if to say, “What’s the problem?”
My mother tells me that she is bored and that I must be devoting a portion of my weekly shopping budget to chewy bones or ridiculous doggy toys stuffed with small pieces of cheddar cheese. I duly take her advice and arrive home with two chewy bones. The Border Terrorist sniffs, turns her back and wanders off into the garden to sniff out a few rabbits. Clover, on the other hand, grabs it and runs. I set off to collect the children from school my mind put at ease by the thought of my kitchen being spared the large white teeth of a black Lab for a few moments. I arrive home to discover both bones have disappeared and Clover licking her black lips. I also discover pieces of my address book scattered across the floor. Apologies in advance to any of my friends with surnames that begin with P onwards in the alphabet as all your details are now sitting churned up in Clover’s stomach, so a few less Christmas cards to send this year.
Furious, I turn my attention to tea and begin preparing a last minute meal for the children. A lemon cake sits on the sideboard ready to fend off tired tears before supper. I step out to the garden to hollow for the children who are busy springing merrily on the trampoline. “Cake,” I shout. Needless to say, they all come running to the kitchen. “Where is it?” asks my bewildered daughter. I glance at the sideboard to find it empty. Thinking I was having another motherly moment of madness I check the fridge, freezer and dishwasher. Suddenly, I stop dead in my tracks and look down to find a few crumbs lying on the floor. I scream at the top of my voice, “CLOVER.”
