THE dog has eaten her bed again. At this point, I am beginning to think that she thinks we are made of money. Having said that, looking at the life she leads, even I would start to believe we are made of money.
It is like Downton Abbey at our place of a morning only in reverse, with the downstairs dictating what goes on upstairs; chiefly the dog arousing the household religiously at 6.30am so that she can go out to do her thing. Gone is the need for any of us to own an alarm clock and to be truthful, I am far more in favour of waking up to a barking dog than I am to Morning Ireland and its incumbent gloom.
She doesn't stay out for long. I hear say that dogs are made for the outdoors but our beauty is an anomaly. The outdoors is merely her lavatory. To the manor she was born and to the manor she will remain.
And who can blame her. Every morning she gets the mother of all greetings from us eejits upstairs who should really know better and pull rank. Although in fairness to the dog, when it comes to enthusiastic welcomes, there isn't a man or beast to compare to her. She greets us as though we have just come through a tsunami with the insistence of presenting each and every one of us with a gift (she is a retriever) which could range from a worn out hiking boot to a hurley stick to a pair of knickers hijacked from the ironing pile.
Anyway, back to the bed issue. We are now onto our sixth, although that is a conservative estimate. If I were to calculate a more accurate sum of beds purchased for the dog, I might just ignite my frustration levels to such an extent that any reasonable documentation of the dog's antics with her bed would be thwarted out of all good shape and expected reason. Suffice to say that our dog, not yet three years old, has slept in more beds than Elizabeth Taylor ever did in the whole of her lifetime.
The latest bed lasted a mere week. I wouldn't mind but it was the Brown Thomas of doggy beds with a colour scheme that had me rethinking the whole interior of my home. It was all reds and limes and it took her just short of an hour to chew the bloody thing to bits. We have been reliably informed that she must be bored – the only reason cited for her constantly eating her bed. But with two walks a day and three kids who play their part in exhausting her, the only option left to us is to enrol her in some adventure course.
But in truth she is a dog that only wants to please and in naming her Riley, she is merely living up her name and our expectations which by the way, eaten beds notwithstanding, she has long since exceeded.