Knocked Down
Did I mention I nearly died on Saturday? No? Well, I got one of my callings from the woods at Shotover, but the wretched bunnies were so deep down in their little holes, that I had to bite through several tree roots to get to them. Suffice it to say, the roof of my mouth became attached to a horizontal branch, and I found myself unable to breathe or shut my mouth. Blood was spurting everywhere, several family members tried to wrench the damn tree trunk out of my mouth, no luck, so Cooky Ma whisked me off to the vets, whoopsie it’s shut, so she drives to the shop to get other Ma, who promptly opens my mouth and slips the tree out of my mouth as though it was a soft marshmallow.
Anyway so I took Ma off to the Polling Station this morning to pin the tail on the donkey, which she does every four years or so apparently, and we trotted into the designated small hall side by side, voting card at the ready. The room was empty but for the four officials, all sitting in plastic orange chairs that were perfectly spaced apart, tucked under two wallpaper-pasting tables that had been arranged just so. Each lovely had her own clipboard and pencil at the ready. Ma glanced at the ’smiliest’* of the four and asked: “Is it ok for my dog to come in?” (we were already in). The lady looked really quite frightened. Her brain hadn’t prepared itself for such a question, and she didn’t know what to do with it. She looked around at her comrades, and a brief interlude of teeth-sucking, mouth-twisting and nervous pencil-tapping ensued. I mean really! Finally, the furthest-away lady on the second table braved an executive decision: “As long as he doesn’t wee or poo on the floor,” she asserted, to which Ma replied haughtily, “He’s about as likely to as I am.” How humiliating!
I was so upset that I considered having a word with the door on the way out, but I thought better of it at the last minute as I spied a box of Tenalady poking out of one of the official’s handbags.
* Not very smiley at all as it goes.