“Where on earth do the weeks go?” I asked Karen over breakfast, genuinely bewildered. I couldn’t quite grasp that September was almost over and that we were expecting a phone call any day announcing the arrival of our fourth grandchild (GC4).
“Did I hear you on the phone earlier?” Karen enquired, eyes darting over.
“No, that was just me deleting yet another spam voicemail,” I replied, still trying to process how quickly the month had vanished.
Karen was growing increasingly impatient waiting for the official announcement that GC4 was on the way. The moment the call comes in, we have to execute a precisely planned military operation that involves us taking charge of Jack and Sarah’s dogs while they head into hospital.
For a couple who have lived, worked, and owned dogs for decades, you would assume this would be a doddle. However, these are no ordinary household pets. Watson and Moose belong in a completely different league.
Watson is a massive, clumsy oaf who seems entirely unaware of his own physical dimensions. He also possesses the memory span of a goldfish, rendering conventional training techniques utterly useless. Moose, on the other hand, understands commands perfectly—he simply prefers to operate at 100 miles an hour, all day, with zero interest in resting.
That said, they are both absolute riots and thoroughly entertaining to have around.
“Have you checked your phone this morning?” Karen asked, her impatience officially hitting a nine on the Expectant Grandparent Scale.
“Yes. No calls, no messages, and I haven’t seen a signal flare launched over Swindon Hospital yet either,” I offered, attempting to inject a bit of levity. “Another coffee?” I added hastily, trying to divert the conversation as I sensed the scale creeping towards a twelve.
“Yes, let’s have another coffee before the shopping delivery gets here,” she agreed. I quietly breathed a sign of relief: Back down to a five.
Right on cue, the doorbell rang. Our dogs erupted into complete chaos.
You would have thought a DEFCON 3 alarm had detonated at NASA based on their reaction to a routine delivery driver. But that’s what dogs do—and when you have three of them, they do it with triple the volume.
For a brief second, I tried to picture how dear Watson would handle the commotion. He would have forgotten what a doorbell signifies entirely, blundering blindly through the hallway, crashing into furniture with no idea what was happening.
“Quiet down, everyone, it’s fine! We know who’s at the door,” I pleaded, attempting to restore order as Karen grabbed her mobile and headed for the hallway.
“I’m taking my phone with me just in case we get The Call!” she announced, rushing to open the door with her phone clutched in one hand while fending off three dogs with the other.
Back up to an eight again, I thought. We are officially on high alert.
Leave a comment