I cannot deny that the past few days have been of a somewhat challenging nature.
In the first place, my second wife, Ellie, passed away a few days after I posted my last blog entry. She had a good, long and happy life and is much mourned by her partners (my partner's great aunts).
Rest in peace Ellie. I will miss you, my sweetheart.
I have not mentioned my bereavement to anyone, lest the news should travel as far as the ears of Candy. Candy has long been angling for an upgrade in status from principal girlfriend to wife, and I fear this may provoke an increase of her jealousy - which, in turn, could prove detrimental to my relationship with my wife Isolde. Oh dear. Sometimes I curse the desirability with which nature chose to burden me.
The only one to whom I confided my loss was Ewan, who immediately offered to alleviate my grief by marrying me himself. I considered enlightening him as to the basics of marriage between heterosexual canines but swiftly ruled it out, fearing the deluge of further questions it would provoke. Instead, I thanked Ewan for his generous offer but politely declined, telling him that I had no further thoughts of matrimony at present.
The next disturber of my peace proved to be my partner's gammy foot. For some time now (since our holiday back in May, in fact), my partner has been enduring an excessively painful foot. She has rarely complained (having a remarkable tolerance of physical pain for a human) but her suffering has been really quite pronounced and her discomfort on her walks extreme. About a month ago, she reached a point where she could bear the pain no longer. I recommended to her a consultation with my personal physician, Mr. Matthews (he's terribly good with paws), but she chose instead to seek the advice of her own GP. He advised her to take some painkillers and procure a pair of sturdy trainers. These things she did, receiving no relief from either.
Thus it was that my partner returned to the GP a few days ago to endure the agony of a steroid/cortisone injection into the muscles at the base of her foot. She departed for this in some trepidation, having been strenuously forewarned by the doctor of the extreme agony involved with this particular injection. Initially, I had scant sympathy for the girl, calling to my mind the myriad occasions when she had ushered my protesting self into Mr. Matthews' chamber of horrors for the humiliating bottom violation that is my anal gland evacuation. However, witnessing the hobbling, whimpering remnants of my partner being escorted back into my house by her mother excited all my most tender feelings. The poor dear was in extreme pain and I accompanied her into bed shortly afterwards, keeping a nurturing, reassuring paw upon her throughout the night. I believe she taught the doctor a few new words whilst he was administering the injection.
With paw on wood, I am pleased to report that with the subsiding of the pain caused by the injection has come the freedom from discomfort altogether in her foot. My partner's relief is exquisite - she is overjoyed and now faces the delightful challenge of remembering how to walk without a pronounced limp. We are going for a very long walk in the woods tomorrow to celebrate.
But, as ever, the joys of one day are soon clouded by the irritations of another. On entering my Little Green Corsa yesterday morning, I saw that several browning leaves had fallen from the sycamore tree onto the windscreen. This is unacceptable. I have not had enough summer and am not yet ready for the autumn. Consequently, I have ordered my partner to get out the step-ladder and sellotape the leaves back onto the tree.
I will not be ushered into a change of season until I am good and ready.