3 dogs, no income

Before I can stop Digger, he is greeting Cass and Sal with an enthusiastic leap, boffing Sal on the chest and then, warming to Cass’s scent (Ralph Lauren Notorious if I’m not mistaken), latching on to her leg and giving it a good old hump before I can yank him off and shut him in the bathroom.

‘Sorry about that,’ I say, ushering Sal to a chair. She rummages in her bag and pulls out her inhaler.

‘What was that?’ asks Cass, putting her basket on the floor and taking off her old shooting coat to reveal a black scoop-necked top and a stripy pencil skirt.

‘I say.’ I look her up and down admiringly. ‘Everso Notorious.’

‘And whose is it?’ continues Cass. ‘Not yours, I hope.’

‘No, he’s Dan’s. Digger. It’s a kind of try-out, because I’m going into the dogminding business. I’m working up to 8.3 recurring dogs a day.’

‘There’s a law against that now,’ says Cass.

‘No! Don’t tell me there’s a law against 8.3 recurring dogs!’ I twist the ice tray over a glass and send cubes cascading over the kitchen worktop. 

Cass is shaking her head. ‘Where did you get that figure from?’

‘I had a life coaching session with Meredith, my American friend from Hong Kong, after I last saw you, and she worked it out. 8.3 recurring dogs equals 45 grand a year.’ I scoop up the ice cubes, clink them into our glasses and pour in the mojito that I efficiently made earlier.

‘But you’d have no recurring friends if you had 8.3 recurring dogs,’ points out Cass.

‘That’s true,’ says Sal, breathing steadily again. ‘And you’d smell.’

‘You’re right,’ I say, sticking a sprig of mint in the glasses before handing out the cocktails. ‘I’d smell, my house would smell… it already does after one night with Digger.’

‘I wouldn’t be able to come in,’ adds Sal. ‘I’d have to have so much anti-histamine… Ooh! That’s strong! I’ll fall over after one of these!’

‘You’d be driving round in one of those vans with mesh between you and the dogs,’ says Cass. ‘Mmm! What’s in this?’

‘Oh, just rum, fresh lime, soda, sugar, mint...  I suppose I’d never pull another man, except perhaps a dog-fancier,’ I add.

‘You don’t want doggy people sniffing round you,’ says Cass.

‘No, you’re right. I’m not that doggy myself. I’m only selectively retrievery and labradory.’

‘Maybe that’s where you’ve gone wrong,’ Cass says cryptically.

Dusty, I notice, has emerged from under the table and is sniffing Cass’s basket with interest. ‘Have you got some food in there?’ I ask.

‘No, it’s Plum. Get your nose out, Dusty!’ And there, curled up in her African shopping basket, is Cass’s new Jack Russell puppy.

5 Make-up Must-haves!

For tonight’s Elegant Girly Dinner, I am serving fresh mojitos, an Asian prawn dish fudged adapted from two cookbooks, jasmine rice, and mango and passionfruit cheesecake (Tesco’s rather than Eliza’s Finest). I am also inaugurating the bronze satin skirt that I acquired at a country house jumble sale last September and my black suede tango shoes from the Shoon sale. Amazing what a fillip it gives one to dress up! This calls for not just the magnifying mirror to do my make-up, but glasses too!

Oh God! Hairs are sprouting everywhere. Upper lip – a hedgerow of fine blond ones, with the occasional dark stubbly one poking through. Chin – oh God! How long has that been there? Eyebrows – are those blond or grey hairs among the dark ones? It’s a travesty. And this is only just the beginning. I still have a jawline. I don’t have those bulldog jowls yet or a cross-hatched neck. Split veins on my cheeks, yes, despite not being a dipsomaniac. Oh well, slap on some Max Factor … sorry, hold on a tick. Think products! Think rich! Think Christy Turlington!

5 Make-up Must-haves!

1. Yves Saint Laurent Touche Eclat Concealer

2. Maybelline Dream Satin Liquid Air-Whipped Foundation

3. Estée Lauder Signature Silky Powder Blush

4. Maybelline Falsies Volume Express Mascara

4. MAC Amplified Creme Lipstick

What a laugh they must have making up these names. Right. Well that looks better. I remove my glasses. Much better! You see, the trick is to mix only with friends of the same age, since we’re all living in a blur. 

Oh! The door.

Dog's breakfast

Poor Dusty has spent most of her time under the table since Digger arrived, hoping to avoid being boffed. I entice her into the bathroom to give her her breakfast in private, then return to the kitchen to go through the half-and-half performance with Digger. He inhales the first half in about three seconds flat, gagging as he goes. I wait a few minutes for him to compose himself, then give him his seconds, which he hoovers up in one. I send him out and, as predicted by Dan, he instantly poos in the middle of the lawn. Then he paces up and down groaning, throws up half his food, studies it for a moment and eats it up.

Life coach update

18:20

Action stations! Call Jemima. ‘Could I possibly borrow Cinder for half an hour?’ Race up the road to collect her, race back, sit on the sofa, open the laptop and…

18:30

Skype Meredith.  

‘Hi,’ I say, clicking my tongue to summon my menagerie. ‘Look what I’ve got in my charge…’ I pan the laptop around my knees and feet, taking in one old black labrador, one young black labrador and Dusty.

‘Congratulations, sweetie! Is this in your new role as dogsitter?’

‘Yes it is!’ I say proudly. ‘Three dogs. Not bad, eh?’

‘Are they £10 dogs or £15 dogs?’ enquires Meredith.

‘Um, well Dusty’s mine, of course, so she’s a no pounds dog. But the other two are £15 dogs – in fact, Cinder’s an £18 dog, because she’s a puppy. There’s a premium for puppies because they chew your slippers and the skirting board.’

‘Sweetie, if they’re doing that, I hope you charge damages, or you’ll lose all your profit.’

‘Oh yes, it’s all in the contract.’

‘You’ve drawn up a contract?’

‘Yes, everyone does it round here.’

She’s nodding, clearly impressed. ‘Good. So, how long do you have them for?’

‘Two weeks!’

‘Sweetie! Let’s see! 33 times 14, £462! That’s wonderful!’

I report back on my other achievements of the week – all the job applications, the ad in the local paper, writing the blog, completing my Mission Statement…

‘And have you signed up for an online dating agency?’

‘Um..’

‘Sweetie, I sense this fear barrier. You need to break through it. Action steps. That’s your next task.’

Urgh. 

Poor old Digger

My first client has arrived. He's rather a charming old boy, with white chops and white rings around his eyes. If Digger were a man, he'd be about 6 ft 5, slightly stooped, a bit arthriticky around the knees, with a shaggy-eyebrowed Patrick Moore quality about him. As it is, he's a dog. He goes straight over to the carpet, buries his nose deep into the shagpile to get a good whiff of what must be the beguiling equivalent of Chanel No 5 (eau de Dusty), squats unmanfully over it and wees.

'Oh God!' says Dan. 'Digger! OUT! Sorry, Lize,' he shrugs helplessly. 'I can safely say he's never done that before.' They always say that, of course, like the owners of all those Staffies that used to attack Dusty in London. 'Never done that before!' they'd say.

Dan clearly doesn't trust me. He's bagged up the food in four individual daily pouches. Poor Digger is absolutely starving. His ribs protrude from his worn old coat. He only gets fed once a day, hence the instruction to give him his breakfast in two halves, lest he scoff it so quickly that he's sick. 

Digger comes not just with an instruction manual but a glossary. Dan was evidently traumatised as a young boy when I let him believe that the bath plug was called a 'plugout'. I think he was about 12 before he realised the truth. Now he's meting out his revenge on his poor dog.

Bastard! - in your basket!
Paid for! - you may now eat
Piddle! - self-evident
Dump! - self-evident
Bark! - self-evident
Safe! - stop barking!

'What about when you want to stop him eating poo?' I ask, since poo-eating (not his own, but cow's, horse's, fox's, that kind of thing) is apparently one of his foibles.

'Kick him,' says Dan.

'Can I give him any treats?'

Dan frowns. 'He's doesn't have human food, if that's what you mean.'

'Dog biscuits?'

'He can have one at bedtime.'

'Can he have a chew?'

Dan inspects Dusty's bag of panatella-sized hide chews and hesitates for a moment before conceding. 'He can have one chew.'

Poor Digger. This will be a loving respite home for him.

Supermarket swap

Have given up Waitrose in marvellous sail-trimming measure. Realised more sensible to prune £6 here and there from budget rather than waste valuable hours earning it. Have just spent practically the whole morning comparing products on supermarket comparison site, making fascinating discovery that the top four cleverly match each other’s prices on general brands such as Heinz, but make their mark-up on their own-brand products that can’t be compared. Except I did compare raw prawns, and Tesco’s had the best offer. So, thanks to Gitface, I have defected to the shameless capitalist pigs and scourge of every country town, so help me God. Am trying out a few Finest items on Sal and Cass tomorrow at our inaugural Elegant Girly Dinner (we decided we needed to raise the game around here, get out and about, cook, drink, wear skirts). 

1.0 guinea pigs

Dan calls. ‘Thought up any good inventions lately?’

‘Well actually, I did think of a great website, cantbearsed.com, but then I couldn’t think of anything to put on it, and I couldn’t be arsed to do it anyway.’

‘Excellent. Any jobs?’

‘You wouldn’t believe how proactive I’ve been. I spent a whole day searching online and applying for dozens of jobs. Trainee estate agent, pizza delivery...’

Dan lets out a guffaw.

‘You may well laugh, but that’s all there is going, and they only pay six quid an hour. So I’ve had to face the sad truth, that I am unfit for employment. However, I have posted an ad in the Mistlebourne Magazine and actually I think I’m going to be inundated because I do sound incredibly useful. I’d hire me if I had the money.’

‘Excellent. I need someone to dig a ditch and put up a fence.’

‘Sorry, I don’t do heavy manual labour. But I can clean your silver or iron your shirts for the modest sum of £8 an hour.’

Another guffaw.

‘Or give you a lift to Candlebury for £5. Although you’d have to come to Mistlebourne first. I also look after dogs on a sliding scale from £7 to £15, depending on the services rendered, and, the brilliant thing is, when my client base has risen to 8.3 recurring dogs a day, I’ll be making 45 grand a year!’

‘Bonus! As it happens I’m off to France on Friday and Buffy who normally housesits went and got married, selfish cow, so I’m having to farm out duties to about six different people. Maybe you’d like a guinea pig for your job?’

‘I don’t do guinea pigs. I didn’t know you had any, anyway.’

Dan laughs. ‘Guinea pig for your new dogsitting job. As in Digger.’

Hmmm. Digger. Dan’s outsize jumpjet of a labrador. ‘How long for?’

‘Only four days. As you know, we tinyholders can’t go off for weeks on end like some people.’

‘And I presume this is a paid post?’

‘Well, Lize, you’ll need to see if you’re up to the job. Think of it more as an apprenticeship.’

‘I’m actually quite well versed in the art of looking after dogs,’ I say witheringly.

‘Lize, what you don’t realise is looking after one dog is an entirely different business to looking after two, and by the time you get to 8.3 recurring, it’s a very different business indeed.’

‘How about a special offer, half-price, just so Meredith doesn’t sneer at me for being unbusinesslike?’

‘Which would be how much?’

‘Seven pounds fifty a day.’

‘30 quid? You’ve got to be joking. Anyway, you seem to be forgetting, when you swan off, who looks after Dusty?’

‘Sophia and Vincent. Rose and Richard. Occasionally Sally and Giles, even though Sal’s allergic. Oh, and twice, my very kind brother.’

‘And so, Lize, I think you’ll agree, it wouldn’t be right to charge your very kind brother to look after his dog.’

‘What about danger money for poor Dusty? She hates it when Digger’s all Tiggerish with her.’

‘He’ll soon settle down. Good. Sorted. Now, he does have some foibles...’ 

You see, they say never work with friends or family, and they’re right.