Just in case you think the life of a writer in Spain is perfect, I'm about to burst your bubble. Traumatic times have come to Piddock Place in the last week, forcing me to bring Vodka O' Clock forward by a couple of hours, and seriously consider getting rid of either the husband or the dog. At the moment, it's Evens Stevens, but that changes on a frequent basis.
It all started innocently enough when I was cleaning my teeth one morning last week. That takes a while, because I am blessed with two sorts of teeth. There are the ones that Nature blessed me with, then there are the teeth that are like stars, in that they come out every night. It was while these teeth were receiving attention that Paddy jumped at me, taking me completely by surprise. In case you're thinking I must lead a very racy life here at Piddock Place, let me hasten to add that Paddy is the dog, not the husband, but I digress.
You try hanging on to anything when 25 kilos of puppy launches itself your way. The teeth flew out of my hand, describing a perfect arc in the air. Scenting a new game, Paddy took off after them and caught them before they hit the marble floor and cracked. Pity they didn't because at least I could have got a repair job done. Paddy took them off, and proceeded to remove the teeth until all that was left was the plate. Maybe he thought they could fill the gaps in his 7 month old puppy mouth.
So off to the dentist I go, and the Receptionist was very good. She didn't even smirk as I told my tale of woe - until the other people in the waiting room started to titter. Then it was open season, and the dentist came out to see what all the merriment was about. A dentist's waiting room is not normally a place of laughter, so I hope he shows his gratitude by shaving something off the 350 Euro bill for my new gnashers.
I hadn't quite perfected the Mona Lisa smile which must be my companion for the next few weeks when Paddy caused havoc again. Just like the stars - and the now deceased teeth - I am also out at night. Late at night, on the terrace when it's cool, catching up on the writing while the world is quiet and calm. My personal quiet and calm was shattered when Paddy mounted his Great Escape. He loves to sit on our garden wall, and watch the world go by. At 2.00am, there isn't a lot of world going by, so he decided to push through the cypress hedge that separates our garden from the next one and see if there was some action going down. There wasn't, so he repeated the manoevre, finishing up three doors along in an unoccupied property.
I was encouraging him to come back to me, but by now he was panicking a bit. So I got the ladder and his lead, and headed along the terrace. I was half way up the ladder when I realised the major flaw in the plan. The Policia Local patrol all through the night, every night, even though Algorfa is a - mercifully - crime free zone, and as they hadn't been around since I waved to them from the terrace an hour ago, another drive by was probably imminent. So, calling the dog a name I never even realised I knew, I took the ladder and the lead back home and waited. And waited. And fell asleep on the sofa.
By 4.00am, when Paddy finally made his way home, he was understandably chastened by his adventure, and wanted to be with Mummy, even though he knew the bedroom was off limits. He forced himself in there with me. I can't tell you how long it's been since a male of the species forced his way into my boudoir. Pity this one had four legs and a tail. Anyway, Tony - the husband - was far from impressed, especially when Paddy stretched his considerable length diagonally across the bed and refused to move, even for his favourite treats. It took another half hour to evacuate the room. You try shifting 25 kilos of puppy when he doesn't want to be shifted. It ain't easy.
So now, the husband is grouchy, and 'our dog' has suddenly become 'my dog' for some reason. We both get blamed for the Great Escape, and are still being treated like naughty school kids 24 hours later. When the husband says 'Either me or that dog has to go,' it's very tempting to go and start packing - and I don't mean the dentistix and the squeaky toys either.
They say bad things come in threes, and Paddy's obviously aware of that old saying, because the next thing he did was to go out in the garden and remove Tony's burgeoning blackberry bush from its pot. It was a cutting from the main bush, and it was enjoying life in its nice big pot until Paddy found it. One minute it was there, the next it was gone, and though we hunted high and low for it in our rather small garden, it appeared to have left the building. This morning, the mystery of the missing blackberry bush was solved. Those of a nervous disposition may wish to look away now.
I thought we were featuring in a remake of Alien when Paddy whimpered on the terrace - transfixed by a mysterious object that was emerging from just beneath his tail. All of a sudden, the penny fell into place, and I saw a great opportunity to get my own back on my dastardly dog. Reaching for an ever-present wet wipe, I grabbed the end of the blackberry root - for that was what it was - and gave it a tug. That's when Paddy became a locksmith and made a bolt for the terrace door and the safety of the lounge.
As I speak, he's cowering in the corner, with his rear end tucked safely into the angle between our bedroom and the guest bathroom. And I don't feel in the least bit guilty. Does that make me a bad human being? Probably, but I can live with it. And I think it's time to call in the Dog Whisperer to sort out my little rebel and teach him some manners, don't you?