After the first bottle of gin runs out you have a brief window of clarity where you remember who you were before the puppy Blitz began and you take a deep, steadying breath. Yes, the bombs dropped, but down in the air-raid shelters they sang and played games. You reach out for your husband’s hand – time to rally forces.
LET THE GAMES COMMENCE
Your husband holsters a water pistol and runs into the garden –
You dig out the keyboard’s air duster spray and conceal yourself behind a tree –
After a fun and marginally successful hour your husband is seen heading stealthily to the shed with two glasses and a bottle of Prosecco; you give the pup the slip and run after him.
You begin to dare to think that perhaps having a puppy might be kind of fun after all.
The next day you entertain yourself (and the neighbours) by replacing “roll over”, “jump”, “poo” and other commands, with spells from Harry Potter:
Puppy takes to this with aplomb and actually seems quite trainable. There is a brain in there after all. You allow yourself your first moment of smug parent pride.
And then it’s gone, because you’ve just seen her vomit up your sock and try to re-eat it.