Party Time

November 8, 2009


Border Collies, it would appear, are the most thick skinned of dogs.

“Let’s introduce Dweezil to Zeebs!”, shouts my Dad. The border collie’s name is Dweezil? Dweezil? What kind of name is that to give a female animal? It’s perfectly clear that ‘Dweezil’ is a boys’ name.

Why, you may be wondering, would my Dad want to introduce a border collie to me? I’ll tell you why. So that I’ll fluff up like a microphone head with eyes, that’s why. This unavoidable phenomenon causes much amusement for him, despite the fact that it leaves me skulking away, nursing a nervous tick and feeling a tad embarrassed. For a man who claims to love me enough to spend a small fortune shipping me over here, he has an odd way of showing it. But I was not to be mastered. Never again will I let some hound eat my Iams. I, this time, was here first.

Dweezil is brought downstairs. I am ready for her. My back is arched. My tail is in the upright position. My fur is fluffed.

“Woof!”, says Dweezil.

I hiss. I spit. I make the slightly creepy, low meowing sound that people who hate cats really get frightened by. And Dweezil? She LICKS MY EAR.

Right.

Oh well then, as long as she keeps well away from my meaty biscuits, fair play to her.

It was the new neighbours’ – Band Man and Enthusiastic Teacher –  first Friday in the house. My Dad, The Mushroom and The Baby went up to say hello, and came back at a reasonable hour to have dinner like normal folk. This serial killer’s basement suite, however, is not sound proofed, and it was clear that much merriment was being had. My Dad, occasionally, made slightly yearning glances toward he ceiling, which The Mushroom steadfastly ignored.

It was an evening in which I feel I learned much about the human race.

I now know, for example, that the difference between an enthusiastic, polite 23-year-old French Teacher from Saskatoon and a man who very loudly raps along to the work of 50 Cent is about three-quarters of a bottle of Glenfiddich.

I know that at some point in an evening of drinking, it becomes acceptable to throw nuts.

I know that there also comes a point when people stop caring that the dog is licking their sour cream dip.

I had forgotten about things like this. I do, now that I think about it, recall an evening some Christmases ago when my Dad decided that it would be an effective time-saving device to simply drink pints of Gin and Tonic, thus avoiding having to return to the kitchen quite so regularly, and that HP Sauce and After Eight mints went together nicely as an after dinner snack. I think it was also this same evening that The Mushroom made one of their guests a cup of Bisto instead of coffee by accident, and the guest in question either put so much sugar in it that he didn’t notice or was simply too polite to say. On nights like these I hid under the TV. They are, now, a thing of the past and I am guessing this is connected to The Baby, and I for one do not miss them. Trust me, there is nothing fun about some booze-addled stranger spotting you on the way back from the toilet and rubbing their face into yours, exposing you to their whisky-soaked, Bisto-laced breath and telling you that you are a ‘beautiful pussy cat, yes you are, yes you are!’ repeatedly, and then falling asleep on the floor with their head pressed against your rib-cage.

In the meantime, it was an interesting trip down Memory Lane to listen, again, to such shenanigans, until The Mushroom got so sick of hearing 50 Cent complaining in no uncertain terms about something or other that she turned on the only radio station available in this neck of the Prairies, a station called ‘The Goat’, which seems to only play Def Leppard and Miley Cyrus. I’m not altogether sure which was worse. It was, however, almost instantly effective, with 50 Cent cut off mid instruction to ‘Tear the roof off this Motherfu-‘ whilst Miley was, apparently, ‘nodding her head like yeah’.

I sat in the shape of a ball and pondered upon The Mushroom’s patience and practically willed this to happen again, if only to see The Mushroom go upstairs in her bedraggled pyjamas and scary hair and see what happens then.

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