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| Disclaimer: An old pic of Cuba napping - no drugs involved |
If further proof was needed that I am not fit to raise children, well here it is. Tonight I've delivered in spades. I've just drugged my own dogs. That's right, I have given the dog equivalent of baby Panadol to two barking fluff balls.
On the upside, the barking has stopped. On the
downside, I am now moving into the first stage of bad parent (mother of fur
babies) guilt. Have I overdosed them? They seem too quite. Are they dead or
sleeping? Oh god, I almost want the barking to start again.
Why did I drug my dogs I can hear you asking? Well,
it all stems from their Houdini like escape effort last night which involved
four jail breaks under the fence, two massive barking fits by the one dog who
couldn't get under the fence and three neighbours running around trying to
catch and return them – all while I obliviously networked the night away at a
work function. Ohhh... the shame and guilt!
Needless to say I am now trying to keep them on best
behaviour. But it turns out their idea of a good Friday night involves enough
barking to send a saint mad (clearly not happy about the newly secured yard). And then it happened. I cracked. After multiple attempts to shut them up, with
zero impact, I lost the plot. Before I knew it I was in the dog medicine box
looking for those magic tablets that "relax even the most anxious
dog" (you can tell we've been here before). It is herbal, which should count in my favour.
I have no idea how parents of real children do it.
The constant crying would be enough to have me downing the bottle of baby
Panadol myself. Big respect to you!
As a side note - I've just checked the dogs and they are breathing.
