Plumbers maintain effluence. Think of it as our colostomy: rubber gloves; the channel is cleared. Laughing. That’s why I cracked up when my crack plumber showed up.
No, Mr. Plumber, you didn’t just pump every columnist on this page down the drain as suggested a week ago on this page. I clearly remember your second comment about the “diatribe”: “Carine, you should take your daughter’s rape to the police for a case” and “Carine, you are giving the wrong advice”.
But I’d love to read about what really bothers you – you’re talking in silence, I think. I want to tell you today that my old Eliza of 13 years passed away – the same Eliza I told her at the beginning of Covid when the SPCA came to take her “because she was skinny”.
Consciousness? It took three months to get him back. With a sore nose from pushing through the cage sniffing when I came to pick her up. Yes, he probably had the first “bath” ever there.
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He told me it would take him “hours” to clean him up, so don’t ask me why I expected a walking Lassie to greet him. He didn’t. They look exactly like when we try to “groom” dead hair. Just Eliza.
Did I mention that he never recovered from being away from home for three months? Can I show them missing Top Dog posts? Dare I say I’ve never had a needier dog after that trauma – and believe me, that trauma, the SPCA.
But now he’s dead, my plumber. It took me three days to bury him. First, because the ground is very hard when he died on my deadline. But then he sent rain…a lot. We had a hole dug the next day next to her in the shroud of death: her favorite blanket.
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But, plumber, I have to work and write a column… He was buried at sunset between deadlines. I hear my pets cry as they sleep on their pillows and think they care more than we do. So I’ll leave my column to you, my plumber. Hurry up, Gav…