Disclaimer: Although nothing in this post is sexual, it contains details of my life, banter and conversations that happen within a self-described 24/7 D/s dynamic and is aimed at normalising and providing acceptance of those of us who choose to live this way. For further reading on my decision not to provide an adult content disclaimer on my non-sexual posts, please see my post “LGBTQ+K: A Case For “Kinky” As A Sexuality“. Thank you.
Contains some strong language.
I’d love to say that he past few days have been a success. Even if they have been, they’ve only just scraped by, and not without sending my cortisol levels through the roof.
Yesterday, during my morning workout, an ungodly smell invaded my nasal cavity. I knew immediately what it was: Dog shit.
Dude, really?! Can you not give me ten friggin’ minutes to work out before I take you outside?!
Well no, apparently. The answer was a clear and distinguished no.
If I thought what greeted me last time was bad, then this was even worse. This time, there wasn’t just two or three amounts to scoop up, there were seven or eight, and it was up the wall. I scraped up what I could with a bag and tossed it into the bin, then I returned to Hugo’s bedding and launched it into the wash. Hugo, for his part, didn’t seem too phased at all. A bit wobbly on his feet and a little bit sorry for himself, but otherwise completely fine.
It was perhaps fortunate that I turned around at the right moment to see Hugo squat because had I not, I would have had even more mess to clear up. Sensing the immediate danger, I snapped on his leash and took him outside.
“Everything okay?” Matt asked as I returned back to my desk.
“I think so” I replied, evidently looking a little worse for wear. “I have seen things.”
“Things?”. I nodded.
“Like the dog project liquid shit all over the junk wood that he-“, I pointed upwards and towards the flat above ours, “has left out there. He then turned around and promptly vomited, narrowly causing Mummy to have the same reaction.” By this point in my narrative, Matt had braced himself against the doorway to contain his laughter.
My biggest fear was that if food was coming up and food was going out, what was going on in the middle? Hugo had been raiding the bin only the day before. We knew that he had ingested something and now the biggest concern was to find out exactly what it was.
Bin-raiding, we realise, is only ever followed by a bout of “Garbage Gut”, a not-so-cute nickname given ro the digestive issues that dogs endure after raiding through the rubbish. Perhaps fortunately, Hugo has usually passed these episodes off largely without incident, however and for obvious reasons, it would be better if they didn’t happen at all.
I spent some time thinking and deliberating over how we can get this behaviour to stop. Bins are important, I realise, we can’t just not have bins. Where would all of our garbage go?
But then it clicked. You see, the bin that Hugo raids isn’t even technically a bin, it’s a planter, and it’s shorter than the lounge bin and therefore easier to raid. Hugo doesn’t raid the lounge bin, it’s too tall and it requires a hop into the bin which usually gets him busted. The simple antidote? Get a new bin that’s almost as tall as him.
Like this, we hope, the garbage raiding days will be over, and the only thing going through Hugo in future will be the foods that were meant to. Sometimes, we overcomplicate the answers to our problems and for just £7, I’m hoping that I have resolved mine.
Today was supposed to be Kinky Fuckery Friday but to be honest, once again, I’m not really feeling it. No, that’s a lie, I am feeling it, but the home is so goddamn messy that it feels like fucking in a teenager’s room. I’m not a messy person, I’ve just been busy. Busy blogging, busy sorting out SEO, busy photographing stuff – busy, busy, busy.
I tried to be more organised ahead of tonight because I really wanted tonight to go ahead. It’s not that I don’t want to play, because I do, it’s that when the home is as messy as it is, then I can’t. There is so much to do, so much that needs taking care of, so much that could catch fire or that one of us could tread on or fall over, nope, I simply can’t.
And to be honest, it’s kind of kicking me. After all, it’ll be another two weeks now. I tried hard, I tried really fucking hard to have the home up together, the fish tanks rearranged, the new shrimp in, desserts made and so on. I worked my ass off, but I’m not WonderWoman and my body is now letting me know. I’m tired, pretty stressed and maybe even slightly depressed. I’m in a mood, a mood that I’d rather not be in.
This morning, I tried to get a few other things done. In my heart of hearts, I think that even if I wanted to give up, a part of me somewhere didn’t want to and so I had to make provisions. It was on the tip of my tongue to cancel tonight, but I didn’t want to, I didn’t want to disappoint him. If I work now, I can nap later, perhaps. Just keep trying, Helen, just keep trying.
That would be the new cherry shrimp. Right now, when I’m not at all prepared to receive them, that would be the new shrimp.
“You might want to check that top one” the postman explained to me. I noted the label on the top one: 1st Class Special Delivery, the same service that my seller had used to ship the shrimps.
Oh shit! Why, what’s wrong with them?
A wet box means only one thing, and for live fish or shrimps, that’s a very, vey bad thing. Somewhere, a bag is leaking.
In a haste to make sure that the new arrivals were okay, I tore open the box like a kid on Christmas morning. Normally I’m a lot more tactical and careful, but tiny little dark blue lives were at stake here. What awaited me inside were two bags of little blue shrimp who were probably wondering if I planned to eat them. All okay, it seemed, so it’s time to acclimatize.
The box itself, I think, probably got dipped in a splash of aquarium water before shipping. Neither of the bags appeared to leak, but that wasn’t to say that I was taking any chances. I placed one bag into each bucket, cut the knot off, and let them out.
Drip acclimatisation takes time, but it’s the only way to get shrimp used to their new homes. With surplus piece of air tubing now slowly dripping my tank water in with the shrimps, the new navy blue arrivals would be just fine.
The happy ending today’s post is that, in spite of this morning’s panic, when I added the shrimp to their new home, they swam off and started exploring and eating straight away. I also received a free, accidental, itty bitty teeny baby shrimp, so I’m hoping that that one will grow up and become an additional regal member of my colony. It starts with ten, but shrimps, if happy and healthy, will breed readily. Who knows where this could end up? I’ll keep my fingers crossed.