Dancing the Waltz of Jimi & Snoop

7 Minutes of My Day,

Short Story By Anna Grace Du Noyer

Mum stress AND Mum guilt wash over me, as I creep down the stairs from the office, hoping I don't hear the irresistible but dreaded, squeak of a puppy-yawn.

Please don't wake up... please don't wake up... please don't wake up... I repeat, internally. Mummy has to go on a two hour call, in ten minutes.

Shit, he’s awake! I'll ignore him... He will go back to sleep. But, what if there is something wrong? That sqeak could be the sound of him choking on his premium, organic, age specific, dentist approved, grain free, personalised, crocodile shaped chew toy! I should check.

Wish I hadn't checked.

With the urgency of a house fire alarm at 4am, a package arrives at the door. It's my £14 bin bags. I could murder the Amazon courier.

Delivering a perfect package of disruption to the nap routine, and preparing an overtired, mutt for this mood.

Downstairs and a moment to breathe, between typing, I long to be back at the desk. As ”Tim nice but dim” little Snoopy, my sweet, darling firstborn navigates over the baby gate.

Sauntering past Jimi, who is mid “terrible-twos” tantrum (in 🐶 years), ”meow mommy, oooh, I just fancied a little bite of his lunch” says her manner.

A lingering, tiny toed, bum wiggling walk is a novel approach, to impending demise.

Shit! I launch to the floor to save Snoopy, and the dog is delighted. Hot pads with the surface area of a spoon land on my back, holding 12kg of hyperactive hound, who misconstrues my hair for a rope-pull.

My softly spoken, phony tone, ”aww get of my fucking hair you little dick head” goes on for a while, as one arm elevates a struggling Snoop, to a safe height.

She jumps for the mantelpiece, using my arm as a launchpad for misleadingly soft paws, hiding claws set to attack mode.

She misses.

Jimi takes chase, out the back door, and the Cat legs it straight up a ladder. My calm voice evaporates, oh for FUCKS SAAAKEEE.

But, I'm glad she's not dead.

I do the garden, slash dining room, slash door hokey-cokey.

Everyone is safe. Sloping up to the office, I'm jittery and sweating but find comfort in my uncomfortable, sticky, plastic swivel chair.

I sigh. Now back in my tiny vacuum of deep-concentration, caffeine and Microsoft Teams, my mind is jogged by a dizzy spell. A wilted desk plant and sudden dysphagia release a memory from the tip of my shrivelled tongue.

Forgot my fucking glass of water.


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