Firstly: I have broken my month long gym drought! Yay me! Yes, Terry and I went to Body Pump this morning, an act facilitated yesterday by Terry giving me a £10 note and telling me that if he DIDN’T get up and go to the gym today, I could keep it. Naturally, I hoped he wouldn’t go, but damn, if he wasn’t up bright and early, all "Let’s go the gym! Let’s go now! Give me back my £10, bitch!"*
* Not really
There was a moment as I hauled my sorry ass out of bed when I briefly contemplated giving him £10 not to make me go, but it’s always the actual getting up and getting out the door that’s the worst part, isn’t it? Once we were there, I did enjoy it, and I may even go again tomorrow, only probably not because whoa, there, sister, let’s take this sloooow….
Anyway, when we got home, we decided to take advantage of the brief outbreak of watery sunshine (don’t worry, it didn’t last, but there were a few hours today when we got to see what the roads and paths around our house look like when they’re dry, and that’s not something you get to see very often, let me tell you) and take the dog for a walk, and, once again, Rubin tried to go into the local pub. Yes, folks, looks like Rubin has himself a drinking problem. GOD.
Of course, I jest. Rubin is really just a social drinker, but he has tried to get into the pub the last three times we’ve taken him past it, and if we manage to stop him getting in the front door, he just runs round the back. Yes, it’s almost like he’s BEEN THERE BEFORE. Which, actually, now I come to think of it, would totally explain all those beer bottles we keep finding in his bed, and the way he sometimes doesn’t get up until afternoon these days…
Anyway, Rubin is hellbent on getting inside that pub, and it actually has nothing to do with Happy Hour and everything to do with the fact that a couple of weeks ago, Rubin found himself a girlfriend. See, these are the things no one tells you about buying a dog. You think you’re getting this cute little puppy, then the next thing you know, it’s a teenager and it’s bringing home girlfriends and trying to get into the pub all the time. WHO KNEW?
Rubin’s girlfriend is a Shitz-zu called Bonnie. Bonnie belongs to the landlord of the pub, which I guess is every young man’s dream – a girlfriend whose dad owns a pub. They met a couple of weeks ago, when I was out walking Rubin alone, and, of course, once he spotted Bonnie, he was transported with delight. Bonnie’s owner was standing outside the pub with her at the time, and he seemed equally delighted to see Rubin, which was unusual, because that’s not the reaction Rubin usually gets from people. Probably because he normally tries to eat their trousers.
So, Rubin and Bonnie played happily together for a few minutes, and it was kind of like a scene from a Disney movie – two cute little fluffy animals gamboling happily among the green grass and broken Buckfast bottles. Then it all turned a little less Disney as Rubin suddenly spun round a few times and then dropped a giant turd right in front of Bonnie’s surprised face. That was pretty much the end of any romantic notions she might have been starting to have about him, and after that he owner picked her up and carried her back into the pub.
And Rubin followed them.
Luckily, I managed to snatch him up just as he crossed the threshold, but ever since then, he has tried to return at every opportunity he gets. This is mostly our fault, as Terry and I have somehow managed to develop selective amnesia about the events surrounding Rubin and The Pub, which means that every time we go past it, we normally have Rubin off the leash (the pub is right next to the strip of woodland where we walk him), which allows him to speed up and make a break for the saloon doors. Only the presence of the landlord sitting outside the back door stopped Rubin entering the bar and pulling up a stool today, I swear to God.
Clearly the solution to this issue is to keep Rubin on the leash when we get anywhere near the vicinity of the pub. I think his drinking days are over. Also, we really don’t want to have to go in there and drag him out by the scruff of his neck. We really thought that by not having kids we’d be able to avoid those kind of scenes…