Now, I am decidedly not a dog person. As evidenced by the fact I spent a long morning with that brown-haired golden retriever in the pictures, and actually really liked her, but can't for the life of me remember her name. The small, white spoodle (apparently called a 'cockapoo' in the states, jesus h.) is called Skye and belongs to my beautiful red-haired Australian flatmate Claire, pictured above and belong being suffocated by dogs while trying to drive.
The little idiot Skye has been growing on me, like a tumour, to the point where I even let her sleep in my bed while Claire was away filming nature documentaries a la David Attenborough. The first night was great, Skye stayed at my feet (rule #1) and didn't wake me too early (rule #2). She even kept me warm and gave me the false sense of security that if there should be an intruder, she would do something (just what a 'cockapoo' would be capable of doing takes quite a wild stretch of the imagination). I was thinking, oh, I see where these 'dog-people' are coming from!
Well, then she woke me on a Friday morning, at the cheerful hour of just after six a.m., by unceremoniously puking on my bed. I felt like I had gone against all good judgement and taken a drunk first-year home, and was looking at the all-too-predictable results. One of my neighbours, on hearing the tale, responded "God, I can't even handle birds singing at six in the morning, you poor thing!" Indeed. I had to 'deal with' the grossness, while holding back violent gags, while half asleep, before I even had a coffee. POOR POOR ME.
So, I'm well back to being a cat person. I said this to my sister, triumphantly. My sister, who thinks all pets are disgusting, costly wastes of space replied: "cats puke too"
me: "yes, true, but they're smaller right? it isn't as bad?"
Epilogue: I still love Skye, but she is banned from my room until further notice. I know it wasn't her fault, but - in a way - that makes it worse.