Stuff

I came home from the cinema and my brother said, "Bad news." My nannan died earlier in the evening. Not a huge shock, since we'd been prepared implicitly for months--years even--and explicitly for weeks, but still. Sad.

But you know what? The shameful, awful thing is when Rich said, "Bad news," my immediate thought was, Dear God, don't let it be Spike.

Now of course, we have the whole funeral minefield to get through. For starters, my cousin turns 17 on Wednesday, which is when the funeral probably would have been (I really hope no one's callous enough to organise it for then: she's one of only six grandchildren, it can be avoided). And then the whole wonderful saga of my mum and her sister, who don't talk. It's my mum's mum who died, so the whole thing really isn't avoidable.

Then as detailed below, we have to figure out how the fuck you organise and attend a funeral 160 miles away when you have a boisterous 12 month old puppy. It's too big an ask to have a friend take care of her, and kennels aren't an option. I found a hotel that will apparently accept dogs, but will they be happy to have her alone in the room for hours and hours? Can you take a dog to a funeral? I don't think so. Although people take babies and they're even more disruptive.

Hell, she'd certainly cheer things up at the wake.

Spike, incidentally, is enjoying his birthday, and probably won't go back to eating the regular expensive food, now he's had a taste of the super-duper expensive stuff. Pampered? Naah. We just treat him the same as any other god-king.