Myrtle is our dog. And 99 out of 100 times, these are the first words of greeting spoken in this house. And by all family members, not just me. I'm more of a "Hi-is-there-tea-where's-myrtle". (I communicate in an incomprehensible mumble my mother never tires of telling me). So despite having flown back to the nest which I so proudly flew three years ago, I have subsequently been, firmly replaced.
Myrtle does dominate pretty much everything in shire life. Practically every evening there is a battle of wits where Myrtle and I size each other in a fight for the one cushion there is available to sit on. Myrtle is always backed by my parents, who look down on us from their respective chair/sofa and laugh uproariously when Myrtle turned ninja jumps on the bloody thing whilst my back is turned for a SPLIT second and I have to sit on the floor. Or go to my room and sulk, obviously, with echoes of "well it is her cushion, Anna" reverberating bitterly in my ears.
Despite all evidence to the contrary, my parents are convinced that Myrtle is the most well behaved dog out of all the dogs that have ever existed, including Lassie. Sometimes I feel like I'm in some kind of parallel universe where in a different life Myrtle is actually some toddler called Caligula who rules Highgate play groups with an iron fist. Maybe this is a slight exaggeration, Myrtle may be a bit thuggish, but she's no Caligula. Agrippina Minor.. mebbe #classicistgags. Anyway she is disobedient and on almost every walk which I take her on, I inevitably end up losing my temper and shouting obscenities at her. Despite what my mother says, "Myrtle, come!" does not work, whereas "MYRTLE YOU BLOODY DOG COME BACK RIGHT NOW YOU LITTLE ******" works a charm. As one of my friends who witnessed the process once commented mildly - the sounds of the shire would be very different were it not for your walks with Myrtle.
Indeed, many things about my life in the shire would be very different were it not for Myrtle. The things is, the shire is very...shire like. People wonder why I'm always banging on about the zombie apocalypse and why I have such a comprehensive plan come the inevitable outbreak (grab some crisps and a bottle opener, head to the cellar). It's because, sometimes on weekends you can find yourself wondering if maybe the zombie apocalypse has happened, and just no one in the shire has noticed. It really is, quite remote. So remote in fact, that sometimes it is quite easy to forget that you're not the only one out and about. I was out with Myrtle yesterday, and whilst walking along one of our quite country roads I was keeping myself and the dog entertained with a particularly moving performance of Ironic by Alannis Morisette. So involved was I that I completely failed to notice that a car was waiting patiently for me to get out of the way and it was only when my accomponying dance moves required a 360 degrees spin that I eventually clocked him. Mortifying? Oh yes. But if there's one thing that years of mortifying experiences have taught me, the best thing to do is brazen the bloody thing out. Yank the dog out of the way, don't stop singing, and give the chap a hearty wave. Ignore the fact that he looks like he is suppressing either tears of laughter or very bad heart burn and carry, jauntily on. Or you can just take a bow. Whatever you feel comfortable with.
I have titled this post Shire life (i) because there is more to my life here than the dog, although it probably doesn't seem like that right now. I know that all previous posts I've labelled as being Part 1 with the intention of encouraging/shaming me into writing part 2 have never been completed, but this is 2014! Things are (probably) different now. So stay tuned, etc.
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