Few things in life are less funny than being puked on by a carsick Rottweiler.
Well, realistically, lots of things are less funny. War, famine.....that sort of thing. But on a very basic, visceral level, being bathed in stomach-warm, half digested dog biscuits is pretty much no fun at all.
Filthy's appearance belied his delicate nature. Nine and a half stone of prime male Rotty, he was master of all he surveyed. He was also the softest, most loyal teddy bear of a dog I ever did meet, and although I lost him five years ago I still miss him. The stomach thing though - that got old really, really quickly. We first realised there might be a problem when he was a couple of months old. We took the dogs to Dunwich for a rainy afternoon's stamp along the beach. The labrador was fine. Filthy, however, did the sink-plunger noise all the way, starting a couple of hundred yards from the house and finishing only when the boot lid was lifted on arrival to reveal a small dishevelled puppy covered in breakfast. We presumed he'd grow out of it. He didn't. And believe me, we tried everything. Anti-emetics. Starvation. Hydration. Soothing music (does Motorhead count?). And none of it worked.
In the end, we decided to try varying his position in the car. We figured that maybe travelling in the boot wasn't agreeing with him. Maybe it was the going-backwards thing. Or maybe going-forwards. Or sideways (on sharp bends). Whichever. A plan was hatched which was guaranteed to succeed. I sat in the front passenger seat, my lap shrouded in a split-open black bin liner (in case of emergency, you understand). I (optimistically) held an empty ice-cream tub, filled with cool, refreshing water (we were hanging pretty much everything on the dehydration thing) to soothe a troubled tummy. Filthy was wedged between my plastic-clad knees, his massive head in my lap, and we set off.
It went swimmingly. For the first two miles. I gently stroked Filthy's muzzle and he lapped at the cool water in the ice cream tub. The Ex and I exchanged slightly smug smiles, confident in our dog-stomach-whispering abilities. The countryside glided past the slightly-open window in a scene of pastoral contentment. And then it began. A sort of whomping, sucking noise. Filthy's sides contracted and then began to expand like Oprah Winfrey's stomach at a soul-food restaurant. Enormous, guttural belches rent the air. I glanced at my bin-bag-shrouded knees and offered up a silent prayer to the gods of upholstery (St. DFS? St. Scotchguard?). It was all in vain. A revoltingly warm cascade of soggy dog biscuits filled my lap, even as I tried pointlessly to catch the flow in a (now pathetically inadequate) ice cream tub. I glanced at Filthy. His eyes fixed mine in silent, apologetic embarassment, as he hurled everything he had ever eaten ever into my lap. Poor dog. And poor me, pathetically mopping myself down by the roadside, dreading the journey home (don't ask).
So. Puke holds pretty much no fear for me. Which is a good thing really, as Small Person staged a dramatic re-enactment of the above episode in the car on Saturday. Preceded with the frantic words "Mummy! I feel like I'm going to be sick!", we hurtled helplessly down the fast lane of the A12 at a hundred miles an hour as she vomited about a ton of chicken nuggets (cooked by her father) into her lap. The horror. It took me half an hour and twelve baby wipes to even begin to sort the car out, and the Other Half still won't sit in the "Pukey Seat".
There's probably a moral to this story. I'm buggered if I know what it might be. Oh...hang on!! Don't read other people's blogs while you're eating your tea.