While Pampering Pip

Pip has made it perfectly clear that this whole Duncan-thing is highly overrated. We've had a spotty week, Pip and me, what with the way he can't stand to see a throw rug laying flat rather than in a crumpled and possibly lethal ball. Or the way he disapproves of a closed door. He does not abide being shut out of a space, be it a closet, a cabinet, the bathroom. And then there's his delightful way spilling water glasses in the middle of the night, sticking his paw into them and tipping them at just such an angle so as to ensure maximum saturation of nearby pillows, blankets, sleeping heads.

We have this routine, the children and me. Every morning as I'm preparing to leave for work they line up to see me off and I put one in charge. Winnie and Pip alternated days for years until Olive came along. It seemed inappropriate to put the youngest in charge of her elders, so I waited four or so years before Olive got her trial run. She did a splendid job and now pulls in one day a week, the rest being equally divided between Winnie and Pip. Once Duncan was old enough I appointed him the permanent Sergeant at Arms, my Number Two, a position he has honored and respected by sleeping mightily throughout the day. Duncan has never been placed in charge, first because he's too young, and second because I would return home to a full-fledged mutiny, the dog dead, rugs shredded and my blog commandeered to drive the point home.

Pip has been quite precocious this week, dashing madly in front of me as I walk, stopping unexpectedly, and just an hour ago gagging and retching on the linoleum in the kitchen, only to step gingerly out onto the carpet to complete the act and expel the nasty ball of hair I'm sure he'd been saving up for me all day.

Duncan has the night off and Pip has been placed in the highest esteem, if only to ward off further attacks.

Pray it works.