The Dentist of Doom and the Very Bad Cat

It’s been busy lately. Good busy. I’m feeling good, my physical health is improving. Things are going well.

But that’s not to say there haven’t been a few dramas.

Remember The Tooth That Broke Me? Well, I got that fixed. If by fixing the problem, I mean removing it completely. I finally plucked up the courage to go to the Dentist of Doom. I don’t mean a particular dentist. Pretty much any dentist, in my experience, means doom. Quite frankly, I’d rather have a colonoscopy than go to the dentist. I can say that I’ve had plenty of colonoscopies recently, and at least you are asleep, and they bring you a sandwich afterwards. All you get at the dentist is a lecture on flossing and hefty bill.

Anyway I went along, the dentist took some x-rays then informed me rather sombrely that the tooth was not viable. It was badly cracked at the base, couldn’t be fixed, and needed to come out. She could refer me to  Specialist So and So, but he would probably say the same thing and it would be super expensive.

So, playing it cool and casual, I told her: “Ok. I’m happy for it to be taken out.”
“Yep, I can do that now.” she said, grabbing some of her scary looking tools.
“What? NOW?!” I squeaked, horrified. This was totally not the plan. The plan was to smile, walk out that door, and NEVER EVER RETURN.
“Sure. It should be pretty simple, and will save you coming back.” I caught sight of a gargantuan needle. I wept.
“Ok…but…NOW?!” I started to hyperventilate. Then I started apologising and rabbiting on about how I was nervous and didn’t like dentists. Then I realised that I was saying this to a dentist and apologised some more. I think I basically talked as much as possible so she couldn’t get her hands, or her scary tools, in my mouth. Fortunately she had a good sense of humour.

Peer pressure won, and I did it. I sat back in the chair of doom, squeezed my eyes shut, thought of England, and let her whip that goddamn tooth out. Afterwards I sat up, feeling quite pleased with myself, and slurred a version of “Well, that wasn’t too bad!”

Then I promptly passed out, and they had to call Hubster to pick me up. So much for cool and casual.

And this is why I don’t like the dentist.

We also finished renovations on our old house. Long story short, it was a family effort and took many months. We finally had the new carpet laid. New tenants were due to move in within a few weeks. All was under control.

But of course, this is my family. Where things are never as they seem. And things are rarely under control.

Hubster, Master D and I went for a relaxing stroll one evening, and we passed the old house. We decided to have a peek through the windows at the new carpet. As we were looking through Hubster suddenly exclaims..

“Rachael. There’s a POO in there! On the new carpet!”
“Oh har har har.” I retorted. “Very funny.”
“No, Rachael. I’m serious. There is POO all over it!”

I was about to roll my eyes, when he suddenly jumped over the back fence to let himself in the back door. Like a boss. Then I knew he was serious. I looked in the window again, and to my absolute horror Hubster was right. Crap. Crap everywhere.

At first I was really confused. I mean, the house had been locked up for weeks. The only people who had been in were the agent and the carpet layers. I came to the conclusion  that the carpet layer must have taken a dump on his new flooring. Which wasn’t entirely unreasonable, as we found he had had some sort of colon explosion in the main toilet and neglected to clean it up. And call me sexist; but I figured that most female, twenty something, blonde, highly attractive estate agents don’t shit on carpets.

Then we heard a pitiful meow.

Turned out my sisters cat had somehow, God knows how, gotten locked in the house. Why? We’ll never know. How? We can but imagine. My sister lives next door, but the cat had never been to our house before. Out of all the rooms in the entire house – most of which were tiled – he chose the new carpet as his toilet. How do these things even happen. What the hell man?!

Me being me, I started laughing. Because what else can you do really? Then the agent called and was all “this is going to sound really strange….but the new tenants were having a look in the house, and they said there is a cat in there…” and I laughed even more. I’m still laughing to be honest.

I’m happy to report that all carpets remain unscathed. No animals were harmed (although this was touch and go) and the tenants are still moving in.

He's not sorry.

He’s not sorry.

Seriously. Not sorry at all.

Seriously. Not sorry at all.

And this is why I’m a dog person.

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