The Artist woke up in a terrible state this morning. He had had a nightmare. I immediately asked if the nightmare was that I had died. Because such was his state. What else could it have been to render him so distraught? It had to be that (that I had died) because his greatest fears would be realised in that he would have to:
* be on the frontline (like a General Eisenhower) to deal with two teenage girls and their mood swings on a daily basis
* buy tampons
* go formal dress shopping (for two dresses)
* shop for and cook two meals a night (one for normal people and one for a vegan)
* finally take responsibility for doing the 120 million hours required for Miss18 to get her drivers license
It turns out that my death is not that scary. What is that scary, the stuff that nightmares are made of, is BBQ’ing the dog. He had a dream that he BBQ’d Koda. And Koda’s eyes were open on the BBQ while he was preparing to eat him.
I went to make coffee and returned to find The Artist spooning the dog on his bed (the dog’s) whilst crooning his deepest apologies. The dog was having none of it.
He stalked downstairs with me in indignation to do his morning ablutions. And then the problems started. He would not come inside for fear of being breakfast, even though BBQ is more of a lunch/dinner thing.
I explained to him that he was safe. Traumatised he started eating grass whilst communicating to me with his eyes that perhaps if he eats grass his father won’t find him so appetising. I then told him about the cows that his father enjoys as steak – completely destroying his safety net theory and my hope of ever getting him inside.
The Artist is still apologising to Koda for his terrible dream transgression. But I don’t think he is that sorry because I sent him this Facebook funny to which he responded as follows:
Yup – nightmare my friend.
Love and light