Dog’s eye-view with pregnant narrator

Your baby is as tall as an English hothouse cucumber

In a chronological outcome as predictable to you as it is remarkable to me, I am now six months pregnant, and experiencing what might best be described as a personalised redistribution of corporeal largesse as a result.  I am tight of calf, lean of back and as rotund and smooth in front as a seal or (my preferred image) a penguin on its nest (even if it is the male penguin that has this role).  I have lost the flexibility that previously characterised my Rubenesque form, and can no longer tuck myself into a chair in the corner of a bar or a meeting.  No, my preferred posture is now perhaps politely described as lounging, and more accurately as lolling.  This is, as friends and semi-well-wishers like to point out, only the start.  As our obstetrician explained: at twenty-eight weeks, the average weight of baby is 1000 grams, whereas at thirty-eight weeks it is 3000 grams.  I am not afraid of looking ridiculous, but am a bit worried about the ability of my expanding form to hold itself up in the meantime.  By day’s end I already long for some sort of bamboo or fibreglass scaffolding on which to trolley my passenger.

This is a good frame of mind in which to be enjoying the puppies, whose daily nuances of juvenile behaviour chime with my increasingly soppy taste for all things bright, beautiful and small.  We are immeasurably thrilled to have found a wonderful home for Tom, following in the footsteps of this handsome fellow, Arthur’s sire, here pictured some five years ago and now in his venerable years.  The fact this is with the family of Betty, from whose kennels Arthur came and through whose generosity I was first introduced to the world of Norwiches ten years ago, means a great deal.  It also makes the task of finding the right home for Rosie seem achievable.

I have been forced by headaches and malaise to slow down in the last few days, which has done wonders in terms of banishing the first threatening bout of depression since this pregnancy ensued.  I am going to have to find the tenacity of a terrier in the coming months to manage my workload appropriately, since I cannot work nine-to-seven for two days and then crash for the next two on any regular basis.  Easter is a welcome respite from the keeping of schedules and the maintaining of a reasonable tone at all times; thanks to the señor’s own resilience and love of black humour, I can make our home the theatre for giving voice to all my lesser grievances and frustrations while he laughs at me.  I suspect that at work I feel the need to be the most reasonable person in the room at all times precisely because in reality I am an emotional sort of character.  This is good for body armour but not so good for a well-balanced life.  I may need to put on my feminist thinking cap over the break to consider this matter some more.

Meanwhile, here is a video shot on my mobile phone of three characters (plus Arthur) who have no such concerns.

The Puppies Contemplate the Boss Dog from Harvest Bird on Vimeo.