Tom Hardy Is Ruining My Life.

Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d utter. Mind, to be fair there was the time Gary Linekar made me drop an age size in clothes and ruined my 100% attendance in primary school.

Gary was the fundamental reason we all knew something wasn’t quite right with me. Such was my obsession, the day I found out he was already married I refused to eat anything other than chocolate buttons and leave my bedroom. To put things into perspective my goldfish, Jenny Craig, had passed away in the same week, so, I’m pretty sure I was allowed to dramatically declare that my heart would never be mended.

My mother was both concerned and relieved. Concerned that her one and only had an unhealthy obsession with an older, married footballer and relived I wasn’t showing lesbian tendencies at a young age, such was her want for grandchildren back then, if only she knew what we all knew know, ey?

‘We knew with Wendy, see!’ She’d say. ‘It was obvious when she was a toddler.’

And don’t get me wrong she loved Wendy and her gang but she’d waited 10 years for a little girl to put bows in her hair and take to afternoon tea. She got me!

Anyway, back to Tom Hardy. Not the actor this time, but his canine namesake. Although, to be fair, it was recently announced in the press that the real Tom Hardy’s Mrs is expecting their second bundle of joy and that made my cheeks green for a few hours. (I’ve long since learned that survival based on chocolate buttons is idiotic and during times of heartbreak it’s best to quaff anything that’s edible in a 10 metre radius, including gone off cheese.)

But back to my Tom Hardy; the 6 stone, clumsy, wrecking ball of a Dogue de Bordeaux puppy, who is genuinely ruining my life.

And if my life had a bio right now it would read, Tom Hardy is ruining my life. A little bit of joy, a lot of chaos and 25 tonnes of shit daily.

Tom Hardy was a gift. He turned up just before the snow of this year and he was my hopes and dreams wrapped up in a smelly blanket.

My mental health, and reasons I won’t go into, were, how do the kids say it? Fucked.

Yes, without being overly dramatic how I got to the March of this year I still don’t know, well, I do, perseverance and gin but that’s a whole other story and one I’m not ready to write.

Anyway, after years of begging for a pug and alpacas, Tom Hardy was Scott’s compromise and my last hope of squaring my head up.

I’ve just written that sentence and laughed my actual head off!

Who in their right mind would think a slobbering, malting, massive, ginger speed bump like dog, would make things better?

And I’ve laughed because even though this monstrosity of a dog is causing absolute mayhem in my too small house, with my small human and even smaller, pigeon chested Staffordshire Bull Terrier, he is doing what we hoped he would.

He’s making me happy.

He’s ruining my kitchen, my tea towel collection, my patience and hope for a nice house but he’s bringing with him joy, some writing and some much needed fresh air.*

What I’m hoping he hasn’t brought with him is offspring!

Yes, you read that right. I mean, he tried to fuck Taggie’s ear when she was in season, not to mention their shared basket and anything else with a corner, he was that clueless at one point he was attempting to bang her head, and whilst he’s so tall and she’s so not, she was peeking though his balls with a look on her face that read; and still in 2018 these pricks get more money than our gender!

Anyway, on our daily hell hike yesterday (20 mins of the 2 of them trying to rip my arms out of my socket) I noticed Taggie looked a bit round. And when I felt her belly I noticed her nipples were, how shall I say it? Pronounced! Yes, that will do, pronounced.

I immediately googled ‘how do I know if my bitch is pregnant?’ And immediately regretted my choice of words. I retyped and prayed that I was doing that thing where I unnecessarily worry.

I’ve not slept.

I’m so concerned that Taggie is growing dogs the size of highland calf’s in her tiny belly that I’ve not slept, I’ve prayed a bit and then cried a bit.

Her poor vagina is the only phrase circling my tired brain.

‘We thought he was too young and far too tall!’ That’s what I’ll tell anyone who asks when I’m pushing a litter of huge, purple, stupid puppies around the park in a running buggy, whilst Taggie, complete with those wheel things that enable disabled dogs to go on walks, because lets face it her foof will never recover from something like this.

I’ll also wear black and weep.

So, vets for us today. My little overweight tribe and me.

Wish us luck!

* Fresh air, as in walks outside, the air near Tom Hardy is far from fresh. My house smells like a cross between a pet friendly Yankee candle and the arse end of a campsite.

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