Doggo 2 - The Sequel?

I can't be in as bad a state as I think I am because, flushed with the elation of surviving Colwick; I decide to do a recovery run into work this morning. I would have preferred to bike but I need to stay in Derby tonight. Not surprisingly I find the run very hard work and turn it into a run/walk e.g. run ten minutes, walk five minutes etc. L would have hated me; she can't bear people who do that.

Once I'm at work and getting changed I discover the full extent of the damage the Grand Prix has inflicted on my body. Namely, a massive blister on my right foot but hang on... it pales into insignificance with the one I discover on my left foot. Wow. That's so impressive. I'm eager to share this discovery with someone but feel my work colleagues may not quite share my appreciation of it. Lucky for L that I don't have a camera phone.

L doesn’t sound any better and confesses to walking like a duck this morning. This would be funny, if she wasn't doing another race tonight. She's off work today and waddles off to yoga to see if she can loosen up.

Against our better judgement, we've been considering getting another dog. It was also against our better judgement that we ended up with Doggo but that seems to have worked out ok. The biggest problem will be what do I call him in this blog? Doggo 2? I don't think that quite works.

We had been offered a nine-month-old collie that seems to be being passed around a family because no one knew what to do with the poor creature. We had been trying to arrange to see it and borrow it, just to see if Doggo (the original one) got on with it because I fear he won't. However unbeknown to the people in the family we were talking to; another family member has now dumped it in a rescue home, which has effectively ended our interest. To jail break him out will cost us at least £70, plus home checks and no chance of borrowing him. What a mess but I'm sure he'll now get a good home.

All of this dog talk is making L very broody and she says I'll have to get a puppy to appease her. Although I seem to recall her not being terribly keen on Doggo when he was a razor-toothed brute of a pup. Time heals all wounds as they say.

In the evening it's probably the last rites for L's injured leg at the 10k run that she's let one of her friends talk her into. Her friend, of course, hasn't just done the Grand Prix series of four races in nine days. I opt out of this one and will cheer her on from the sidelines. We had planned to leave Doggo at home, resting up for his dog show tomorrow but L's sister and her family are in town and have decided to come to the race; mainly I think to see the dog. So L brings him over in the car, I hope she remembers not to bring my kit.

I walk straight to the race venue from work, telling L that if she sees someone crawling along the roadside, to feel free to pick me up. In the end though, I get there first, although L soon drives up and... blimey, is that Daughter with her? Oh no does this means the TV's broke and on the eve of the Tour de France too.

The race itself goes ok. L copes with the huge fan club that has turned up to cheer her along. She doesn't exactly storm round but then you wouldn't expect a badly injured person who's just done four races in nine days to storm round.

Doggo has a fantastic night, as well as supporting L, he has to amuse everyone else. By the time we get home, he looks exhausted. I tell him to kip, because we're up at 6am tomorrow for the dog show, as I close the door behind us as we dump him and head off to the Johnson Arms for a couple of pints. I'm not sure we'll be bringing home any silverware this week.

The beer is Sharps from Cornwall and not bad at all. Then we head for the curry we had promised ourselves at the end of the Grand Prix series. The curry is excellent but it clearly doesn't like me.

At 4am, I awake, not feeling terribly well, to be more precise, feeling incredibly stuffed full of curry. In fact feeling like John Hurt in Alien. You know when that huge bulge appears in his torso because something is trying to break out of his stomach. Well a baby alien doesn't quite burst out of my stomach like a gruesome jack-in-the-box but I do have to nip to the bathroom and re-live the curry again.

Which is bloody annoying because it was such a good curry and it couldn't have been the beer because we didn't have time for much alcohol. The lesson is, don't eat far too much and then go to bed on it.