A few weeks ago, Mini-Me had a melt down because “Granda called me a Bitcheeeee!”
I was in one room, changing a savage nappy and hadn’t heard Granda talking to her, or indeed to anyone.
She arrived into me, eyes wide and ready to tell me ALL the tales. He did! He called me a bad wod.”
He did not call you a bad word Darling.
He did! He said “you wee bitchyee. I hurd him!” eyebrow raised for maximum effect.
So Mammy goes into the kitchen, just in time to see Granda tripping over the dog. (Well. They say she’s a dog. She’s not a real dog. She’s a toy dog; a little, sharp faced, shrill barked,white hairy snowball who I do indeed love even though I’d never admit it….)
“Damnitanywayyaweebitchyeeee!” he gnarls at the toy-dog as she scutters away from under his feet.
“What are you scowling about?” I ask him.
“That’s the second time I’ve tripped over that dog. Put her in the hall!” he growls. The toy dog is jumping on her hindlegs at my knees, looking for a treat that even after 12 years the dumbass hasn’t realised I do NOT HAVE to give her.
I open the door to let the toy dog into her fluffy bed and laugh as I hear Mini-Me announce “Ganda dat was NOT vewy nice!”
“What wasn’t nice?”
“You called me a bitcheee!” she accuses.
Poor Granda looks genuinely confused. “I did not!” he defends himself.
“Granda called the DOG a wee Bitchee Darling. Not you.” I intervene.
I await her “Ah OK Granda”, but instead, her face clouds over with even more tempered indignation and as she inhales, I know that poor Ganda is about to feel the wrath of a 6 year old whose favourite ball of fur has just been insulted.
Suddenly, her own feelings are irrelevant. But is he going to get it for calling the toy dog exactly what she is?
You bet your life he is.
I leave them to it and go to the hall where the little “Bitchee” is lying, curled up and oblivious to the absolute bolloking poor Granda is undergoing on her behalf in the kitchen…
or is she?
She may be cute and fluffy.
But there’s a streak of Gremlin in her. And I don’t mean Gizmo.
The wee Bitchee…