Crack me up, Mr Plumber

Plumbers keep the effluence going. Think of them as our colostomy: rubber glove on; drain is cleaned. Crap. Which is why I cracked up when my plumber’s crack showed.

No, Mr Plumber, you don’t just pump every columnist on this page into the sewer as you suggested exactly a week ago on this page. I clearly remember you commenting twice on my “diatribe”: “Carine, you need to take your daughter’s rape to the cops for a case” and “Carine, you gave her the wrong advice”.

But I’d love to read about what exactly cracks you up – you told me silently, I think. I was going to tell you today that my old Eliza of 13 years died – that same Eliza I told you about at the start of Covid when the SPCA came to take her away “because she is too thin”.

Remember? It took me three months to get her back. With a sore on her nose from pushing it through the cage sniffing when I’m coming to pick her up. Yes, she had probably the first “bath” ever there.

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They told me it took them “hours” to groom her, so don’t ask me why I expected a flowing Lassie running to greet me. She wasn’t. She looked exactly like when we tried to “groom” the dead hair. Just Eliza.

Did I tell you she never quite recovered from being not in her home for three months? Can I share she lost her Top Dog post? Dare I say I have never had a needier dog after that trauma – and believe me, trauma it is, SPCA.

But she’s dead now, my plumber. Took me three days to bury her. First, because the soil was too hard when she died on my deadline. But then she sent rain … lots of it. We had the hole dug the next day next to her in her death shroud: her favourite blanket.

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But, my plumber, I had to work and write a column… She was buried as the sun went down in between deadlines. I hear my animals crying when they lie on her pillow and think they care so much more than us. So I’ll cede my column to you, my plumber. Crack me up, Gav…