31. Fire Engines, Fairy Wings, and Found Family
Fire Engines, Fairy Wings, and Found Family
MAX
Ihave everything in my life that a man could want or need. All the blessings I never knew to hope for.
Except for those big, manly, athletic dogs, that is.
There is not a Weimaraner or a Vizsla in sight in these endless grounds in our weekend pad in the South Downs, and it’s a fucking travesty.
Instead, I’m constantly at risk of tripping over our two miniature long-haired dachshunds, Mac and Cheese, wherever I go.
They’re always under my bloody feet. They’re more spoilt than any emperor and better groomed than a My Little Pony.
Worse, it appears they’re virtually untrainable.
Obviously, Dex and I got totally screwed over by our wife. It’s not the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last. She claimed that having big dogs with big exercise needs while living in London during the week was downright cruel.
Personally, I think subjecting two grown men to these two is cruel, as are the knowing sniggers I get when I have to yell for the disobedient little shits by name in Holland Park when they refuse to remember their basic recall training.
Our four-year-old daughter, Amelia, alternates between disdain for their lack of self respect and adoration. Charlie, now five, is endlessly patient with them. Let’s just say our son got his biological father’s sweet nature and our daughter suffers fools even less than her old man.
At least Dex and I are not alone in our public humiliation.
Adam Wright got equally pussy-whipped and found himself buying a pup from the same litter as Cheese.
Welcoming (I use that term loosely in Adam’s case) the unimaginatively named Blondie into their family prompted Nat to design an entire line of overpriced doggy accessories for Gossamer.
Obviously, we own two of everything.
Canine regrets aside, today will be a happy day.
We’ve got most of the gang coming down for the afternoon to celebrate Charlie’s fifth birthday.
He has insisted on a fancy dress party, even though we’re still a couple of weeks away from Halloween, with dogs very much included in that dress code.
In fact, for those guests with doggy companions, the code is Dress Like Your Dog.
In an ill-judged move, a previous version of me insisted that the dog’s costumes, at the very least, be homemade. As a result, the five of us are spending our precious Saturday morning putting the finishing touches to the dogs’ costumes, and I am far, far more invested than is decent.
I personally would have gone for matching, or at least complementary, costumes for Mac and Cheese, but both kids have gone in their own creative directions.
Hence, Mac will be waddling around as a fire engine this afternoon—poor little fucker—and Cheese will be, predictably enough, a fairy princess.
Darcy has refused to have anything to do with the crafting of dog costumes, arguing that she’s organised “the entire fucking party” (her words) and that Dex and I should pull our fingers out and make ourselves useful.
That’s not strictly accurate—we’ve more than pulled our weight—but you never argue with your pregnant wife, a lesson Dex and I have learned the hard way.
Hence, we find ourselves in costume-crafting teams. Dex and Milly are Team Cheese the Fairy Princess while Charlie and I are Team Mac the Fire Engine. As for the human costumes, Dex, Charlie and I will dress as firemen later while mother and daughter are, predictably enough, fairy princesses.
I can tell you now that our wife is counting down the hours till she’s wrapped around two massive firemen’s poles later. A fireman-slash-fairy spit roast is not one I’ve tried before.
As that blessed hour is an eternity away and we have a fantastic little boy to celebrate in the meantime, we sit at our vast wooden table in this light, airy kitchen.
We bought this place a couple of years ago, when entertaining two kids under two in the city every weekend felt miserable as fuck.
It’s just over an hour from London, in an AONB—an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, with four acres of gardens and paddocks and a sprawling white house with a traditionally thatched roof.
The entire place is glorious, and I swear, every time we drive through those big gates, my blood pressure drops like a stone.
The problem with all your friends being Type A overachievers is that they’re competitive fucks, so I’m taking this dress code seriously. I will not have Charlie outclassed on his birthday by Wolff or Wright.
I took full measurements for Mac a couple of weeks ago and cut a large piece of cardboard to size.
It’s been folded over so it will essentially sit on his back, folding around his front, hanging over the sides and leaving his little legs free (though pissing could pose a problem).
I’ve attempted to explain to our son that it’s as important to get the structural integrity right as it is to honour the specifications of an authentic emergency vehicle.
Last weekend, Charlie painted the cardboard engine red as I looked on and praised his handiwork, sitting on my hands to stop myself from interfering. When he was in bed later that night, I touched up the blotchy parts and gave it a good coat of lacquer.
Darcy says I can’t help myself.
All this is to say: Team Mac the Fire Engine is in pretty good shape.
Dex, despite working far fewer hours than me this week, has done fuck all to prep for poor little Cheese’s costume and hence is sitting on the floor next to the table with Milly, trying not to swear out loud as he attempts to staple together a tutu from a mound of pink tulle.
‘This is deeply concerning,’ Darcy notes with a disparaging look at Team Cheese, wafting past with a huge floating bouquet of red and white balloons to tether somewhere (Mills is horrified that they aren’t rose gold, but this ain’t her party).
‘It’ll be fine,’ Dex says through clenched teeth, narrowly missing his finger with the stapler. ‘Ffff-fudge.’
I look on smugly. ‘Sounds like Daddy’s struggling a little, doesn’t it, Charlie-boy?’
He grins at me, delighted, showing tiny, pearly teeth. ‘Yep!’ The kid is far too sweet natured for his own good, so I’ve been treating this project as an excellent opportunity to instil in him some of my killer instinct.
We work away while, in the background, Spotify plays a series of shrill, kid-oriented covers of pop classics.
‘There!’ Dex says finally, the triumph in his voice audible. I look down. Cheese is wearing a poorly made tutu that definitely does not have structural integrity, and a pair of suspiciously well crafted wings that look to have originally been metal coat hangers.
‘Look, Daddy!’ Milly says to me, attempting to get the flimsy elastic chin strap of a tiny gold crown around Cheese’s endless snout. ‘She’s so pretty!’
‘She really is, darling,’ I coo before frowning at my husband. ‘Where did you get those wings? There’s no way you made those.’
He has the good grace to look sheepish. ‘Mummy made them last night, right, Mills? She said something about fairy wings being above my pay grade.’
‘For God’s sake,’ I mutter, unimpressed, watching as Cheese tries to shake her crown off.
Darcy goes way too easy on Dex. He dazzles her with those big doe eyes he passed onto our son and she’s fucking putty.
I mean, I’m not exactly immune myself, but sometimes you have to know when to hold your ground.
I grumble something about weaponised incompetence.
He grins at me.
I fucking melt.
‘Anyway,’ I say, recovering, ‘it’s still not as good as ours. Watch this. Fireman Sam has nothing on this guy.’
I manoeuvre Mac’s head carefully through the cardboard casing so the box is sitting jauntily over his elongated body.
He looks fantastic. We’ve attached cardboard wheels to the engine itself with split pins, the ladder I painstakingly made from straws affixed to his back.
He looks up at me, blinks, and then tries to curve his body to the left so he can chase his tail.
He can’t bend, obviously. Not in that thing.
He does a funny little dance, rotating on the spot without getting anywhere closer to his tail. I feel a brief stab of guilt. I’ll remove his cardboard prison until the guests arrive and extend his freedom.
The most important thing is that our dog costume is better than Dex’s.
Right on cue, Cheese gives up on trying to shake the crown from her head and scuttles off.
‘No!’ Dex shouts ineffectually at her. ‘Don’t—’
But she’s got a timely case of the zoomies. She races, crown askew and tutu flying, towards the kitchen sofa—the one that stands on short oak legs. The one she can just about squeeze under at the best of times. And as she disappears under it, my husband groans and I let out a shout of triumph.
Those wings are toast.
* * *
DEX
This guest list will win any Best Dressed award.
We have Anton Wolff in the house, dressed as James Bond.
Shocker. Gen looks stunning on his arm as a platinum blonde Bond Girl who’s definitely dressed to kill, but their dog, Hades, is drawing all the attention.
A Doberman who’s always lacked his owner’s, um, edge, he’s currently trussed up in sunglasses and an orange bikini, from the waistband of which sticks a rubber knife: Halle Berry in Die Another Day.
Not to be outdone, Zach has turned up looking basically like himself, except that Maddy assures me he’s supposed to be a librarian.
I suppose his hair does look messier than usual, and he’s wearing a mustard-coloured sleeveless sweater over his shirt.
He’s made poor old Norm bear the brunt of the responsibility.
The dog is wearing a lightweight sandwich-board-type affair, covered to make it look like a library book.
Of Mice and Men, to be exact.