… than the sound of your dog about to vomit. I’m writing this at 5am, 20 minutes after this exact scenario occurred.

Bentley is an old fella, an English bulldog of 10 years 8 months. Current stats put their life expectancy at around 8 years so he’s well past his expiry date but no major health concerns so we plod along.

He has, however, developed some intolerances in his senior years, one of them being gravy. I’m sure he’s fucking devastated by this but yesterday he was treated to a little bit as a one off… that won’t happen again. 4:40am this morning I wake up to the sound of him trotting down the hallway. No idea why, there is a mat by the back door (which is much closer to where he sleeps) that he could have barfed on but no. This dickhead decides to go all the way to the front door and throw up on the new, much more expensive, sea grass mat hubby bought for the front entrance to our home. For fucks sake 🤦🏻‍♀️.

I obviously wasn’t going to get to him in time and the husband didn’t either as, in the dark, he headed towards the back door where he expected to find him only to discover that a nausea-struck, disoriented dog had headed for the other (wrong) door. Following which came chimes of “fucking dog!” while the mat got slung outside and hosed down and Bentley swiftly went out there to also take a questionable-quality shit. FML.

Husband has since gone back to bed, the dog is sleeping quietly in his and I’m sat here bolt upright just in case I have to move with any semblance of speed.

Lesson learned, no matter how hard he hits us with the “puppy dog eyes” this fucker ain’t having gravy ever again!