I’m not always good at differentiating between your average blindly drunk, 3am street-wandering pedestrian and my baby. My ears will perk up, my pupils will dilate and like The Big Brown One listening for the drops of his food clanging into his bowl, I will turn my head, freeze on the spot and ask “Hark! Is that my baby?” What?! Dogs obviously have an internal monologue.
Things I have mistaken for my baby’s cry:
- The vacuum
- The rhythmically-challenged church campanologists
- The washing machine
- Aforementioned drunk people outside
- Water pressure from the shower
- And seagulls.
And that’s where I die a little inside – SEAGULLS! Those scummy scavengers whose disease ridden wings beat your hair as they dive-bomb your best friend when she’s visiting from America and try to snatch her pasty right out of her hand. Not that it’s personal or anything.
Is anybody with me on this (not the seagull thing, the hearing thing – unless you are with me on the seagull thing and then we, too, can be best friends)?