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Mrs V and the Crotch of Doom

I had a terrible night’s sleep last night and the reason was to be found in the crotch of my leggings.

First task this morning was to sniff test the leggings to see if they’d do another day. Except the crotch was wet. Had I peed myself yesterday and not noticed? I thought I still had that stage of life to look forward to! Had I been sleep walking, popped them on, gone for a midnight stroll and sat on a wet patch? This seemed a bit far fetched, even for me. Also they smelled funny. My personal hygiene is questionable at times (see previous posts about pyjama days) but does not quite extend to eau de Pedigree Chum.

Top knicker eater in our house is Biggles. He is the proud destroyer of panties. Chief Chomper of the Undercrackers. However, inspection of the leggings revealed no holes. Instead they had been delicately chewed, like a fine morsel. There was only one suspect capable of gumming something to death.

I looked at the wee hairy toothless one, lying under a blanket on the end of the bed with his back legs and balls sticking out to cool him down (just to be clear, I mean the dog not Mr V 😉). I had a vague memory of being woken up several times by this dentally challenged hound. Clearly some midnight snacking had been going on.

I gave him a prod and his head appeared from under the blanket.

“Vegas, did you eat mummy’s leggings?”

He looked at me proudly and said “Yes, that was me. Aren’t you pleased I sucked them clean for you?”

“No, not really. They smell like something died in them.”

“Oh goody,” said my fangless friend, “that’s the best smell. Except for other dogs’ bottoms of course. Pass them here and I’ll have another lick.”

“Absolutely not!” I exclaimed and scuttled into the bathroom to wash my leggings in shampoo.

Ten minutes later Mr V, having eaten his own weight in Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, came barrelling into the bedroom to find his lovely, super-curvy goddess of a wife, standing in her knickers blow drying a pair of leggings whilst swearing at an unrepentant Jack Russell. Things took an upturn in the tartan trouser department and, for a moment, he looked quite hopeful.

There is nothing more guaranteed to dampen your ardour than your wife thrusting her leggings at you and, without explanation, saying “here, sniff these and tell me if my lady bits smell of dog breath.”

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