Don’t mix dogs and paint

Having moved recently, I’ve ambitiously decided to give the whole house a fresh coat of paint. I haven’t done much decorating since my early thirties. These days, I’m considerably more creaky with a dodgy shoulder and a tendency to feel dizzy if I look up for too long. Still, how hard can it be? 

A professional skimmed two bedroom ceilings for me, leaving fresh plaster ready to be coated with watered down paint. I armed myself with the right kit – a brand new pot of white paint, plastic sheeting for the floor and a roller on a pole to minimise wobbling time on the ladder.

Once Flossie was safely ensconced in her bed downstairs after a good walk I added water to the paint, as instructed, immersed the roller and raised it up to the ceiling, sightly tentatively. I was ready to roll.

It came as quite a surprise when the watery concoction pelted down on me, the floor, the walls and everything within its range. I let out several expletives but carried on, this time with a slower rolling action. The paint continued to splatter relentlessly, alarmingly sounding like a heavy shower as it landed on the plastic.

My shoes, thankfully old ones, now had white slimy soles. My hair, clothes and even inside my sleeves were covered in paint-infused liquid. I sorely regretted attempting to do this myself but I persevered, amid much muttering, and managed to complete the task, albeit rather badly. 

Carefully extricating myself from the room, I staggered into the bathroom and attemped to clean myself up. It took some time.

What I failed to do in my rush to escape the paint zone, was shut the door. 

Later, when I let Flossie out of the kitchen, she decided to inspect my handiwork. A curious black dog and a room swathed in paint-sprayed plastic is not a good combination. 

Fortunately emulsion is easily washed off paws. Smeared white pawprints on the carpet are less straightforward to remove.

You live and learn.