Our huskies are dead. That's right, I took a hatchet to the bastards. I had to look into their big, brown, vacant eyes and somehow detach myself as the grim deed was done. It was necessary and totally humane. For us. We were cold and hungry, and their meat and fur helped nurture what was left of my wife and I on our trip home at the end of an arduous week. We had been camped out on the M50 for much of the last three days, and before that, we were forced into the purchase of said huskies from a dodgy looking Eskimo following our near fatal expedition on the N7 out of Castledermot. Cars slid and slipped, vans hilariously got stuck head first into holes like Winnie the Pooh. Buying our snow-hounds seemed a good bet as a glacier formed rapidly from Carlow to Dublin. South Leinster looked like the Baring Straights, though we couldn't see Russia from our house. It turned out to be just another panic buy.
Instead of venturing forwards with our new dogs, however, we turned back and went home; took a mad, bad and definitely sad trip on public "transport" the next day and found that the weather was, like manflu, not so much bad as it was messy.
All because a few county councils couldn't have been arsed gritting the roads, thereby risking our already fairly peeky looking economy as 9% of us stayed at home (not including the near 400,000 who have nowhere to go in the morning anyway).
Maybe it's stay at home telemarketing for everyone. It's better than waiting for the powers that be to do up a recovery plan and grit the damn roads!
