Woe be the man who breeds dogs, keeps them in his house, feeds them every few hours, names them, fusses them, spoils them rotten and then has to watch them being taken away to new homes.
Four puppies, two boys and two girls and over the last couple of days they have all been sent off to live with their new owners. The last one to go was about fifteen minutes ago. She was the smallest of the two bitches, a gorgeous black and tan German Shepherd puppy with oversize feet and a thick tail that wagged at everything and she had the daintiest little face ever.
Over the weekend she has seen her brothers and sister being carried off and kind of put two and two together and worked out that strangers come and the pack members get taken away. Needless to say, that when the last lady came she ran off and hid under the dining room table. ‘Really, she is a confident dog…honestly…’
I called her Princess, which was a stupid thing to do as it only served to build the attachment stronger.
For the last eight weeks, my home has been a nightmare scene of epic proportions, one carpet ruined, one television cabinet drawer knob removed, several cushions eaten, blankets, towels, shoes, socks and not to mention the multitude of bites on my arms and hands from the razor sharp little teeth. But, for a dog person, it was heaven. Utter bliss.
I’ll take the poo and wee all day long for those curious little button noses and sharp eyes. When they first learn to negotiate the step down from the dining room into the kitchen, then start to explore how far they can leap into the kitchen if they have a run up, then how far into the muddy garden can they sprint when I open the back door, and how many branches of the bush from the patio they can pull back into the lounge.
My toes took a battering too. Four furry biting machines that realised the big slow bald thing sits in that chair for hours on end…he has wriggly toes…and he doesn’t wear slippers…once they learnt that trick I was spending hours trying to write with my feet up and in the end I found a really old thick pair of socks which they took great delight in chomping.
I was considering keeping the last puppy, but I already have three adult dogs so having another one would render me liable to being sectioned under the Mental Health Act. However, parting with her was hard and I found myself vetting every potential owner with an increasing air of suspicion that was bordering on something like a Guantanamo Bay interrogation method, complete with water boarding, electric shock probes, sensory deprivation and a dripping tap thrown in for good measure.
‘Do you smoke?’ ‘No, I don’t smoke.’ ‘Ah, okay…do you have a garden at home?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘A small garden no doubt that is overgrown and covered in sharp needles from your heroin habit.’ ‘Er no, it’s a big garden with lawn…and er…I don’t use heroin.’ ‘Don’t use heroin eh? You just smoke it instead do you?’ ‘What? No! I don’t take any heroin.’ ‘Prefer Cocaine then.’ ‘No!’ ‘Fair enough, so…you just like a bong in the evening? Smoke a reefer? Spliff up and do the dooby?’ ‘No…I don’t take drugs….I just want a puppy.’ ‘What for? What do you want a puppy for? To experiment on? To inject with vile concoctions that you have made in your secret laboratory?’ ‘No! Just to have…like as a pet…’ ‘Gonna sell it to the Korean’s are you??? Fancy a puppy sandwich…is that it? Want to see what all the fuss is about…’ ‘Stop it! I just want a puppy.’ ‘How do you vote?’ ‘Pardon?’ ‘How do you vote? Tory? Labour? Lib-dems? Greenpeace? Fancy a bit of the BNP do you?’ ‘I don’t vote…’ ‘Don’t vote! What are you…a conscientious objector? A lazy bastard that can’t be bothered to attend the polling station because you’re too busy selling crack to kids?’ ‘No! Okay…then I vote Tory.’ ‘Tory…oh my fucking word…Tory? So you hate the working class man then? You hate public services do you? Want to be corrupt and take money from the banks while doing a funny handshake you upper-class public-school toffs. Like fox hunting do you? Like killing foxes while running about the countryside in a giant Range rover…or on a big house while you spit down at the hard working honest man…’ ‘Labour then!’ ‘Labour! She said Labour…oh my fucking word…so you hate the middle class educated man then…pro-unions are you? You love Tony Blair and that one that was never voted for but still managed to be Prime Minister…working class benefit scrounging socialist who wants to spend all the money on public services so you bankrupt the country…’ ‘Stop it…I er…I like the Lib Dems…’ ‘What! A do gooding liberal that would see our armed forces disbanded so we can all sit about drinking herbal tea and smoking marijuana! What kind of a dog owner are you? A Labour-lite / Tory-lite suck up that will jump into bed with the shiniest corporation just so you can pretend to be something you aren’t…and don’t you say UKIP you EU hating French bashing little Englander xenophobe…’ ‘Have you quite finished? May I ask, has the puppy been wormed?’ ‘Wormed? Did you just ask me if my puppy had been wormed? Like some inference that I wouldn’t worm my puppy….that I would be happy to have giant worms eating my dogs, that my garden is infested with giant snake-like worms that Kevin Bacon and that other bloke had to run from in that film with the giant snake-like worms…YES! She has been wormed!’ ‘And er…what have you been feeding her?’ ‘Oh my god. You are a racist. I can’t believe you said that.’ ‘Said what?’ ‘What you just said.’ ‘I asked what you had been feeding her?’ ‘Which is clearly an indication that you are an overt racist…a terrorist nonetheless…want to make sure the puppy is fed properly so you train it to attack people of different skin colours….or strap bombs to it before you send it off to blow up an orphanage… either that or you are homophobic…why do you hate gay people?’ ‘What! I don’t hate gay people…I don’t hate anyone…’ ‘Oh I get it…a prostitute then eh? Selling love for a few quid so you can buy more LSD and get trippy…people like you shouldn’t own dogs…’ ‘Is she registered with the Kennel Club?’ ‘Why? Want to breed her do you? Want to breed her mercilessly until she can no longer walk and you make money from her puppies and keep going while you build an evil puppy farm for the terrorists? Either that or you want to make her wear lipstick and a dress while parading her around Crufts and denying her carbs so she doesn’t get fat…’ ‘Oh my god…you’re mental…’ ‘Piss in this please.’ ‘What?!’ ‘I said piss in this pot please so I can test your urine…unless you have something to hide.’ ‘I’m not pissing in a pot…’ ‘Okay then…well after a thorough investigation I am pleased to say that you can be the owner of my Princess puppy dog, one last question….what do you read?’ ‘Er…I don’t really.’ ‘…’ ‘Why are you staring at me?’ ‘I asked what do you read?’ ‘I said I don’t really read…what? Why are you staring at me? I did read a book once…’ ‘A book once…you read…a book once…what was it?’ ‘That Dan Brown one…they did the movie with Tom Hanks…what? Why are you letting your other dogs out? Put them away! Please….oh my god…please call them off….they’re biting me…please…I’m begging you please…..aaaarrrggghhhh….’
Yeah so, the weather is a bit shit isn’t it. Like windy and raining.
I’m still writing the new story, not giving anything away at the moment as it might be a pile of utter shit that needs to be burnt and buried along with the person who said they read that Dan Brown book.
Ah, it’s Monday night, it’s raining and blowing a hooly outside…is it a hooly? Or a hoolie? Or even whoolie? Where does that word come from? A signed copy of The First Seven Days to the first person who adds a comment after this blog giving the correct spelling and history of that word.
I’m off. Got coffee to drink from the Dolce Gusto machine my mother got me for Christmas.
OMG! Find me on twitter @RRHaywood or OMG! Find me on Facebook under RR Haywood or OMG! Find me after counting to a hundred with your hands over your eyes….ready…..go!