Saturday, October 30, 2010

Poo chase

Today Frank belted in from the garden, as part of a game he had devised, carrying poo between the toes of one paw. He grinned widely.

How long will it take them, he pondered, bouncing off the new sofa and me in a tour of his territory... how long, how long, how long?

About half an hour.

I can smell poo love, can you? I asked Jess.
Not really. What's that on your collar?
Um, you've got poo on your collar.

So began a nasal comb of the entire ground floor, in search of the remnants.
Apart from me, and a smear on the throw, the rest of the poo had been left in quantities big enough to smell but not see.

Frank followed me around, licking my ear. Warmer, warmer, hot, hot, really hot, cold, he whispered. This is more fun than I hoped.

Monday, October 18, 2010

There are bastards on the Downs at dusk

They won't hurt, said the horrible woman.

One of them ate Frank, while the other watched.

He spat him out because a six-month-old whippet isn't even big enough to count as a meaningful snack to Great Danes. Or because Frank had farted. Or because he was choking on Frank's body warmer.

It definitely wasn't because of me or the distant, largely disinterested owners.
I panicked and bellowed at them. Control your dogs please, they are eating mine.

Don't worry, they won't hurt you.

It occurred to me they may not even be able to see Frank from where they were. It was dusk, and the speaker had her back to me.

It's not me I'm worried about, I said, semi accurately.

Frank remained pinned to the ground, whimpering, contemplating his short life.

Later, as we hid over the other side of a hill, our hear rates decreasing, Frank wined at the silhouettes of two sharp corner roadsigns in the distance, which looked to both of us like the same Great Danes, after eating their own heads.

I inspected his injuries. A nick to the ear, all told. But can one really measure the psycological scars? Mine or his.

Although it was dark we went to the wreck in search of friendly hounds and confidence.
I told the first owner, whose name I do not know so we will have to call him Oscar, of our ordeal.

Beware of the bastards on the Downs with unruly dogs, he growled, through the night. I've stopped taking my Japanese Fighting Dog up there, altogether.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Lick it better

I just took a scab off under my jeans. Filth exited my mouth.

Frank wondered in, looked at me, walked up to my knee and started to lick a wound he couldn't see.

He's been licking his bum, Jess said, too late.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Food chase

Frank's been off his food.
Not off food, just off his.

William's is delicious.
And William, who must be wondering when this invader is going to stop growing, no longer puts up any resistance to the theft.

Frank knows he's not supposed to do it - but the animal in him, which admittedly might be a substantial part, can't help it. He sprints through the house, conscious we're soon to be tailing him, and dives into the bowel, mouth open, saliva at the ready.

William is not stupid, he can hear the approach. The speed of paw on floorboard, it's distinctive sound, is enough on its own. He leaves it until the last possible moment, and then springs back, exactly like a cat shitting itself.

The race begins. I'm usually no more than five seconds behind him, but Frank's speed eating is world-class now.
We rely on the speed of sound.
The deepest sound I can muster (I'm informed a deep voice is essential - and although I do not possess one, if I try really hard I can approximate manliness), is my first offering. 'NOOOOOOOOOO, FRAAAAANK!,' I instruct.
I may as well be saying, 'Dear boy, did you see XFactor last night?'
So I stamp - which comes more naturally, thanks to an appropriate weight.
I've seen Jess go through the same routine. I can say with certainty that we look and sound stupid and it has no affect.

The jaw movement is frenetic and primal by the time of arrival.
Bowl bounces around off his massive nose as he attempts to get into those hard to reach places.
He's prized away, chucked onto the floor, and as he struts off (past his own, brimming, bowl of dog food), arse in our face, continues to ignore threat and instruction.
'I've no idea what you're talking about, and it almost certainly wasn't me who did it.'