The Stray (An Extract)

        I’ve heard that women of a certain age go through a change.  My wife is of a certain age.  She has lost it and what’s more she not even bothered to look for it.  As the phrase goes - her cheese has definitely slid from her cracker! I thought it was bad when she went through her experimental phase. I thought it was worse when she went through her spiritual phase; moonlight tree hugging and firelight rain dance rituals can become rather tedious.  But now she’s gone a step further.  She’s actually making decisions that might effect me.  A stray, she brought home a stray.  She doesn’t even like dogs.  And me?  I’m fucking allergic. 

   ‘Well, little-miss-compassion, what will you do if I have an asthma attack?’

   ‘Hold the pillow over your face for longer!’ she calmly stated.

   ‘He’s flea ridden, probably laced with worms and rabies.  He’s got frigging teeth.’

   ‘What could I do?  He’s all alone, look at him! He’s gorgeous!’

The dog in question is a Springer Spaniel. I’d hazard a guess and say full-bred.  Pedigree or not his frothing at the mouth certainly was off putting.  I winced at the animal in distain; it had sporadic tufts of matted fur and a tail that had been docked too short. 

    ‘Fuck stunning!  What’s the matter with you? I thought you’ve had your mid-life crisis?’

   ‘Maybe I’m revisiting it, you grumpy fat bastard.’

   ‘It’s a dog! It eats, it wees, it digs up the flowers - it even craps on the lawn!’

   ‘Yes you do have a lot in common.  You should compare notes.’

   ‘He can’t stay here!’ I exclaimed.

   ‘He can and he will.’

Two guesses who won that argument? As my wife got up and turned the kettle on I had the overwhelming urge to sulk. It had never helped before so I opted instead for a smoke. 

This hysterical woman went tee-total about three weeks ago and since then I’ve been freezing my biscuits off to enjoy one of my life’s little pleasures.  I clicked the door open.  The mutt stared at me with his large watery brown eyes. With a flash of inspiration and malicious intend I whispered very softly ‘let’s go walkies?’ Without warning the dog leaped through the door, stump for a tail wagging furiously. As fast as it left, the door was locked. I crouched behind the door so the flea-bag wouldn’t see me.  I crouched down further when my wife came back.

    ‘Where’s Scruffy?’

    ‘Who the fuck is Scruffy?’

     ‘The dog, you ass!’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I don’t know…he must have ran away.’

    ‘You let him out?  How could you?’ My wife wailed and thrashed around the living room. She sobbed up a lung with such passion that I almost felt pity for her.  All remorse was sliced when the mutt started barking.

   ‘Oh thank God, he’s come home.’

Home?  Ah feck it, I’ll never get rid of him now.  She threw back the door so hard I heard the hinges scream.  The furry fecker bounded into the room and frolicked with my wife.  She looked happy, so truly happy.  It sickened me.  

The door to my left clicked opened.  There was a high pitched choir-boy screech.

    ‘What the hell?’

Ah my son, my glorious son who is petrified of dogs.  He has my back. 

    ‘Don’t be silly’ his mother scowled.

Scruffy was gone hay-wire at the sight of George.  He dashed towards him with real zeal.  George did a u-turn and leaped up on to the sofa.

    ‘No shoes on the couch!!’ Kath bellowed.

George looked at her incredulously.

    ‘No shoes on the couch?…well fuck that, I’ll have no bloody legs in five minutes!’

I smirked over at my son.  Yeah, you tell her was written all over my face.  George interpreted it as amusement and not for his benefit.  His eyes narrowed nefariously.  He looked down at the dog, pointed at me and hissed ‘sssgo-on!’

Scruffy growled gloriously and launch a new attack on me.

     ‘No shoes on the good chairs!’ She bellowed again.  

George and I were a living-room carpet apart and yet I felt I could almost strangle him.  The impulse to re-enact Homer and Bart’s feuds gripped me.

    ‘Why you little…’

Kath looked to both of us.

    ‘Right, well I need to go to town.  Look after the dog.’

    ‘You what?’

    ‘You heard me…and the child.’

George looked as frightened as I did.  An afternoon alone with those two.  I didn’t know whose company is worse.  I’m sure I’ll frigging find out.  My wife gave her usual dismissive wave.  She went so far as to peck me on the cheek but thought better of it.  Instead she bent over and patted the dog. The dog wagged his stump furiously. 

      ‘Suck-up’ I muttered under my breath.’

     I hobbled down from the chair.  Scruffy looked at me innocently then yawned to reinforced the fact that he had all the teeth in this relationship.  The front door chimed to a close.  That was it.  I was alone with dumb and dumber. 

     ‘You heard your mother, get down.’ I sneered, hoping the Springer would eat his new Nike trainers in one. 

      ‘Like fuck am I getting down.  She’s your wife, you deal with it.’

      ‘That’s it; you’re making your own lunch today.’

      ‘Not like you can cook anyway!’

I dashed towards the couch, Scruffy thought I was coming for him, barked loudly and jumped up beside George. George’s feet hit the carpet immediately and he glanced at me horrified.

      ‘No shoes on the couch?  What about dirty drooling dogs?’

Scruffy scratched himself laboriously and then proceeded to lick himself.

     ‘I’m sure she won’t mind…’ I replied.

     ‘Yeah, toilet trained and all?…’

The cream sofa wouldn’t survive the ordeal if he wasn't and neither would I. 

      ‘I’ll pay you if you get him down!’ I bargained.

He thought about this for awhile, and then shook his head.

      ‘I’m young, I need my arms, you on the other hand are past it.  I’ve your headstone picked out so you do it…’

     ‘And to think, I gave you life!’

    ‘And to think someone had to admit to creating you.’ He replied smugly. 

I gritted my teeth, next year I’d tell him Santa doesn’t really exist and the money fairy who stole from under his pillow after the tooth fairy had been, that was me! Ha!

For the good of humanity, but mostly coming the year’s sanity I approached the dog.  Chest out, eyes focused, voice firm: ‘Down’ I said.

No response.  ‘Down boy…’ I pointed to the floor and stamped my foot.  George looked as impressed as the dog did.  I opted for the manly hands on approach and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.  Suddenly the dogs head spun around.  His teeth made a glorious snapping noise.

     ‘My hand!  Look at my hand.  Quick, call the ambulance!’

George sniggered. ‘He didn’t even touch you, you woofter!’

I was certain half my arm was laying strewn about the carpet, but lone behold, it was still attached. 

     ‘And you call yourself a man?  Some role model you are!’

George walked over to the sofa, looked at the dog, patted his leg and suddenly squealed when the dog bounded towards him. 

      ‘There you go, you chicken-shit….’ he tried to say in his calmest voice.

Scruffy lay by my feet then rolled over exposing a molting belly.  His legs roved the air like he was on an exercise bike. 

      ‘Oooh goody, he’s having a fit.’

      ‘Don’t be an eejit…’George rebuked ‘He wants you to tickle his belly!’

I laughed loudly. ‘Like that’s going to happen.’

The dog’s legs froze in the air.  Over exertion? One could only hope.  He looked to me then to George.  Neither of us wanted to give him a feel.  He growled lowly. George extended his foot, kicked me in the back of the leg and suddenly I was on my knees caressing the mutt.  I gave my son evils.  He was his mother’s son alright! After five knee crippling minutes the flea-bag had had enough and relinquished me of my duties.  Now, if only my wife were that easy to please!  

What Some Women May Want

The only thing relatively comparable to a night of fantastic sex is buying those perfect killer heels or so those flippant, hysterical, cat driven women will tell you. There is a mere grain of truth in the merits of materialism above disappointment.  Let’s face it, the heels will definitely last on the endurance side of things.  They will be easier to polish, won’t leave ominous stains on the carpet, ceiling or bed linen.  And they definitely will be a better listener.  You can kick them off when they aren’t needed, and they won’t feel betrayed when you slip your foot into a better model.

      Having a man today is hard work.  You can’t have an affair.  Why I ask you, is fidelity so important in a college relationship? Apparently kissing another man around the back of the Union is a no-no. And having your head lodged further down the ladder is off the radar of acceptability.  Actually these antics are only frowned upon when you get caught, and if you’re good, like me, guilt usually gets to you first.  However, I seem to have misplaced my conscience.  I suspect I left it down Mr. Friday-night’s neck. 

    As college boyfriends go, you probably met the dimwit with ten double vodka lime n’ lemons packed into you.  Pissed off your face you probably thought it was a good idea to dirty dance with him on the sticky nightclub floor.  One thing escalates to another and suddenly it’s an awesome idea to let him walk you home.  For safety reason of course, namely that the campus lesbian you refused to make-out with might jump you from behind the bushes.  And that’s how it starts.  How you play it determines his level of interest and commitment.  So girls if you’re looking for Mr.wanaseemybedcovers, being the polite twenty first century woman, you should ask him in for a tea or coffee. 

     When you get up the stairs to the flat and he decides he has to take a leak you have two choices: send him to your friends room and let her deal with it; or let him in and you deal with it.  You weight up your emotional status, and if vodka is scheduled to give you crocodile tears.  Thinking you are probably safe, you let him in. He takes a leak and you clear the bed of underwear and cosmetics.  When he returns he instinctively thinks you’re up for it and slobbers on your neck for a half-hour, thinking he’s tickling your G-spot.  At this stage you’re feeling like an over-lick lollipop and push play on the ipod to break his concentration.  He takes his cue and proceeds to re-enact the full Monty.  You cringe because you never seen one…so small. He reads your face and thinks you’re interested.  Screaming “Yeah baby” he gyrates harder slapping his manhood on every surface around the room.  You shout ‘mind your head.’ thinking it’s so little to function as it is, ‘don’t give it brain damage’.  You’re feeling hot and bothered that this guy could have that much confidence and such an unimpressive C.V.

     You take your jacket off. He dives onto the bed and takes the rest of your clothes off, unwrapping you quicker than a G.Q. magazine.  You act enthusiastic, after all it has been a while and you really should air out the cobwebs.  He’s eager and kisses you roughly; he’s in a hurry to head south. A frosty dread sweeps over you as you consider how long the Viking plaits are.  He carries on, like Mosses on the sea.  The great divide, he is an apt swimmer and navigates effortlessly.  You sound out your appreciation.  Suddenly he rises, and points to tell you to return the favour, you shake your head: ‘It has to last the journey.’  He gets flustered and thrusts himself on top of you.  He goes for the mountainous route and tries to dislodge them.  Men never realised they are attached, under the impression that the twin peaks should be treated like an opponent on the rugby field. You groan…in pain.  A good sign to him. 

     If you’re lucky he thinks you’re a whore and whips out a condom. If he’s unprepared he obviously plays around or worse, he is woefully inexperienced.  You open your bedside drawer which contains half of Pond Street Clinic’s contraception, be guaranteed, he now knows you are a whore (but a health conscientious one). You hand it over and leave it to him.  You don’t want to touch him just in case it deflates.  He puts on the swimming trunks and dives straight in without a word of warning and expects you to be happy for him.  He wriggles around as if he is looking for change in his pocket.  You seem to be going numb; you can’t feel a fecking thing.  If you’re sensible you’ll groan and trash about like a woodlouse turned on its back.  It saves time as he responds by cashing in all his chips.  Looking at the wall, one minute and twenty seven seconds has elapsed.  He has relapsed.  Suddenly he is howling, sobbing up a lung on your bed.  He seems to have lost his balls. You look on the floor, then under the duvet cover and final down the side of the bed. His body must have swallowed them. He cries bitterly, ‘we’ve rushed it.’ You assume his not just talking about the one and a half minute wonder.  He gathers his clothes and runs from your room and is polite enough to leave the condom behind.  You smile to yourself and realised, yes the shoes, I’ll definitely go for the shoes the next time.

                                                                                                    

Chicks before Dicks

   Before we begin I must mention that I, without a shadow of a doubt I am the ‘perfect’ friend.  Now, you may think that is a rather bold statement, but hear me out, I’m sure I can leave you convinced.  For one I’m not nearly as selfish as I could be with my time.  Indeed I often make the mistake of leaving my phone on allowing myself to be tracked down for that crucial ‘emotional support’.  I can give excellent advice and not all of it is laced with ulterior motives.  I lie, quite convincingly, about horrible outfits and ludicrous hairstyles.  I can pretend I am listening to tedious day-to-day breakdowns, an awful boss and how many pounds you think you may have lost from your backside.  With all of that, I defy anyone to contradict my ‘perfect’ friend status. 

    However despite my flawless attempts at friendship it has come to my notice that one of my underlings has been slipping steadily off the radar.  At first we were ‘ladies who lunch’ everyday, then I became reserved for coffee evenings, then weekends, then just a Saturday night and now, if I am lucky I get the odd text once a fortnight.  Yes, this friend has become just like the countless other women out there.  You know what I am talking about ladies, we all know one (or maybe we are one) The ‘Friend Ditcher’: 

A very elusive and dangerous being, without warning may vanish and re-appear in six months sobbing hysterically.  Known to live on the outskirts of humanity; always out of mobile range, but still within facebook range (except for instant chat function).  On rare occasion can be spotted in a crowd guided by a large hairy male.  On sight will ignore you.  Beware; do not startle this creature as claws are very sharp.    

I must hold my hand up and say that I am, in some respects, guilty of ditching my friends.  This mostly occurs on a Saturday night between the hours of 1.30-3.30 a.m.  Obviously this is a minor misdemeanour, let’s face it no one wants to go home to an empty bed when pumped generously full of alcohol...unless the sheets had just been changed....ah, heaven.   Anyway, back to my friend, the ditcher.  It became apparent throughout our friendship that the mere whiff of a man sent her running from my direction and into his.  Indeed when I thought about continuing our friendship I did think she would grow out of this stage.  Sadly, on this rare occasion I was mistaken.  Well, the ‘friend ditcher’, she cancelled plans left, right and centre.  She would be off cooking him dinner, washing his clothes, washing her hair, just unavailable, and finally couldn't be arsed to answer.  I imagined my friend’s  riveting new schedule with her mule of a man to be filled full of Tesco shopping afternoons, Jeremy Kyle, leisurely walks to the GUM Clinic and increasing arse size on the sofa nights. 

     I pined for weeks when my friend disappeared into the arms of that ginger bloke.  I even did the unthinkable and took solace in the ‘idiot’ friend’s company.  Her infuriating remarks and limited intelligence did nothing to quell my misery.  If I had a penny for every stupid thing she said I could have opened up an ISA...or hire someone to implant some common sense into her tiny, tiny brain.  Her company provided me with a great insight into myself.  I found myself to be highly intolerant and exceptionally two-faced about it.  I found myself to be (quietly) critical of everything she said and I also found within myself a creative reservoir for plotting the Numpty’s murder. 

     You can imagine my surprise and relief when the ‘friend ditcher’ got in touch after weeks and weeks of nothing.  I rallied the troops, organising a debutant party brimming with vodka, rum and sweet liqueurs.  Now ladies, I’m sure you can guess what happened? Oh, she did turn up alright, but do you think we could hold her tongue and its ferocious noise. No.  She emitted squeals of delight ‘my new man’ this and ‘my new man’ that.  ‘Oh he is so lovely...so kind...so amazing...so sexy....so well endowed.’ Tall, toned, handsome and a gym instructor! What were the chances? No wonder she kept him and herself away.  I thought about my own man, ladies, I would be sure to give him a good boot up the arse for not meeting any of the above requirements.  Indeed the only thing he could instruct me on was how to twiddle the remote, oh and Xbox games; he is the master of those. 

      Myself and the other girls were all the same shade of green.  The more she spoke the sicker we got.  She, figuratively speaking, opened her bedroom door to us and inch by inch she described him and his techniques.  By the end we even knew what kind of handcuffs where hanging on the headboard, where they were bought from and how much they cost.  The 'friend ditcher' was gone cross eyed regaling the whole ordeal. 

     After we had heard all about her new manly man we were then treated to a calorie breakdown of her day.  She wanted to know if we thought her arse had gotten bigger and her face fatter.  I wanted to nod and scream yes it had, now have another cake you gloating moo-moo.  I have also discovered that in the face of amazing adversary, that I can hold my tongue.

   The night wore on to the sound of ice-cubes clinking and drinks refilling.  All in all it was a merry, merry situation.  The men were winking at our table and girls were gesturing (rudely) back.  It was then I began to notice that the ‘friend ditcher’ with her lovely new man may not believe quite as much of her own bullshit as we did.  She was perched suggestively on a bar stool, swinging herself round and round.  Whooshing and swooshing to her heart’s content.  I swear I only turned my back for a moment.  When I turned again she was gone, darting up to the club’s stripper pole, wrapping her legs around it and her arms around some unsuspecting guy.  He was not ginger, or tall, moderately handsome and definitely not her gym instructor.  Being the ‘perfect’ friend that I am, I did not, under any circumstances encourage her.  Nor did I stop her; she was certainly old enough to look after herself.  Granted, the shots that I shoved down her neck didn’t help the situation.  To cut a long story short here’s what happened: ‘friend ditcher’ meets a non ginger bloke. They go outside. Very drunk. They kiss.  Very, very drunk.  They grope.  They make their way down a lane.  It is exactly at this point that the old-new man comes up the lane, his ginger hair standing on end in horror.  A huge argument unfolds on the street.  New man from the club scampers and myself and the girls turn around and pretended not to know them.  He shouts, she cries.  She shouts and he cries.  They both shout and they both cry.  On lookers begin to shout too.  He leaves and she cries even more. 

    For the rest of the night the ‘friend ditcher’ clung to us, her friends, we wiped the snot from her face and handed her more shots (she was losing a lot of fluid after all).  We told her that there were plenty of men in the club that she could get off with, the night was young after all.  We told her it was his loss and that it wasn’t really her fault.  We told her everything she wanted to hear until we brought her makeup-stained face into a smile again.    

      So, to all you ‘friend ditchers’, or those of you considering becoming a ‘friend ditcher’, please consider the friends you leave behind when you embark upon your new relationship.  You will need us if things go tits up, to bitch about your ex, to wipe the snot and ply you full of booze.  We generally do this public service free of charge, but we, the ‘perfect’ friends, are in short supply.  You could almost say we are an endangered species, our tolerance and consideration is most definitely dying out.  So please, give generously your time and limit your new-man-sickening-talk to preserve our most humble institution of friendship.