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!
