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siiplah
It was the dog that brought things to a head. The last few months I've noticed it. The wife's up at the crack of dawn. I can hear her banging and clanging around downstairs, and I'm thinking, 'Ey up, she'll a have the fry-up ready with all the trimmings'. It's been soggy cornflakes, without fail. Cold, uninspired, monotonous. Drowned in milk, so much milk. All to the tune of Bruno inhaling juicy chunks of premium, pedigree meat in his bowl.
That was just the start. More recently, she has been getting the fry-ups on, sausages and bacon and white pudding and black pudding. Yeah, but only for the dog! I says to her 'Yer not wasting proper food on that bloody thing' and she says, all angry like, 'Well you didn't get the dog food he likes, what do you want him to do, starve?' I was taken aback. And all I could think of all day was 'That dog is fucking picky'.
So yeah, she's been short with me lately. Snapping at me. Of course, so has the dog. Et tu, Bruno? I put it down to her spoiling him, ruining him. She spends hours combing him. It's a bloody boxer, it has short hair, what does it need all that molly-coddling for? Anyway, it's been getting worse and worse, the situation.
Dogs are affectionate animals, you know, I get that. They're always slobbering on people, it's just their way. But she used to... well she used to let it slobber on her... face... she used to purse her lips and... well it don't bear thinking about. From a point of hygiene at the very least. She'd take the doggie talk to an extreme too. I looked up the internet, said it could be that she's feeling unwanted in other areas. Well I'm sorry but after work at the tax office, and three hours at the Civil War Recreationist Society I don't have the time or the energy for any of that other... palaver. Besides, it's been in the bed the last few months, the dog. Not on the bed, actually in the bed. She used to complain about my legs kicking her during the night, but his jerky leg action is all right apparently. Whatever makes you tick, Doris, pardon the expression.
I had to draw the line somewhere, put me foot down. And I was getting a bad back from sleeping on the sofa. Yeah, so I says to her, "Look love, it's either me or the fucking dog. Your choice, twenty years of marriage or a flea-ridden mutt."
Anyway, it's probably for the best, no more allergies for one thing. Feel ten years younger for that reason alone. And it's a chance for a fresh start. Me sister's let me stay at her and her brother-in-law's for a while, so I have a roof over me head, knock on wood. Although they're talking about getting a dog themselves now too, for some reason. And I think they might be thinking about moving house because the brother-in-law's always leaving the classified ads around on the property page. But anyway, I'll worry about that if it ever happens.
I went out for a early-morning drive recently. Now I'll admit I shouldn't have been doing that speed in a 30mph zone. I'm not proud of it. But I know she lets him out about this time of the morning. And I know those sausages I put down would be a track he'd follow to a future under my wheels of fortune. He'd sniff that heaven scent right into doggy hell. The Volvo's a safe ride, traction control, four-wheel ABS, so the damage should've been minimal.
Turns out the damage wasn't minimal. Windscreen put in, and the front end smashed up from that lamp post. Well the last thing I expected to see coming out our back gate holding a fist-full of sausages was the fucking milkman. He loves dogs too, apparently, and shared an enthusiasm with Doris. Not all he shared with her. Been stocking her up with his milk for God knows how long. I was stuck with those soggy cornflakes and all the while wondering why the fridge is always full of it.
So I got off lightly, all things considered. Community service and a fine, points on the licence. The milkman's making a decent recovery. Bruno ran down the road and got a GP to come up and give the man first aid and call an ambulance. The wife's still not talking to me, which is fine. I pled guilty to the charges, of course, even though if I'm honest I'm not really sorry about Doris and the milkman.
I only hope Bruno can forgive me. He's the only one to come out of this whole sorry episode with any credit.
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