Dog owner owned by dogs
I’VE just come back from taking our pair of new puppies for a walk on a freezing cold night.
My fingers have less warmth or feeling than the people who think charging people to park in hospitals is a fair substitute for an adequately funded NHS.
They are sisters from the same litter and we are becoming quite good mates. They’re those sort that Tin Tin had – a fox-haired, wired-tothe-moon terrier, or summat like that.
They look like teddy bears and act like chimpanzees in a Ronald Reagan movie.
On returning to a hot cuppa in a warm house, I reflected on how bizarre a pair we must have looked!
Pippin and Mabel (I can use their real names as they aren’t regular Chronicle readers) for all intents and purposes looked like they were parading a slightly radgie middleaged gadgie around the darkened streets for his nightly human exercise. Even more bizarrely, this bloke they were dragging along had a freakin’ light strapped to his heed and was fanatically clutching some black plastic bags full of poo to his chest.
Maybe the pups remembered seeing an online clip of radgie bogus doctor wifey in “you are what you eat” on the telly – informing humans on how unhealthy they were, simply by delving through their droppings, so maybe this mad, poo-poking old gyet was some sort of member of her Gateshead chapter?
Undoubtedly, the relationship between people and pooches has evolved rapidly over the last 30 years – back in the day you simply had a dog. People’s hoonds were shamelessly hoyed out in the morning like free-range turkeys, allowing them limitless opportunities to fight, fornicate and foul to their hearts’ content.
My dog Rover was a sort of Dunston doggie James Dean – hanging round with the pack, chasing chicks and fighting other rebels outside the VG shop.
His eventual fall from grace, however, was due to the fact me and my sister dressed him in a frock – only for him to escape off down into Dunston centre.
Nowadays, you don’t simply have a dog, you are a “dog owner”. It’s like another job, a vocation indeed.
Moreover, modern dog ownership possibly defines you because it’s now become such an expensive, timeconsuming and responsible undertaking. For example, when I had my two mental labradors a decade ago, I regularly stumped up money for vet appointments, grooming, microchips, special dietary arrangements, obedience classes, safety harnesses and cages for the car – as well as special beds and baskets that shamed anything I slept on as a student. Seriously, It was nearly as expensive as kids. The “dog owner” identity also kicked in when any member of the family bought you a present – any mug, tea towel, apron, dressing gown, greeting card, key ring or pair of slippers invariably had a set of paw prints, cartoon bones or Scooby Do’s head on them. I embarrassingly have to admit, too, that on the odd occasion when people rang our house we’d hoy the dog on to “speak” to them.
He obviously said nowt. Not one to give up, however, I nevertheless spent many a slack afternoon trying to make them say “sausages” like the mutt off Esther Rantzen’s TV show, with predictably aa’ful results.
The nearest I got (and don’t try this at home kids) was blowing on my golden lab’s nose, which in turn prompted him to howl the backing vocals to the chorus of Soft Cell’s 1981 hit Tainted Love – it’s the bit where they went “oh woah wow wow woah wow”. Honest!
Got to go, the pupsters are lying on our bed, so I’m off to make up the futon in the spare room before I make them their scrambled egg to be served at room temperature. Can’t possibly wake the darlings up, can I?
Mike is hosting a charity night for the RNLI at Percy Park Rugby club, North Shields tomorrow night.