So here’s what’s new.
I’ve got a dog. A golden doodle or is it a labradoodle, I’m not sure, but my sister told me that it was big and hard and she must have known that I wouldn’t turn that down.
I wasn’t looking for a pet, but he was looking for a home to destroy and I just happened to have one available. The alternative for this poor creature was the pound but like the fool that I am, I didn’t ask why. My sister; love her, talked me into it but forgot to mention to me that he was very hairy, very young and not yet housetrained. It’s a familiar pattern; most of the males that enter her house are the same way, but when I pointed this out, I knew exactly what to expect and although our little battles have become much tamer over the years, I rarely win.
She has far too much sensitive info on me to ever be vulnerable; it’s enough to put Edward Snowdon in the shade, so I have to be careful about what I say. I’m only joking, of course, I’ve been a good boy and she loves me. She told me so. Once. At the end of a hen night that she doesn’t remember and I definitely shouldn’t have been invited too. Come on, it was a night out, I was bored and there were male strippers, although I didn’t know that or I would’ve worn my glasses.
Whatever, I’m easy going and I look at it as a valuable lesson learned. Never go out on the razzle with your sister or any other member of your immediate family, and if you do, stay the f**k away from tequila and anyone who plays the bongos and goes by the name of Stardust! It’s a dangerous combination, and although admittedly rare, it’s designed specifically to trip-up complete idiots such as yours truly. Luckily, I regained my sense of morality—or survival instinct kicked in—and I was able to give Stardust the slip long before he could show me his proud collection of Vietnam War memorabilia. My sister doesn’t believe me though, and the fact that he still sends me the occasional text adds some credibility to her well-worn jibes. I don’t reply to them, but I know that I will never be able to sit through another re-run of ‘Full Metal Jacket’ without thinking about this dude.
I got sidetracked; this wasn’t the reason why I decided—in one of my all too frequent moments of insanity—to give a home to this crazed animal, who was able to pull off one of the greatest impersonations of all time. For the fifteen minutes that it took to drive him from my sister’s house to mine, he successfully masqueraded as a playful, cute, quiet, adorable little puppy, the type that you see on television adverts. I was ready to find him an agent and rake in the dosh, but those dollar signs quickly disappeared along with the sofa and almost anything else that he could fit his vice-like jaws around.
I’ve always been a sucker for puppy dog eyes and partial to a little playful biting every now and then, but this guy was soon taking lumps out of me the size of golf balls. My sister said it would be therapeutic, good company for me while I recovered from a recent health issue, but my stress level went through the roof and my clean orderly life fell apart. She could have given me an alligator instead; at least I would have been better prepared.
Now, let's make this clear. I would never hurt the little guy or mistreat him in any way. I am way too scared of him to attempt anything that foolish. It’s been a challenge though, and one that I have now begrudgingly accepted if only to prove the family wrong. They think that I’m a drama queen and maybe there is a little truth in that sweeping statement, but walking around my house in the morning can be like strolling through a minefield and taking him out for a walk is traumatic at best.
I’m no stranger to dog collars, but anyone who gets that excited at the prospect of being attached to a leash and paraded around the neighbourhood isn’t exactly stable in my book. I was told by a helpful buddy of mine, who doesn’t really know me that well, that a cute dog is a babe magnet and it’s true, but it depends on which side of the road you choose to walk down. He didn’t get my vague metaphor, but he was right, and now I’m fairly certain that I’m being stalked by the lady a few doors along from me. She has a golden retriever and when my dog takes me for a walk, I always seem to bump into her. They’re both females and overly friendly, and it’s got to the stage where I’m checking to see if the coast is clear before setting foot outside and choosing increasingly odd hours to exercise my hound. So far, it hasn’t worked and she’s managed to collar me more times than not. She’s even caught me hiding behind the recycling, or rather my dog gave me away. He doesn’t exactly help by trying to jump her pouch at every opportunity, even though it happens to be twice his age and three times his size. It’s embarrassing but as flattering as it is, if her owner thinks that I’m going to try to follow his example in any way, then she’s definitely barking up the wrong tree.
Who knows, maybe there’s a nice fit, good-looking, masculine, dog owner in the neighbourhood who’s up for a little playful biting, and doesn’t mind being jumped on, licked and drooled over occasionally, plus whatever the dog does to him.
In the meantime, it’s just me and my dog and despite all my misgivings, moans and the fact that he has single-handedly destroyed my life, he’s become my best friend, and I truly love him to bits. My rapid evolution into a responsible pet owner—the type that I would always ridicule in my younger years—has somewhat surprised my family. I guess that they never saw me in this role, and neither did I. The only thing that they don’t understand is why I called him ‘Stardust’. My overly protective older sister thinks she knows, but she would never tell anyone anyway.
They say that dogs look like their owners or vice versa, but honestly, I can only wish I was that cute! Take a look at the pictures below.