I was fighting the dog for the last piece of Chicken Rogan Josh when the phone rang. The dog had a firm grip on my right leg, just below the knee and I was trying to kick him in the face with my left heel, but that isn’t easy when you’re hopping on one leg.
Hello? said Wrinkly Joe.
Hello, I grunted, as I swung the butt of the phone, clubbing the dog between the eyes. He tightened his grip on my leg and his powerful neck muscles swung him from side to side as he tried to tear out a jaw-sized portion of my flesh.
What the fuck is that noise? said Wrinkly Joe’s tinny, distant voice.
That’s me fighting with the Hound of Satan, I shouted. What do you want?
Well, said Joe. I was wondering if there’s any chance of a bed for the night.
Bang! The cast-iron frying pan made a solid, metallic, resonating sound as it connected with the dog’s skull.
Gghhhhrrrraaaaagghhhhh!!!!!, snarled the Hound, but he still didn’t let go.
What night? I shouted.
This night, said Joe. I’ll be visiting Limerick tonight and I thought we might go out for a few pints.
Oh for fucksake!!! I screamed gently. Take that you fucker!!
But the dog was too quick for the meat cleaver, smartly let go of my calf and clamped onto my right ankle. Gnnnarrroowwwwllnnnkkkk!!!, he spat.
It’s even harder to kick your own ankle than your knee.
Are you all right? Joe’s concerned, distant little voice enquired.
No, I’m fucking not, I snarled as I finally managed to knock the dog temporarily senseless with a copper kettle.
How about a pint?
OK, I said. The lacerations on my leg were no worse than usual.
About nine? asked Joe.
Sure, I said, picking up the piece of chicken Rogan Josh the dog had dropped. I’ll just finish my dinner and I’ll be with you.