As I brooded over a flat pint in the Filthy Skobe, my phone bleated painfully. It was Cursing Jack.
Do you want a dog?
Ah, he said, this one is different. This one will be nice.
Will be? I interjected. What’s this Will Be stuff?
Well, he shifted from foot to foot uneasily.
I can hear you shifting from foot to foot uneasily, I told him. What’s all this about?
Well, he said, you see, the boxer got at the old English sheepdog.
Fuck, I said. That’s going to a big bastard of a dog.
Yeah, Cursing Jack nodded. An Old English Boxer.
Really? I said, cheering up. Look, I still can’t take him, but at least I can tell you what to call him.
Cartainly, I assured him. There’s only one thing you can call an Old English boxer.
What? he said.