I went out for a stroll with the dog today because the weather was very nice for a little while and the Hound of Satan was nearly finished chewing a leg off the top table in the Great Dining Hall.
Repair this! I instructed the Head Carpenter and called for my phaeton. Take us to a riverside place that we may prance and gambol.
Well, to be truthful with you, since I hammered my knee a few months ago by banging it off a large and heavy hard object, I haven’t been all that great with the prancing or the gambolling. These days, I’m more a grunting-as-I-stand-up man. But the Hound is still fond of the racing madly around an open space, barking at crows and snarling at joggers. They’re serious bastards, crows. One time, the Hound chased a crow with a damaged wing, and let me tell you here and now, this is not a good plan. Corvids are all about solidarity as I learned when they launched a concerted and violent attack on the intruder until he desisted. Don’t mess with the crows. You won’t win.
I was a little bit rattled, I must confess, after a marathon outing the day before, celebrating a significant family date. Or as we call it in Limerick, getting pissed. But how bad? Bonding with your children, eating chips in the pub and grooving to uber-cool sounds? With drink.
You might remember how I told you you about the neighbour’s dog, Satan’s Other Hound. How do dogs become enemies? I don’t know. Surely after a good old sniff, maybe a bit of posturing, some snarling and perhaps a bark or two, that’s an end of it. Yes?
No. These two dogs hate each other, for reasons I do not comprehend.
When we got home from our relaxing walk, I killed the engine and popped the lid to dig out the groceries — the usual supply of foie gras, beluga caviare , Cuban cigars and Moet, when I noticed a disconcerting snarling sound.
What the –? as people used to say in the comics.
It’s my Hound of Satan, locked in mortal combat with Satan’s Other Hound, who has taken to lurking outside the house to ambush my hellish pooch. They’re at it again, trying to kill each other, because that’s how they roll, but guess what? This time, my congenital laziness comes to the rescue.
Last time I tried to intervene between these two hounds of Hell, by delivering a calming kick, I was badly bitten on the steel toecapped boot, but this time was different. Only the other day, I was power-hosing the horrible green winter slime off the path, and of course, you couldn’t just tidy everything away the same day.
Aha!! A nice discarded water hose. All I need to do is fit a nozzle and turn on the tap.
Did you know that fighting dogs don’t like freezing cold water sprayed all over them? No, neither did I until today.