Pets Religion Sexuality

Dog-Shagging and Satanic Face-Burning

There was some bonkers stuff in the news this week, but for sheer lunacy, it would be hard to beat the story of the Ash Wednesday forehead burnings.

What happened? Well, at a church in the North Cork village of Newtownshandrum, a priest called Eugene Baker was smudging crosses on the heads of thirty or so parishioners when they began to scream in agony and he had to stop the Mass.  The ashes burned a flaming cross-shaped hole right through their skulls and they started projectile vomiting as their heads rotated violently.

No, I just made that part up, but the other bit is true.  The ashes caused a severe irritation on the faces of the Faithful, leaving horrible red-raw cruciform weals on their noble brows and causing such pain that poor old Eugene had to cancel the service half-way through so that his parishioners could run into the sacristy and wash the searing poison off their faces.

Aaaarrrggghhh! they whispered as they genuflected before the altar on the way to salvation.  Aarrrgghhh!!

Aaaaarrrggghh to you too, my children, said kindly Father Baker, making a mental note not to smear this corrosive shit on the local schoolchildren as he normally did every year.

Now, oddly enough, Newtownshandrum wasn’t the only place where a priest accidentally burned the faces off his parishioners.  Over in Galway, there was more screaming and gnashing of teeth when Fr Malachy Hallinan painted smudgy black crosses on the foreheads of his congregation.  There was a similar eruption of raw-looking weals and a similar abrupt end to the Mass, but Fr Malachy is made of stern stuff.

Instead of calling in an exorcist, he sent a sample of the ashes for testing, but his account of the scientific explanation he received is utter bollocks which proves something amazing.  Even a priest will believe complete nonsense and repeat it as a fact.  Imagine!  Who knew that could happen?

No.  The reality is much simpler than Fr Malachy’s shaky grasp of chemistry.  It’s obvious: he accidentally used ashes that were possessed by Satan, which goes to show that – just like food –  supernatural props should be stored carefully. You don’t want a Satanist breaking into your shed and cursing the palm leaves before you burn them.

Meanwhile in England, there was another equally ludicrous story.  You see, poor Amber Hickling (18), was looking through her boyfriend’s phone, as you do, searching for pictures of their baby.  But what she found instead was a 30-second video of Wayne Bryson (19) in flagrante delicto.

Amber puts it best.   I wouldn’t have been surprised to catch him cheating, but to catch him shagging my dog was wrong on a different level.

That’s right.  In the ultimate selfie, young Wayne decided to have sexual relations with Rudy, Amber’s bull terrier, proving that either he’s  complete idiot or else has nerves of steel.   A bull terrier?  Most ordinary  men wouldn’t put a steel-toecapped boot within reach of those hydraulically-powered bone-crushing jaws, never mind anything more sensitive, but Wayne is no ordinary man.  Jesus, imagine what would happen if he called the dog the wrong name in the throes of their passion.

Wayne Bryson

Bryson couldn’t explain why he had sex with the dog, but he told the court it only happened once.  Well, that’s all right, then.  Who hasn’t occasionally had a rush of blood and shagged the nearest available bull terrier?  At least it was only a casual thing, not as if they were sharing intimate bowls of Pedigree Chum by candle light and making plans for the future, but that’s not how Amber saw things and now the couple are split up, sadly.  Amber couldn’t look at the dog after what happened, so Rudy now lives in a new home.

Wayne’s family have disowned him, apparently, but it could be worse.   He only got a four-month  suspended sentence, unlike this poor devil in Scotland a few years back who got three years on probation for having sex with a bicycle in the privacy of  his bedroom.

Both of them were placed on the sex offenders’ register.  One for shagging a dog and the other for riding a bicycle.

Now, if only the priests were still in charge, none of this would be happening, but with Satanists cursing their palm leaves, the poor bastards no longer have time to keep a lid on impure thoughts.

What a shame.




Idle Thoughts

My dog loiters like an untipped lavatory attendant.

What?  I shrug.  Our relationship has evolved over the years.  We communicate, using subtle body language

You’re going out?  Again?

I don’t remember marrying this diminutive quadruped.  And that would be your fucking business?

Oh, be like that.

What’s with the passive-aggressive stuff? Just bite me like you normally do and then we can get down to serious interspecies violence.

Excuse me while I go and shit on your lawn.  Couldn’t you tell me where you intend to enjoy yourself tonight?  It’s the least you could do, considering the fact that my night involves curling up in a basket and licking my crotch.

Don’t knock it, I say.  Many humans would envy you for that.

Where are you going?

My heart softens a little.  I’m going to Dolans, I say.  For their birthday.

Sharon Shannon?  sneers the dog.  You’re not into trad.

Ah, it’s ok, I say.  Don’t forget, Irish traditional fed into American country, which in turn blended with Delta blues, ultimately giving the world rock ‘n’ roll.

That’s shit, the dog replies.  You’re not into trad.  Did you hear about the fella who parked his car in a rough part of town and left his accordion in the back seat?

No, I sighed, but you’ll probably tell me.

When he came back, the window was broken.  And there were two accordions in the back seat.

Hysterical, I reply, aiming a kick at the hound, but missing.  I’m going out.

I’ll pull things out of the bin.

You will not.  Would you prefer to spend the night in the garden?

All right, but you’re a heartless man.

I blunder into town, eventually arriving at Dolans where we all enjoy the virtuosic talents of the wonderful Sharon Shannon, but let me make a small confession, since the dog hasn’t yet learned to read.  It’s true.  I’m not a huge fan of trad, and yet Sharon transcends all that.  When Sharon cranks it up, suddenly I’m won over and who wouldn’t be?

Sharon Shannon at Dolans_2



Who indeed?

I’m a convert.  I’m enchanted, and most especially, I want to run away with Sharon Shannon, but I suppose that will never happen.


When I get home, the dog is leaning against the front door, wearing an apron and wielding a rolling pin.

Don’t, I warn.  Not one non-verbal word out of you.

He barks a little sneer.  Someone goes to Heaven, he says, they get handed  a  pair of wings and a harp.

Your point?

The dog studies me just a little too long.  You’re getting a pair of horns and an accordion.






Smelly Dogs

Sometimes  things just creep up on you, don’t they?

It was a lovely sunny morning and I was driving along with the Hound of Satan quietly snarling in the back, pondering to myself.

What a beautiful day.  What a clear blue sky.  What should I do for the afternoon?  What the fuck is that smell?  

But of course, I already know the answer.  This is not a doggie smell.  This is the smell of things that dogs roll around in when you’re not there to kick them up the arse.

If you have a dog, you’ll know what I’m talking about.  You’re out for a walk with your little four-legged best friend when suddenly he finds some vile filthy putrid piece of shit and rolls around on it, covering himself in a puke-inducing pong and laughing up at you.   Hey, look at me, human!

Dogs don’t have a gag reflex, and with good reason.

Get up off that pile of rotten crap, you bastard!

wild dogs

I once read that packs of wild dogs do this to disguise their scent so that they can creep up on their prey undetected, and of course, our domestic dogs aren’t that far removed from their feral cousins, so I suppose it makes sense.  Sort of.

Here’s a herd of gazelles, out there on the savanna, munching away at their grass and leaves.  Suddenly they all go stiff with fear.

– What’s that smell?  What?  What smell?  What’s that? Where?  What?  

– Wait.  It’s like a strange mixture of rotten fish and cowshit.

– But there are no fish or cows out here on the savanna.

– True, but at least it’s not a pack of wild dogs creeping up on us to tear us limb from limb.

– Good point.  Have another branch of this delicious and easily-digestible vegetation.

All well and good, I suppose.  Dogs can’t change their essential nature any more than I can, but my car is now stinking of whatever rotten, decomposed squashed rat-entrails my fucking pet has been rolling in.  And so am I.

On the positive side, if I should get a sudden urge to attack a herd of gazelles, my children will eat well tonight.




Dogs Fighting At Party

I had a little party over the weekend with  civilised people, good conversation, good company and good food.

How could anything go wrong?

Well, you clearly don’t know my dog, Satan.

You see, when the first of my guests arrived, and began to unload their crates of beer cases of the finest vintage wine, naturally, I went out to greet them, with my dog by my side as always.  That’s dogs for you — they imprint.

Now, as it happens, I had noticed the other dog hanging around outside my house all day.  When I went to the Market in the morning, he was there and when I got back from town with bags of ice, he was still there, so maybe I should have had my antennae twitching, but I was in chilled party mode.  What are you gonna do?  I thought no more of it until I went out to greet my guests and help them with their cases of priceless wine straight from their own chateau.

That was when the other dog made a lunge at mine, followed by my dog clamping his fangs onto the other guy’s throat.

Hey, it’s dogs.  They do that sort of shit, right?  Most of the time they look cute and everyone oohs and aaws about them , until something triggers the atavistic killer in them, the ancient wolf from whom they descend, and suddenly the facade slips.

Cute fucking dogs

These guys weren’t interested in a lot of sound and fury followed by a face-saving withdrawal on both sides.  Satan might well have been smarting from the experience last week where he was beaten up by a cat, but whatever the reason, these hounds were interested only in taking lumps out of each other.

My guests were horrified but I tried to shrug it off.

Dogs, y’know?  That’s how they roll, I said as the dogs rolled around trying to rip each other’s throats out.  I aimed a calming kick at them but the other dog just bit me on the shoe and went back to disembowelling Satan while Satan continued trying to behead him.  I tried one more futile kick before they ran off, still locked together with fangs and disappeared into the distance.

Somebody once told me you should hold a fighting dog by the hind legs and lift him up.  Right.  What a great idea.  Grab an enraged animal with your hands while he’s still programmed to kill.  Somehow, Einstein, I don’t think so.

What are ya gonna do?  I looked at my guests apologetically.  Beer?

We were about half an hour into the beer when a small monster staggered in.  A horrible thing, soaked head to toe in blood and saliva, covered in lacerations and limping badly.

Look, said one of the guests.  It’s fucking Cujo.

Satan was looking sheepish and cowered away when I approached.  You know that dog body-language that says, Sorry Dad. I really fucked up and you can kill me now cos you’re the Boss.

More people began to arrive.

Jesus, what happened the dog?

How do you mean?

He’s covered in fucking blood.  Christ, that’s disgusting.

I don’t know what happened.  Ask the fucking dog.  Here: have some delicious grub, sit down, say hello to these fine people and enjoy yourself.  And that’s what we did, as the house filled up with good, decent and witty people who spent the rest of the night entertaining each other with no pressure whatever on me apart from the obligation to keep the delicious grub coming, but since I’d cunningly done all that work in the previous week, ’twas no hardship.

And so to bed.

That was Saturday.

Yesterday, the dog was in bits, unable to chew food, unable to climb stairs, hobbling, with four or five very nasty facial cuts.  I decided it might be a good idea to visit the vet, and this morning Satan was still looking a little seedy.  Still climbing the stairs with difficulty.  Still having trouble chewing.

Right.  I’ll just do those few things I need to get out of the way and then we’ll see the vet.  But when I got back, Satan was bounding around the place, tail up, bright-eyed, with no sign of distress at all.  Is it a miracle?  No.  I put it down to the healing powers of the delicious chicken korma leftovers I fed him this morning.  And the beer slops.

My dog is one tough bastard, but he was in a seriously rough condition after that little contretemps.  I hate to think what the other guy looks like.


A Bad Day For The Dog

It hasn’t been a great day for my dog although I have to concede, it has its upside for me.

I think I mentioned to you before that the dog hates the postman and the postman hates the dog, fully, reciprocally and entirely in harmony.  They hate each other and that’s that.

Or should I say, they hated each other, if you take the word postman in the abstract rather than the particular, a bit like le Roi c’est mort, vive le Roi!

What am I talking about?  Simples.  We have a new postman and guess what?  He loves dogs.  He fucking loves them. I saw him pulling up in his van today and I thought the best thing would be to go out and meet him, so that’s exactly what I did.

Howya.  Look, maybe I should introduce you to my dog.  He’s a complete bastard and the last postman hated him and it caused a lot of hassle and I was just thinking —



Bring him out.   I love dogs.

You do?  

I do.

And so I did.  I released the Hound of Satan who charged straight at the the new postman and …


Well, did nothing at all apart from licking his hand.

Right. The facade begins to crumble, but things get worse for the Hound of Satan as time  moves on.


It turns out to be a simply beautiful day.  Roasting hot, with a clear sky above, so I invite my neighbour to go for a stroll.

Let’s go for a stroll, I invited, invitingly.

All right, but can we take this huge pile of wine bottles to the bottle bank on the way, please?

We sure can, but please explain to me why you’re throwing out half-full bottles of wine.  Is that not some sort of crime?

Maybe it is.  Let’s go.

And so we did.

Now, when we arrived at the bottle bank, the dogs jumped out of the car as they always do.  My friend’s dog blundered around as usual, while mine began scouring the vicinity for something to kill and what did it find?  I’ll tell you what he found.  The worst possible thing for a dog to find.   A big strong, muscular tomcat who wasn’t one bit afraid of an aggressive dog-thing.  Deal with that, MoFo.

How did the Hound of Satan deal with it?  Not very well, I’m glad to tell you.  He’s used to charging at cats that run up trees or dodge under bushes.  He is definitely not used to cats that stand their ground and say You wanna piece of me? You wanna piece of me?

This tomcat was not one tiny bit afraid.  This was one serious Alpha tomcat.  Fuck you!

He walked towards the dog.  The dog moved away.  He followed the dog and the dog looked confused.  He occcupied the dog’s personal space with absolute contempt.

Let me tell you, I would not have lightly tackled this big, strong cat.  This animal feared nothing.  After intimidating Satan, the cat jumped up on a fence and wandered away, but not too quickly, and certainly not too bothered.  The dog wandered around behind the fence as we deposited our glass in the bins, perhaps looking for trouble, but if he did, he certainly found trouble.

As we drove off, my neighbour remarked that Satan had blood on his ear.

Good, I said.  Nothing like a learning experience.

I turned to the dog.  Not so tough now, kid?

Miaow, he replied.



Hound of Satan Escapes Again

I was wondering why no letters came to my house for a week.  Normally, the bills flood through the letterbox and straight into the domestic incinerator I cunningly set up just inside the front door, apart from those chewed into little pieces by the Hound of Satan.

What is it with dogs?  Why do they feel the need to tear apart your letters, your newspapers and that expensive random access memory you ordered from eBay?

Why, dog?  Why you act like a dog?

It took the Hound of Satan a couple of days to figure this one out, to my surprise.  Normally, it takes him about twenty three seconds to analyse any given situation.  When my neighbour chopped down his thick hedge, I was certain that the Hound would be straight over the wall and out to attack passing old-age pensioners and postmen, but no.  It didn’t happen.

Why?  Who knows? My theory is that the whole thing was a ploy to make me complacent, and if that was the Hound’s plan, it worked.

What’s the expression?  Lulled into a false sense of security.


The Hound played it pretty well until I arrived home unexpectedly to find him roaming the street snarling and searching for a victim to chew.  This is not good.  I’m faced with a serious problem, and also a shortage of bills. As long as this animal remains at large, I’ll receive no demands for money, but at the same time, while this creature remains free, nobody is safe.

I consult with friends.  What to do?  Someone suggests buying one of those collar systems that deliver an electric shock if the dog goes near a wire.  I don’t like this idea because I don’t wish to inflict pain on any animal, but I’m also aware that the Hound of Satan has no such scruples and would be quite happy to inflict pain on anything that moves.

All the same, what would be the harm in going to a pet shop to find out how much it would cost?  That’s what I did, and they told me it would cost €300, so I told them to fuck off and that was that.

What did I do instead?  Simple.  I hitched up the trailer and headed off to the builder’s yard where I bought €20 worth of timber.  I then built a little trellis and bolted it to the top of the wall.  No more mangled postmen or traumatised poodles.

Is there a downside?  Yes.  I’m up to my neck in bills.


All posts about the Hound of Satan


The Hound of Satan Goes to Town

I brought Dog Sothoth with me because I was going to be gone for hours and it didn’t seem right to leave an animal — even one with red eyes and cloven paws — alone in the cold all day.  I had things to do, mainly concerned with creating a pop-up gallery and a meander through the Market, but I was conscious that the Hound of Satan is unused to an urban environment and might well cause mayhem.  Throat-crunching and leg-mangling.  Poodle-eating.  You know yourself.

So I asked myself thusly: How bad can it get?

The answer is this: worse than I could possibly imagine, but not in the way you might think.  You see, for years I’ve been telling everyone I know how savage this brute is, how nothing is safe.  Not child.  Not neighbour.   Not dog.  Not cat.  Not postman.  Not policeman.

Savage.  Evil.

What happened?  Dog Sothoth spent the entire day gazing up at people with those sad eyes, cunningly turned brown instead of the normal red, snuggling up to credulous young girls.  Hug me.  Daddy beats me.  Licking my friends’ hands.  Save me.  Daddy is cruel.  Climbing onto strangers’ laps.   Won’t you please take me home? Daddy is evil.

I spent the day enduring the judgemental gaze of all the people I told about Dog Sothoth. 

Liar, their eyes said.  Evil, evil, cruel man.  Awwww.  Look at the lovely dog.   Awwww!!

Luckily, I bumped into Wrinkly Joe, who was present when Dog Sothoth raced across the road and dismantled a neighbour’s harmless little lap-dog before running up the road spitting out lumps of fur.

What? I implored.

Wrinkly Joe shrugged.  I know.  What do you expect when you have the Hound of Satan for a pet?



More on dogs



Feeding a Dog

My little dog, Satan, was looking none too happy.

Here, I said.  Eat this bowl of nutritionally-balanced, crunchy wholesome kibbles, packed with all the vitamins a healthy dog needs.

Grrrrr, said the dog.

Very well, I said.  Have nothing then.  And I folded my arms.

Wait a minute.  What’s that searing, agonising pain shooting through my leg and burning new pathways in my brain?  Why, that will be the dog gnawing at my ankle with sharpened fangs.  Grrrrr.

Alright, Satan, I soothed as I pepper-sprayed him into a calm, quivering little mass.  Point taken.  Literally.

It was time for new thinking.  Blue-sky puppy-shooting, going forward.  Oh, did I mention to you that I’d recently made a fortune from an innovative range of dog foods?


Well, I did.  Since launching my new brand, Real Food For Real Dogs, I can’t keep up with demand.  It’s hard to know which line is most popular, but my researchers in the vast cavern complex below the Bockschloss tell me that Meaty Postman Chunks is trending worldwide on Twitter.  For myself, I like Minced Burglar With Intruder Sauce but others have suggested that Free Newspaper Delivery Treats should be at number one. I don’t know.  That sort of thing is for my minions to work out.  The Meter Reader range is going well and so, surprisingly, is the speciality product, Garda Síochána in Guinness, with Chips and Doughnuts.

We’re hiring.  If you’re a young, motivated dog-food designer, put your CV through the letter-box.  All survivors will be interviewed.



The Hound of Satan

Dinner with the Hound of Satan

My Dogs

Working dogs

Hound of Satan Sick



Bock’s Hound Breaks Out

It was a beautiful day.  Simply gorgeous.  Only a man with a heart of stone could fail to wander out and enjoy the lovely bright skies and the warmth.

I have a heart of stone and my dog has a heart of pure sulphur which is why neither of us ventured into the morning sunshine.  We had issues to resolve.

Why do you attack postmen and tinkers?


Why do you attack neighbours’ dogs and run away spitting out lumps of fur?


When did you achieve such a mastery of deductive reasoning?


The first two questions were a trick.  What I really wanted to know was how a small dog with an even smaller brain-pan can analyse my defences and identify precisely the weak point to probe successfully.

I’ve had this minor battle of wits going on for a few years now, and I have to tell you, the dog is winning.

In the early days, it was simple enough.  There’s a hole in the wall.   That’s how the dog is escaping and savaging the postman.  Fix hole.

The gate isn’t closing properly.  That’s how the dog is getting out to murder the little corgi from up the road.  Fix gate.

But then it became more nuanced, like the time I was sitting in the garden enjoying a well-deserved glass of wine when I noticed  a small shape walking along the top of the wall.

A cat?  No — a dog.  My dog, making his homicidal escape.

Or the time I had to set up cameras on tripods and drive away from the house because the dog wouldn’t come out when called in case I’d see how he was escaping.

It’s driving me crazy.  Every time I close off an escape route, the dog sits down, lights a pipe, strokes his chin and says Hmm. Let’s see now.

Yesterday, I found another escape route which I closed off by building a section of fence and bolting it to a wall, ending forever any possibility of the Hound of Satan breaking out and terrorising those who live near me.


I left my car in town last night, very sensibly, because I went to see the incomparable Groove Junction in Dolans, a fine outfit of musicians and featuring the great Carlos Hercules on drums.

Now, as it happens, my neighbour nnormally goes to all these gigs, but he had a quiet night in for some reason best known to himself, and was up bright as a button before the birds brushed their teeth.   Decent fellow that he is, he kindly offered me a lift, but as we drove away he looked back.

I think your dog is following us.

You know what?  I said.  Postmen, tinkers and corgis can all fuck off.  I’m going to the market, and then I’m watching the match.  Normal service resumes tomorrow.


The Hound of Satan

Dinner with the Hound of Satan

My Dogs

Working dogs



The Hound of Satan

This fucking dog is driving me mad.

I know you haven’t heard about the bastard for a while, but he hasn’t gone away, you know.

He has not gone away.

He’s a small dog, but all the more savage for it, and also very intelligent.  This is not a good combination,  small, savage and smart, even if it does sound like a firm of Nama lawyers.

No indeed.  Not a good combination.

Where I live, there is a great amount of perimeter.  A combination of walls and hedges.  And over the years, as various policemen, bailiffs and irate neighbours came to my door, I have had to seal up the gaps through which the Hound of Satan escapes.

You see, this is no ordinary dog, but a deep thinker of his calling.  A dog who takes dogness seriously. This is a small dog who thinks nothing of attacking the three Dobermann Pinschers we meet on the river-bank, held back by a tattooed body-builder skinhead.  This dog attacks trucks.  A neighbour ran over this fucking dog two or three years ago with a big bastard of a jeep and did no damage at all, except the ridiculous cost of a night in the vet’s.

He costs me a fortune when he gets sick.


I came home the other day to find the dog attacking the bin-men when he was supposed to be securely locked away, since the last time I found an escape route and secured it.  Bastard.  The postman was off in the distance, rubbing his ankle and shaking his fist at me.

This is not good.

What to do?

What will I do? I asked Parkenstein.

How the fuck would I know? he answered helpfully.  Video?

Parkenstein, you’re a  genius.

And so I set up the video camera, pointing towards the corner where I suspected the Hound of Satan was escaping, and I drove off.

When I came back, the Hound was waiting for me at the front door.

Where’s that video? What does it show?  Was I wrong?

I was not.  Gentle and lithe as a cat, there’s the dog, climbing the wall, walking to the end, hopping onto the edge of a sheet of plywood no more than half an inch wide, balancing on it, turning around and leaping into the neighbour’s garden.

This is not an ordinary dog.

I hate this animal and yet, in a strange hate-filled way, I also admire it.

Would you like an extremely aggressive, highly intelligent small dog with a good sense of balance and the ability to climb walls?  I guarantee you’ll have no rats.

The Hound of Satan

Dinner with the Hound of Satan

My Dogs

Working dogs