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Hound of Satan chewing my letters

Since the Hound of Satan is no longer able to chew the postman, he’s settled for chewing the post instead.

All of it.

I’ve tried everything to stop him but nothing works. I tried coating letters with a devastating mixture of hot chilli powder and wasabi paste but he just licked them until his eyes went red. I tried hiding small fireworks in a package operated by a cunning pressure device, but he disabled it with a deft flick of a screwdriver before tearing the box to pieces and spitting gunpowder all over the floor.

I even tried sitting him down and reasoning  with him.   Look, Satan, this will have to stop. You ripped up that speeding summons (which, admittedly, might be no bad thing). You tore my bag of unmarked thousand-euro notes to flitters. You put little toothy puncture marks all  over my new passport and now I can’t flee to Argentina.

He just sat there gnawing on the forearm of a Jehovah’s Witness and snarling at me in ancient Greek.

Why couldn’t you be a normal dog? I said. Chasing cats and barking at nothing?

Snarl, he replied.

That was when I noticed the unchewed envelope.

Gimme that, I said.

Grrrr, said the dog.

Give me that fucking envelope.


Look! A postman!

While he was gone I gently lifted the envelope from his basket and drew out the letter it contained.

Dear Satan, it read, I enclose a bank draft for four billion dollars. Many thinks for your help setting up the business. Your friend, Mark Zuckerberg.

I hardly noticed the soft padding or the clickety-clack of his nails on the floor as Satan re-entered the room. When I turned around, he was dressed in an old anorak and holding a can of Dutch Gold.

He regarded me for a moment or two and a faint sneer played across his lips. So, human. It seems you have discovered my secret. Well, at least the charade is over.  No more chasing cars and eating whatever foul slops you put in front of me.

Where is it? I demanded. What did you do with the money?

Money? What money?

The money in the fucking envelope, I screamed. The four billion dollars.

I found no money in the envelope, said the dog, puffing on a spliff. All I found was a piece of paper. A receipt or something.

That’s it, I said. The piece of paper. Where is it?

Where do you think it is? he replied. I ate it. I’m a fucking dog.

I hate that animal.


All Hound of Satan posts



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


Out For a Stroll

I went out for a stroll this morning.  You know, it was a beautiful day and the Hound of Satan looked to be in need of a walk.  There are only so many neighbours to attack in this world and so many pet Corgis a satanic dog can kill.

As it was such nice weather, I brought the camera and just happened to take random snaps of little things along the way — the sort of stuff I usually blunder past without noticing, and it occurred to me how little I know about our environment.

Here are a few things I took pictures of.  If you know the names of them, I’d be very grateful indeed to learn from you.

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Bock's People Humour Pets

Cursing Jack Has Pups

As I brooded over a flat pint in the Filthy Skobe, my phone bleated painfully.  It was Cursing Jack.

Do you want a dog?

old_english_sheepdogA dog? I laughed. A fucking dog?  You’re insane. Don’t you know I already have the rottenest, meanest, houndiest hound that ever walked on cloven paws? The  Hound of Satan.

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.

You can?

Cartainly, I assured him.  There’s only one thing you can call an Old English boxer.

What? he said.

Henry Cooper!


Hound of Satan Sick

The poor old dog is sick.  He had a lump on his head so I decided I’d better take him to the vet, and the vet said Jesus Christ, that’s a fuckin tumour.

I told you he was sick.

What to do?

Bring him in on Monday morning, said the vet, and I’ll cut it off.  Send it away for a biopsy.

And? I said.

It might be nothing.


Or he might be fucked.

I see, I said. Well don’t spare my fucking feelings anyway.

I won’t, he assured me.

This isn’t the same vet who patched Satan back together after he got rolled over by a jeep.  This is a much rougher class of individual, but he’s cheaper.

So I brought the dog to the small animal hospital this morning and deposited him with the vet from hell.  Call me about six, he said, and we’ll see how things go.

So I did.  I phoned about six o’clock.


I removed that, he said. But we did a scan while he was knocked out, and I’ll need to talk to you about it.

Fuck, I said. That sounds ominous.

We’ll talk.

Jesus, I hate it when they take that tone.  Do vets and doctors do a special module on patronising their customers?

An hour later I’m standing in front of him.  What’s all this about a scan?

We did an ultrasound, and there’s … well, there’s something inside his abdomen.  A mass.

Like, you mean, another growth?


I see, I said. And could it have anything to do with the fact that he got squashed by my neighbour’s jeep back in September?

Hmm, he grimaced.  Could be. Maybe a haematoma. Or an enlarged spleen.

So perhaps the hound of Satan isn’t yet finished.  We’ll know in a few weeks, but for the moment, the poor old devil has a row of staples across the top of his head.


Torturing Fianna Fail Canvassers

I know it’s evil. I know they’re only doing their job.

Or do I?

Wait a minute. They’re not doing a job. They’re not producing anything. They’re just a a crowd of self-interested cocksuckers trying to persuade us that we should vote for the party that crashed our country into a brick wall.

Well that’s all right then. It’s open season, isn’t it?

Pause. Guilty pause. Confession.

I’ve been torturing them long before I went through that logical exculpation.

It must be two or three weeks since the first naive pair of Fianna Fail canvassers arrived at my door, bowing and scraping. Smiling nervously.

Hi there.

What party?

Hi, we were just going to drop off a few leaflets.

What party?

We’ll just leave them here, ok?

What fucking party?

Nervous grin. Fianna, eh, Fa-fa-fa …

Fianna Fail?

Eh, yeah.

Get the fuck off my property before I set the fucking dog on ya, thieving crooked shower of cunts get the fuck outa here now or I’ll kick the fuckin teeth outa yer fuckin face shower of crooked thievin cunts fuckoff!!!

Incredibly, one of them was still approaching me, wearing a horrible, ingratiating Mormon grin and holding out a leaflet.

Where the fuck are you going?

Our policies —

Your policy you thieving crooked cunt fuck off where the fuck is my fuckin dog come here now Satan and tear the bollocks offa this fuckin fucker get the fuck outa here now or I’ll kick the fuckin teeth outa yer fuckin face fuck off and die ya crowd of crooked thievin cunts fuck you and all belongin to ya cunts fucker fucks fuck off that means you ya stupid fucker do you want to fuckin die????

I think they got the message.