Saturday, 26 February 2011
Don't Blame It On The Dog When The Cats Out Fishing.
Throughout my childhood we had many dogs, ranging from Shelties to Poodles. After a while my parents got a bit bored of Pedigree Dogs, mainly because they were expensive and bad health problems. The last Pedigree dog we had was a small black poodle called Nikki (or little hilter), it was truly evil. The poodle stank....would bite your hand if you tried to stroke her curls and when my father did Nikki's yearly hair cut he had to put a pair of my Mums tights over it's snapping face and wrestle her with the clippers. It was an odd sight watching a well-built man struggle against a black ball of anger with the clippers.
Although, my most prominent memory of Nikki was when she had a Stroke. I came down one day and she was just lying there, which wasn't unusual since she was immensely lazy. However after 8hrs Nikki hadn't moved and she was allowing me to pet her (something was up). My Dad got the vet in, he explained she was just old and should be put down. It was funny since the vet was perplexed that it took 3 injections to kill her! Even at death's door Nikki was still a fighter. I wasn't allowed to watch the fatal injections but I did see the vet take the dog out of the house in a black bag from my window, I was sad but at the same pleased she left this planet colour co-ordinated.
Anyway my parents asked if I wanted another dog, praying I would say ' No', I said ' Yes'! Though my Mum had one condition, that we get a dog from the Dog Rescue centre. I went ok. We drove to the Glasgow Dog rescue centre to look for a new member of our family, Glasgow is an odd city. The average age expectancy is 68yrs old and a large mystical dark cloud hangs over it all year long. Making it look like a set from the film Blade Runner, Glasgow is as a mouldy city hence why the people there get called ' Soap Doggers'. However the majority of people in Glasgow are generally renowned for being chirpy and optimistic. Which shows that even at the anus of the world Glaswegians can still show great spirit. I still wouldn't live in Glasgow.
We eventually got to the Rescue Centre and started the search. As a child it was really exciting like picking a new toy but looking back on it I could imagine it being a very bizarre place to work. Staring at all the poor dogs, with hopeful eyes, as they preform hypnotic displays of affection. Just hoping for you too love them and take them home. It must be similar to working in an Old Folks Home, the only difference i'm guessing is that it's easier to clean up dog shit than it is to wipe an old Man's arse.
My mothers patience was wearing thin, since we had been there for an hour and all I was doing was picking insanely large ferocious dogs, most likely previously owned by the drug mafia. My Mum snapped, grabbed my arm and was about too drag me back to the car for home. Until we heard a soft little bark at the end of the Kennel, it was possibly the most gorgeous looking puppy ever created by genetics. It was a mixture between an Alsatian and a Husky dog the Kennel Officer told us, he also explained it was going to get put down the next day. My Mum being a Mother bought his story, even at a young age I didn't believe the Kennel Officer. Lets look at it logically shall we, you have many barely standing decrepit mutts and a young full of life pup. Yeah that makes sense to get rid of the healthy pup because that will be really hard to get rid off.....However, even though I was a smart arse I didn't say anything, I wasn't that stupid I was getting a new bloody dog...happy days.
Anyway we named the new pup 'Kim' after the beautiful actress from the 80's Kim Basinger, for the first few months this pup was adorable. Until it reached adulthood and we started to realise that this Dog was more eccentric than Spike Milligan on acid. Firstly it hated men, especially men with white trainers ( something possibly down to its previous owner) but was a complete softy with children/women. Well I say all women, Kim didn't really like the Avon lady. Sometimes me and my Dad would worry that the dog was going to jump through the Living-room window as the Avon lady passed our gate ( sadly it did not). It had an insane appetite for lip-stick ( by this point I bet my mum wished she had left her in the kennel), paracetamol, toffee and my Subbuteo goal post nets. The funny thing is it used to turn it's nose up to Pedigree chum! Also when Kim was on heat her vagina swelled up to a painful looking size and resembled a giant prune. Kim eventually died since it loved to drink out of the toilet ( which we didn't know about at the time) and poisoned herself due to bleach in the toilet water.
Prior to her Rock and Roll death she did create a bit of a family legacy and many great stories. Especially the week my Dad took off work, he was looking out of the kitchen window into our back garden. Kim was outside, due to her attempts to escape ( usually no longer than 3-days until her fix for lipstick kicked in) we had to attach her lead to a long mountain rope ( which was tied to a steel post in the the garden). The dog was chasing it's tail whilst my dad watched bewildered beyond belief ( it had been doing it for 20minutes solid). Then kim stopped abruptly, as a ginger cat at the far end of garden walked to a precise point. My dad put down his coffee and watched eagerly, whispering 'go on Kim you can do it'. Kim leapt with blood in her eyes and ran as fast as her paws could take her all the way down the garden towards the cat. As Kim was about a quarter of a metre away from the cat ( as my dad arms were in the air with excitement) the rope ran out. Kim went flying in the air whilst the rope nearly pulled her neck off, surely giving some form of whiplash. Whilst the cat sat still in a smug manner, Kim dragged her body like Quasimodo back to the other-side of the garden in shame....... My father sighed and over the week noticed it was happening everyday!
Then one night my Father ( without my Mothers permission) snuck out and gave the rope attached to the steel pole an extra 2 metres of length. Looking out the kitchen window onto the back garden the next day, my dad anxiously waited and waited. Then the arrogant Ginger cat did its usual strut in our back garden, sitting just out of the dogs reach. Kim sprinted towards the cat, as it got about 2 inches away from the cat.......... the cat realised it was f**cked......... Kim grabbed the cat by the neck and threw it over the garden wall ( the meow could be heard for miles) and it never came back, possibly because it died. Kim pranced round the garden looking so proud, tongue hanging out and it's prune looking vagina high in the air.
Anyway my father had told me this story when I had got back from school that day and I have never seen a man so excited over telling a tale. He was making the noises the cat made as it was thrown 14 foot in the air and imitating himself sneaking out into the middle of the night. Then my Dad just walked away turned round and said you know what the moral of the story is..... no I went...... 'Don't Blame It On The Dog When The Cats Out Fishing'. To this day I haven't got a clue what he meant by that moral and at the same time kind of happy I don't.