Tuesday, 17 January 2012

My dog is a complete git. Again

Anyone who lives in a small village knows that everyone knows everyone else's business. And having moved here from London, it is a tricky thing to get your head round.

Which is exactly why you should don a tin hat and keep your head below the parapet if you want to avoid becoming the subject of gossipy-type scenarios.

For example, all I have to do is put on some nail-varnish, and the village is probably awash with rumours that I am on the prowl for someone's husband. It's probably in my head, but to be on the safe side, I keep my head down and play Angry Birds.

God knows what would happen if I ever did something radical ..... like wear a pair of shorts. I would probably be burnt at the stake for heresy .... or crimes against public decency (to be fair though, my legs have always been on the pale side, hence my nickname - Stilton - white with blue veins).

Anyway, I digress. Back to the people of the village. And in particular, my next door neighbours, who are a god-fearing, friendly German family.

They live a simple but happy life; raising livestock and collecting eggs from their chickens. Which is the dogs danglies because I always have a steady supply of fresh eggs (if you're a fan of the Atkins diet, you would have orgasms living in my house).

The reason I mentioned the German family will become clear in a few moments. But the story starts with me taking Naughty George out for some excercise. It was the same old, same old - me dragging him through the village with him woofing vacuously on the end of his leash.

We made our way through the village and then out into the open fields, when suddenly we stumbled across our German neighbours walking their Alsation / German Shepherd Dog. And as you know, Alsations are big bastard hard dogs, and the police use them to catch criminals.

And, as you would expect, when Naughty George clocked the Alsation, his ears pricked up and he ran towards the dog, which was at least three times the size of him. But instead of wagging his tail at the big dog, he inexplicably decided to bite the Alsation in the bloody face.

A god-almighty dog-fight ensued, with my God-fearing neighbours wailing and praying for mercy .... not for their dog (jeez, he was a powerhouse), but for my the undersized, 16 year old mongrel.

The Alsation managed to pin Naughty George down on his back and was posturing excitedly at his throat with bared gnashers. Luckily Naughty George managed to extricate himself, but instead of giving up, the stupid bastard launched another attack at the dog that could quite plainly kill him if it had a mind to. ARGH! What a total nutjob.

I kid you not - FIVE times my dog was pinned down by the Alsation, and five times he got free and launched another attack ...... until I saw a window of opportunity - NG had become so tired, that I managed to jump forward, grab his collar and drag him out of the melee.

Despite the fact that he was heaving for breath, he was still straining against his collar trying to re-start the scrap with the other dog. What a complete spaz.

Ok, so dog-fights happen. But hell, NG is 16. Most dogs are long dead before they reach that age. And if they're not, you would think that they would have realised that a penchant for fighting big dogs was never going to be a particularly pleasant way to while away an afternoon.

Pic.No.1 Naughty George didn't seem too perturbed about his dog fight

Pic.No.2 The 'what have I done now?' expression. My mutt is a git

So yeh, all in all it was a great day for blending into village life. Not.

The very next day I was walking Izzy to school, when I saw a lady who lives in the house opposite me.

"Oh my god," she said, after flagging me down excitedly, "I just heard that Naughty George broke into your neighbours' garden, gravely attacked their dog and then attempted to murder their chickens!"

I looked at her incredulously, but before I could say anything, she simply waved and went on her way.

As I stood there, disbelievingly rooted to the spot, someone else (who lived at the other side of the village) walked up to me; "is it true that Naughty George (note how everyone knows his name), has killed another dog, a herd of chickens and then tried to get at a sheep?"

What the?

"And don't forget the cow that he murdered," I added with a hint of sarcasm.

The woman gasped and scurried on her way.

Bloody nora, it appeared as though Naughty George had morphed into the Hound of the Baskervilles. In fact, he was that evil, that I have assigned him his own moniker - The Beast of Forest Hill. I tell you what though. That dog has got a lot to answer for - he certainly isn't a dog that you would want to own if you prefer a low profile.

So dahlink, enough of the bloody mutt - what are you up to this week? Have you experienced the cold snap today?

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