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Canine Blues

by Glenn Biscuit

 

Iím a Dog lover. I canít help myself, all my life Iíve been seduced by their shaggy fur and cute faces.

When I say Ďloverí I donít mean it in the kinky sense, I mean that Iím one of those twats that never shuts up about them- no matter how trivial the story. Any past tail (Ho Ho) involving a Mutt of mine will be told over and over till Iím blue in the face. Me Mumís exactly the same. In fact it was she that got me into it.

 

I remember the first dogs we had- two Springerís Bruce and Jeb.

 

Jeb was pretty inconsequential, he may have done some funny stuff but I however was far to young to recall any.

 

Bruce on the hand was a fucking nutter. Not the Ďill take yer fucking ears offí fucking nutter, the nutter thatís as daft as a brush. Heíd eat owt and I mean owt.

 

Tights, foil, aftershave lids, batteries- the list is endless. When the vet gave his post mortem he had never seen a dog die from intestinal strangulation by a pair of tights.

 

Next was Peggy, a Jack Russell. I was a little bit older at this point and was at primary school, which was situated a 100 yards at the top of our street. Peggy was also a nutter and although she was the type of dog that would bite yer face off, she was too little and settled for you your legs/ankles/arms/fingers etc.

 

My dad, who was still living at ours at this point even though he was divorcing my mum, had laid a fresh layer of lino on the kitchen floor. When he got back from his milk round Peggy had ate it. She was the type of dog that if you opened the door the size of the flat end of a Rizla, she would get her nose in and make a run for it.

 

Id spend my days in class looking out the window watching Peggy doing laps of the playground and spend my dinners trying to stop her from biting the ankles of my mates. She was top at football too with amazing nose dribbling skills.

 

Anyway my Mum took me on holiday while my Dad was getting ready to move out. Peggy got into my room while we were away and I came back to a scene of complete horror, Peggy had chewed all my Action Men and Star Wars figures to bits. My bedroom looked like a plastic version of the Somme. Peggy had to go.

 

A little while on I got a job walking a big fuck off German Shepherd called Rommel that was twice the size of me. I got paid a fiver a go and also every time I took the dog back the owner would give me chocolate. I loved taking the hound up to the local reccy and walk round like I was ten men in front of the older lads who where all drinking. I had respect. I had arrived.

 

My granddad once told me that Rommel was the only gentleman German officer. I had no idea what he meant but looking back I think it was a poor choice of name for the dog, perhaps Schumacher would have been better as the big hairy fucker was always knocking me over.

 

My next dog related experience was a massive step down. Id gone from taking the German tank commander of the Afrika corps for a piss on the monkey bars to being in command of what can only be described as a fucking fraggle.

 

Id been dragged round to one of my mums friends gaff and was bored out me head. They bread Pekineseís and I soon cheered up when they offered me one, much to me mams horror. Ill have owt free so snapped the manky bastard up before mum could say anything.

 

Someone told me a story (it may have been my granddad ballooning again) that Pekineseís where originally bread by the emperor of China hundreds of years ago. They where apparantly attack dogs whoís job it was to stay in the silk sleeves of the emperors robes and jump out whenever the emperor was attacked.

 

In hindsight this may have been a lie.

 

Anyway, my mum hated it which meant the poor fucker never got clipped or bathed. And I wasnít bloody doing it. This was a bad scene, the shape and style of the dogs hair meant that every time it had a shit it would get matted into the mutts arse hair, tíwasnít a pretty sight.

 

There where two other points of contention to the animal. The first,  It had a nose that looked like it  had been chasing parked cars and the second, the dog was called Tammy.

 

Tammy! For fucks sake.

 

Luckily, my mum married my stepdad and he hated dogs (he hated everyone, especially me) but the dog had to go.

 

Meanwhile, my dad had moved to the other side of town and had married another woman. I used to like going round cos they let me smoke Embassy Number 1 and they had a dog called shufty, a mongrel type effort and funny as fuck. One of those real canine characters.

 

His den was where the two seater met the sofa and he would take your hand off if you put your hand down it, even if you where only trying to stroke him. If the remote control fell down there you would have to call in a SWAT team to get it back.

 

Meanwhile back at the ranch, and Im entering my early adolescence. Im going through my nobody understands me phase and having a boss time smoking weed and listening to Floyd/Marley and Acid music.

 

Im hanging round down the precinct regularly, in my gore-tex with my pals being nuisances. Occasianly I would borrow my aunty Jeanetteís dog. My uncle Ste had named the dog Bo after Bo Derek, It was a Boxer.

It was also a hard dog, I remember being round the back of the precinct getting mithered off a lad we called Neil Long who was a right lanky cocky twat. Six foot aged 15,  his dad was a screw at Walton which made him even more of a bad knob.  

 

Bo jumped her lead and went straight for him, how we all laughed when he cut his hands on the broken glass milk bottles stuck into the top of the walls at the back of the shops as he tried to make his get away.

 

The big decision at our house was whether to get sattelite telly or another dog. It was a tough choice which at first looked like my stepdad had won when we got our dish fitted but lo and behold three months later my mum brings a Springer Spaniel pup home.

 

Now this dog was a gentleman and he liked his ale. He was my best mucker and no mistake. It helped that id left school at this point and was doing sweet FA with my life apart from getting stoned and watching sky telly.

And if I was getting stoned then so was the dog. Me and my layabout mates made sure of it!

 

Blow backs and ale, the dog had it all! It turned him into a real dreamer, head in the clouds 24-7. chilled him right out.

 

My stepdad used to wonder why everytime he cracked a tin open the dog would be straight over begging for a sip.

 

I had many good years with Ďour Samí and he went every where with me. My mum once rented a caravan for me in keswick while I did a bit of a rattle and lent me the dog to keep me company while I bounced off the walls. This wasnít the best idea in the world as I ended up  traipsing all over the Lake District trying to score.

 

Sam passed away at Christmas, in his favourite place on the couch in my mums living room.

 

She got a new Springer pup a month back. Sadly I live down south now so I doubt ill really connect with him. Also im tee-total so wont have the oppurtunity of expanding its mind.

 

We rent our gaff and arent allowed any pets other than the shite kind. I.e- Hampsters, goldfish that sort of thing.

 

The missus wants to get a Cat but no chance. Cats are wankers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
   
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