I reluctantly get out of bed, throw on my dressing gown and make my way downstairs. I open the kitchen door to be greeted with a growl coming from Winklehoven's cage. When it's Poppy or Laura, the dog sits up expectantly and wags its tail. With me, it's always the growl.
'Morning rat,' I say as I pass it to put the kettle on, which gets me another growl. The sodding thing can stay in its cage until I've had a bowl of cereal and my morning shit. Then I might just be in a good enough mood to take it out.
An idea occurs as I'm munching my way through my All Bran. Instead of just taking Winklebastard around the local streets, I'll jump in the car and march the little sod around the walking track at Langtree Lakes - all three miles of it. With any luck, the longer walk will tire it out more, and I can get some peace and quiet later to sit and have a nice read.
Genius!
With this thought in mind, I finish my cereal, have the aforementioned bowel movement, and get dressed.
By the time I hear Poppy and Laura stirring upstairs, I am slipping on my trainers by the front door. The dog is sat watching me with its new lead and collar on. These cost an arm and a leg, given that they are branded - rather inexplicably - with the Hello Kitty logo. Surely a Hello Doggy equivalent would be a better idea, but sadly no such thing exists. The only solace I can take is that I doubt Winklebastard is any happier about my daughter's choice of bright pink cat-branded dog walking accessory than I am.
'I'm off! I'll be back in about an hour!' I shout upstairs. 'C'mon twatface, let's go,' I tell the dog, and yank it out through the doorway into the bright morning sunlight.
If there's one saving grace of Chihuahuas, it's that they're too small to be much of a bother when it comes to transport. A decent sized dog needs to be stuck in the back of the car, usually accompanied by several blankets, toys and a couple of air fresheners. With Winklebastard, I just have to wrap its lead around the seatbelt clasp a few times, and it can sit safely in the passenger seat next to me.
Oh, don't get me wrong, I'd like nothing more than to 'accidentally' have to brake hard on a roundabout and send the dog into the foot well headfirst, but returning home with its corpse in a brown paper bag wouldn't go down too well, now would it?
The drive to the Lakes only takes about ten minutes, giving Winklehoven ample time to bark at the passing cars, and for me to develop a tension headache above one eye because of the noise. Once we're out of the car though, the headache starts to clear again, thanks to the park's wonderful clean air and tranquil atmosphere. Not even Winklehoven's inherent Winklehovenness can wipe the dumb grin off my face as I walk down the sun dappled pathway. If only the UK had this kind of weather all year round, it would be the most magnificent country on Earth, and I would never want to leave.
I'm fine and dandy until we start to come across other dog walkers. It's one thing to walk a twelve inch long Chihuahua on a pink Hello Kitty lead when you're on your own and not in sight of another human being, it's quite another when other people start to see you coming.
It's not the women. They're generally fine. They find dogs like Winklebastard quite cute most of the time, and are able to look past how ridiculous I look walking it.
The men, on the other hand, are completely different.
I am judged at every turn.
They see me coming towards them, and each and every one has to suppress a mirthful grin.
Look! Here comes a man who must have had his testicles removed on the day of his wedding! they all think. See how he holds limply on to the lead of the tiny rat creature. I bet my ten-year-old could beat him in an arm wrestle blindfolded. Why, this man's penis must be like the surface of the Moon - hard to see with the naked eye.
For my part, I tend to return their unspoken condemnation with a look of anguished resignation.
Yes, I know how wretched I look, my expression says. See how I gaze upon your proper dog with seething jealousy, and try to hurry past you as quickly as I can, before the emasculation takes my legs out from under me.
Not only do I have the judging of my masculinity to deal with, I also have to watch out for any signs from the other dog that it's about to eat Winklebastard. Anything larger than a Springer Spaniel sends shivers down my spine. Dogs get hungry when out on walks, and I'm sure most of them wouldn't be above a little light inter-species cannibalism if the opportunity presented itself. You couldn't get much meat off those tiny little bones, but it might keep you going until your lunchtime bowl of kibble, if nothing else.
On this particular morning I have been in luck. Thus far, I've only had my masculinity questioned non verbally once, and the dog he had with him may have been a large Labrador, but it looked on its last legs, and probably couldn't have managed much more than a light suck of Winklehoven's head.
The only other dog walker I can see in my vicinity is a brown haired woman in a black t-shirt and blue jeans, coming towards me with a Border Terrier. Luckily, it's a small one, so there shouldn't be any cannibalistic tendencies in evidence, and she looks like a pleasant kind of person, one who wouldn't judge me for walking such an effeminate dog. Not out loud at least.
Usually, I find the prospect of communication with a complete stranger to be exquisitely awkward. If you're out on a nice walk by yourself, and you see someone coming the other way, you have a hard decision to make. On the one hand, do you greet the fellow walker with a cheery smile and a heartfelt good morning? Or do you scurry by and make no acknowledgement of their presence, just in case they’re a raving lunatic, who likes to tear the ears off people who speak to them in public?
Mind you, the idea of being eaten alive by a mentalist is a breeze compared to the absolute worst thing that can happen when you wish someone a good day.
They could ignore you completely.
Aaaarggh! Think of the shame! The cold, cold British shame! To be rebuffed by a total stranger when attempting to be polite in Great Britain is like being slapped in the face and spat upon in any other civilised country.
Happily, all of these horrid considerations go out the window once both parties have a dog. There seems to be some kind of solidarity between dog owners that breaks down the social walls, and allows for some bright chit chat in the middle of the path, while the animals get to know each other better.
Also, it's a bit difficult to retain any British aloofness when your dogs suffer from no such awkwardness. While you're still getting used to the idea of having a conversation with somebody you've never met before, they're already sniffing each other's behinds and arguing over who gets to play with the stick.
I've decided, in my lack of infinite wisdom, that this is the primary reason why so many people in this country have a dog. It's not so much that we're a nation of dog lovers because they're cute and friendly, it's because they allow us to be more friendly to one another, without all the inherent stress.
As if to prove my point, the woman with the Border Terrier gets within ten feet of me and issues a cheery hello.
'Morning!' I say back with enthusiasm.
'Isn't that a gorgeous little dog!' she says, as Winklehoven trots over on the end of its retractable Hello Kitty lead to say hello to the small Border, which is off the lead and looking very happy about it. I say small, it still towers over Winklebastard - and looks quite amazed by the whole experience. There can't be many occasions in a small Border Terrier's life that this occurs.
'I like your Border,' I reply, loudly enough for Winklebastard's bat ears to pick up on. 'What's her name?' I'm guessing the sex of the dog due to its size.
Correctly, it transpires. 'Bluebell. Yours?'
Shit. I was having such a nice time.
'Winklehoven,' I mutter in a low tone. 'This is Winklehoven. Winklehoven the Chihuahua.' The desolation in my voice is palpable.
'Oh, that's an... interesting name for such a small dog.'
'Yes, it is, isn't it?'
The woman delves into a pocket and produces a large treat, which she passes down to Bluebell. I have neglected to
bring treats with me for Winklehoven, because, as I think we've firmly established by now, I can't stand the cunt.
Bluebell starts to chew on the treat as Winklehoven looks on in what I can only assume is supreme doggy jealousy. This warms my heart, and goes some way to making up for the painful bite marks on my finger that still haven't healed properly.
'Lovely morning, isn't it?' the woman says, entering into the requisite small talk that we are forced into while our dogs bond.
'Yep, makes a nice change.'
This is a stupid thing to say, as it's been like this for the past week. I just say it out of habit, given how changeable the British weather usually is. The woman then squints slightly, and a curious look crosses her face. I think I'm about to get recognised again.
We really have to stop going on the telly, or agreeing to be in articles in the newspaper. It's getting silly now.
'Don't I know you from somewhere?' she says.
'Well, yes, I guess you might,' I reply, trying to keep the smugness out of my voice, and failing completely.
'Yeah, I definitely know you!'
I chuckle self indulgently. 'I get this quite a lot.'
'Do you?' she looks amazed.
'Of course! I'm lucky enough to be quite popular.'
'What? Just because you used to work at the paper?'
Oh.
I appear to have read this a bit wrong. She obviously recognises me from my previous life as a poor, downtrodden copywriter for our local news rag.
'Um... yeah! Lots of people knew me there!' I say, trying to cover my mistake, but still sounding like an egomaniac. 'Where did you work?' I add.
Her face clouds. 'About three offices down from yours. We'd see each other in the kitchen most days.'
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Quick Newman! Use the dogs to get you out of this!
I look down. 'Aaah. Isn't that sweet? The way they're getting on with each other.'
Actually, they don't look like they're getting on with each other at all. Bluebell is still chewing away on her big treat, her eyes occasionally darting to Winklehoven. My dog is sat on its haunches, growling gently under its breath.
I recognise the signs. This is the noise Winklebastard makes when it's about to have a go at you for daring to not share your food. The amount of times it’s sat staring at me from the arm of the sofa, growling like that until I give it a chip, doesn't bear thinking about. If I don't service it with some free food off my plate, it will be down off the arm and thieving my pork chop quicker than you can say severe behavioural problems. The blame for this lies squarely at my wife and daughter's combined feet. They can't resist the stupid little dog's cutesy face, and spoil it rotten at every opportunity.
Bluebell knows none of this, and is therefore about to get a nasty surprise.
'Yes, they do... do look sweet,' the woman, who now dislikes me intensely, says, watching both dogs. She sounds quite unsure of herself. I can't blame her, as Winklehoven's growl has grown louder.
In an instant, the little dog ducks its head in, and tries to grab the treat from under the Border's nose. Bluebell is having none of this, and goes from being a well-mannered little doggie, to a gnashing ball of furry terror in a nanosecond. She goes for Winklehoven , slamming into the Chihuahua and sending it sprawling. In a split second she's on top of it, teeth bared and issuing a high pitched snarl that wouldn't sound out of place coming out of the gob of Cerberus, the three headed hellhound from Greek mythology.
I am paralysed.
While I might fantasise about harm coming to Winklebastard thanks to its attitude, to see it actually happening in front of me is quite another thing. What am I supposed to do if Bluebell isn't stopped? Squish Winklehoven's body back through our letterbox and run for the hills when I hear it plop wetly onto the welcome mat?
'Oh no!' the woman yells, bending down to pull Bluebell away. The Border is having none of it though, as she is quite happy treading on Winklehoven's head right about now, and doesn't want anyone to spoil the fun.
My paralysis breaks as I see her lunge for Winklebastard's throat. I reach forward, batting the Border away with one hand, and scoop the Chihuahua up with the other, attempting to get it out of danger. This only terrifies Winklehoven even more, causing a fountain of piss to erupt from its nether regions and RIGHT INTO MY MOUTH.
'Oh fuck!' I scream in disgust, holding the dog away from me. This only changes the direction of the piss fountain, so now Winklehoven is panic urinating all over the poor woman, soaking the front of her t-shirt.
She screams as well, skipping backwards to get out of range. Bluebell, seeing this (quite rightly) as an attack on her owner, runs over to me and sinks her teeth into my canvas trainer.
'Ow! Fuck!' I screech, pain immediately replacing disgust.
So now I have one dog attached to my foot, its needle teeth puncturing at least one of my toes, while another sits in my hand, wriggling like mad and spraying urine all over the place.
'Bluebell! Leave him alone!' the now urine soaked woman commands her dog. The Border does so, much to my surprise. She must have it well trained.
I figure trying the same tactic can't hurt. I point a finger at the Chihuahua. 'Winklehoven! Stop pissing!' This doesn't work, of course. Even an obedient dog would have trouble obeying an order like that.
I take hold of Winklebastard with both hands and attempt to control its wriggling a bit, in a valiant attempt to stop the piss fountain from spraying the entire area. I can't put the dog down, for fear of it being attacked again by Bluebell. Imploringly, I look back up at the woman, who obviously has a better grasp of dog training than me. 'Can you make it stop pissing? Why won't it stop pissing?' I wail in combined disgust and horror, as the little sod continues to void its bladder all over my hands.
'I, er, I... ' she replies, completely and understandably lost for words. She only came out this morning to give her lovely little Border Terrier a nice walk in the sun, and now she's being asked to give dog training tips to a piss soaked madman holding an epileptic Chihuahua.
'Why won't it stop?' I moan in a high pitched howl, looking at the golden stream the dog is still producing. 'Where's it all coming from?' I add, my face scrunching in revulsion.
'I don't know! Are you squeezing it?' she replies.
'I don't think so,' I tell her, loosening my grip anyway, just to be on the safe side. 'Can you squeeze piss out of a dog?' I ask over the never-ending spray. Even if this woman were the late, great Barbara Woodhouse, I think she'd have trouble answering that question.
'Put it down? That might stop it,' she suggests.
'But what about Bluebell?'
The woman looks down at her dog, who is now sat by her legs watching events unfold.
Have you ever seen a slack jawed dog?
Well, I fucking have, and it's a sight to behold, let me tell you.
'Bluebell won't attack again, don't worry!' the woman assures me. She still takes hold of Bluebell's collar as a precautionary measure though.
I lower Winklehoven to the ground, making sure to keep the genital region pointing away from me. It lies on its back for a moment, still urinating and wriggling, like the ugliest newborn you've ever seen. Then it realises that the only creature it's still pissing on is itself, and decides enough is enough. The stream of golden nastiness diminishes and Winklebastard rolls over and stands up again.
I look for signs of damage, but there don't appear to be any. All legs are pointing the right way, and no bloodstains are apparent. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Then I remember I am now covered in fresh dog urine.
'I'm covered in piss,' the poor woman says to me, echoing my thoughts.
'I'm so sorry about that,' I tell her. 'Can I wipe you down?'
A hand shoots up. 'No! I think I'll just go back to the car and make my way home. I can clean up there! Come on Bluebell!'
And with that, my poor dog walking chum is off back in the direction she came in, no doubt hurrying away
as quickly as she can, just in case I decide to chase after her so I can squeeze some poo out of the stupid Chihuahua that I can then fling at her.
I look down at the offending article, which looks back up at me, trembling slightly.
'You've only got yourself to blame, you know,' I tell it. 'You really shouldn't have gone for her treat like that. You've learned a valuable lesson here today... Stop looking at me like that... I said stop it. I've got no sympathy with you at all. Absolutely none, so you can stop looking all vulnerable and scared, because it won't work. I am immune to your doggy manipulations... There, there Winklehoven, never mind.'
I reach down to give the little dog a pat on the head. The little fucker bites me on the finger.
'Oh, you utter cunt!' I shout, just as a tall, thickset man in a red chequered shirt walks round the corner with a large Staffordshire Bull Terrier. His eyes go wide as he realises what he's witnessing.
Look! Here is a man so utterly worthless and without manly virtue that not only does he own a small, teacup sized handbag dog, he feels the need to swear at it in public, in some pathetic attempt to exert what little remains of his natural authority over it. And does he smell of piss? Why yes, he does smell of piss. Have I ever seen such a god-awful display of humanity before? No, I don't think I have.
The man walks past and avoids me as best he can, given that we're standing on a narrow path next to a lake. Luckily, Winklehoven smells as much of piss as I do, so the Staffy also gives us a wide berth, figuring that breakfast should never be urine flavoured, unless you're absolutely desperate.
In shame and misery I walk us back to the car, trying to breathe through my mouth and not look down at the new stain rapidly drying on my shirt.
Back home, I walk in through the front door to be greeted by Laura coming down the stairs in her dressing gown. She looks at my hangdog expression, the drying streaks of piss on my clothing, the cut on my finger, and the trembling dog at my feet. 'Went well then, did it?' she asks.
Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) Page 17