D is for DOGS
Anyway I have a story about dogs for you. It was horrendous at the time and it made me cry. But now it's just pretty funny.
I was dating 'Mike'. (named in loving memory after Mike Delfino, the fittest man to ever grace Wisteria Lane, I balled my eyes out when that horrible gangster shot him right there on his own doorstep... Poor Susan).
For those of you that have no idea about the tragic loss of Mike Delfino, please google and look on in mystical awe. I miss Desperate Housewives, I miss it so much *tears well up in eyes*
RIP fine specimen of man
*oh yeh the dog blog*
My Mike lived up north and was more Mike Reed than Mike Delfino.
Sexy
He would often visit his mother whom he was clearly devoted to. Eventually the day came when he invited me to meet the lovely lady.
Now I was very concerned about this, because I used to have quite a severe phobia of dogs, and Mikes mother had in the region of 11 cocker spaniels. She was infact...
A BREEDER *shivers with fear*
Breeders *shivers with fear* are a lot like FEEDERS (thats one for 'F') - however instead of force feeding you lard through a gastric tube, they force male and female dogs have sex with each other until they produce tiny little baby dogs that they can sell or make coats out of.
Right... Now I dislike dogs. But I have, though working in community social care for many years, encountered lots of the four legged beasts, and I've become more comfortable with the attention seeking snarly barky fuckers, infact some of them I have liked (I use that term loosely). The type of canine I have come to tolerate, tends to be the larger of the beasts, like alsatians, boxers and other big hairy mutts. The small yappy, ankle bitey vicious growly jumpy creatures still scare the shit out of me.
"You're an ankle biter"
Anyway, back to Mike's mother and her pack of wild dogs, well 'cockers' as she called them *shivers with fear*.
Let's call her Joan.
Joan lived in a very small 2 bed semi on a council estate that was pretty much surrounded by motorways and trees. She was a nice enough woman I guess. She doted on her 'cockers', they were evidently her whole life, everything she did revolved around those 4 legged licky beasts, she even worked as a groomer *shivers with fear*
The first time Mike brought me round, I stayed over, and I quickly realised it was going to be nothing short of living nightmare.
Before I had even entered her house I could smell the stench of licky wet dog and hear and see the barky excitable hairy monsters trying to lick her frosted double glazed front door down. I could see fangs and big red tongues and hear snarls and it sent panic into every pore of my being. I kept walking towards the garden gate that looked noway near secure enough and wanted desperately to turn back, until we reached the door of evil and doom.
Well the postman's dead
As he opened it, I was set upon by this pack of crazy animals. It was my worst nightmare. My heart raced faster than last years terrifying incident when I decided to run on a treadmill. I screamed! "Get off me you little bastards!!!!"
What did Joan say?
"Ahhh look at my babies!!! Don't worry love they like you!"
"FUUUUUCK OFFFFF GET THEM THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME IMMEDIATELY"
"Don't worry they'll settle soon, they're just excited to see you!"
(if I had a harpoon for every time I've heard this)
Anyway the evening was awkward, as I tried to be polite and courteous whilst trying not to commit acts of animal cruelty and swear a lot. What made it worse was that poor Joan was quite disabled, and obviously the pressure of caring for all these dogs and working meant she somewhat had sacrificed her home maintenance, in a nutshell, there was creepy smelly hair covering just about everything. I was pretty sure she had mohair socks on until I realised they were 'cocker' coloured. Rank.
We ate there. Yes I had cocker hair in my dinner, which I somehow pushed around my plate until convinced myself it looked like I had eaten at least half. I kindly offered to take my own plate into the furry kitchen, where I disposed of my leftovers/complete meal, in a furry bin and plonked my plate into a sink full of rancid furry cold, grey, slightly greasy, furry dishwater.
We chatted for a while (ages) and mostly watched videos of Mike's early showjumping career (quite a turnoff)
Cock Jockey
(I hate horses too, perhaps that's a blog for H).
I was also schooled on dog breeding *shivers* and why they call a dog blue, when it is infact black... which I failed to give a shit about on several levels.
That night as I tentatively lay my head down on a furry pillow, I prayed that morning could come really fucking quickly. Before I dropped off I told Mike,
"next time we come here and your doing 80mph to get to your beloved mother in time for dinner, remind me to pull your handbrake"
Subsequently, I tolerated a long night of wild dog zombie related nightmares.
Anyway you get the picture, it's a bit grim, like those popular prints featuring the blonde Victorian girl in the white dress, with the huge collie, you know the ones, they usually had some sort of fake clock in them... I think... we had one in the 80's.
I'd be fucking miserable if I lived with that big old hairy sheep herding wonky pawed monster!!!!
Ok no fake clock.... maybe the bottom of a fake clock? We love google images, which has provided me with this handy information...
'This vintage dog painting,"A Special Pleader," is by the Victorian genre painter Charles Burton Barber. (1845-1894). He specialised in oil paintings of dogs with children.'
Hmmmm.... what sort of man seriously specialises in paintings of dogs and children... a dubious one and potential serial internet rapist, that is who! Look at that poor girl, what might have happened to her, she has thrown away dolly... perhaps that evil mutt licked his own bumhole and then dolly, and now dolly smells like bums? Perhaps something more sinister has happened? Thank god the internet did not exist back then.
Jesus, I'm totally off topic again, back to my dog story...
So... As i walked out of that house, away from those 4-legged freaks and that furry lady, I vowed never to return...
Somehow Mike convinced me return a month later. Fiddlesticks.
Mike told me his mum had resolved the issue and would keep the dogs out of my way, as they obviously terrified me.
I decided to bring my own bedding and towels and insisted we eat out prior to our arrival.
After an indian, 2 diazepam and a gin I was well up for it. Sort of.
The walk up the garden path was bark free, I felt fine, almost relaxed, with an air of 'I wonder if she had them executed'.
I entered the house, not a cocker in sight, I greeted the fine lady for she had done good work (despite the fluffy coat hiding every surface).
She proudly lead me into her front room. That's when I saw it... It was a 'pen', like a playpen. She had fixed together at least 4-5 metal fireguards, and made a small cage, newspaper laid down on the floor and a...
What the actual fuck?
A DINING CHAIR IN THE MIDDLE.
I casually enquired? "where are the dogs?"
Excited she raised an arm to gesture towards the garden at the back of the house "they're in the garden! It's getting chilly, I'll need to let them in soon!"
(what the fuck)
"Erm... And you made them a pen? It's not very big?" I almost sounded concerned for their welfare.
"DON'T BE RIDICULOUS!!! ITS FOR YOU! I know how scared you are so I made you a pen to sit in so they cant lick you! Are you impressed"
Thrilled with his mothers cunning plan Mike exclaimed "We wanted to surprise you! Problem solved!"
Joan opened the little metal gate and ushered me in, she was a pro, I was bemused and a little mortified all at the same time, it's not a nice place to be.
PETA (People Eating Tasty Animals) Publicity Stunt. Sort of resembling my predicament here.
She locked me in as I thought to myself...
Are these people insane?
Why does this feel a little Texas Chainsaw Massacre?
How do I pee?
Omg there's newspaper on the ground, why did she do that?
Is she expecting me to piss on her living room carpet?
Why did we not crash on the M6?
... And with all of this I burst into tears, left from my cage and fled to the car.
Mike tried to comfort me but he just didn't get it, and he had cocker spit on his sleeve so I wouldn't let him touch me.
We left that evening and I never returned to her house.
She once sent him a cocker clock for a birthday. It was a portrait of his two favourite mutts, printed in black and white on a square melamine clock. It was the most hideous thing I had seen in my life. He screwed it to our lounge wall and my friends took the piss out of it. I 'accidentally' wrote a diary entry about it and how if it stayed up there I would surely have to dump him, and then I accidentally forgot to lock said diary and accidentally left it on his side of the bed. When I got home from work that night the cocker clock was gone, gone forever. *mission accomplished*
Needless to say the relationship didn't pan out the way I'd hoped it to, and I left him for a inbred train guard I quite fancied. I didn't leave him over the dogs, it was actually the fact that he failed to wash on a regular basis and he liked to sleep on my sofa all day, eating cheerios and watching cbeebies.
Here's a few more pics that outline why men who love dogs are freaks.
I bid you goodnight blogfollowers :)
