Tuesday, December 01, 2009
I picked up my god dog after work yesterday.
Nuff’s enough. This robot needs some time of the canine kind.
Brian, my big bull mastiff boychee, stayed over, and being the King Of Chill, lay spreadeagle like a spatchcock chicken on my balcony for most of the evening.
Had I the strength, I’d have hoisted him onto my hammock.
I could hold his big stupid but adorable head and know that everything is going to be ok.
He does get quite slobbery though, he had shoelaces hanging from his pie hole by the time we got home. And he lubed up my window with his saliva good and properly.
There’s something great about driving with a dog (when it’s not in traffic along the suburban streets of Blairgowrie.)
Firstly, he stares people down. It must be quite disconcerting when you pull up at a light and there’s the ginormous hairy face, hanging out of the window, just eye-balling and panting at you.
He fully just sat there, ass in my face, head out of the window, within inches of some burly fat guy in a truck, wearing two tone and listening to Radio Sonder Grense.
Bless my mate for giving me Brian for the night.
Tomorrow he’s coming into the office with me. Oh fucking yes. We’re allowed to bring dogs (not cats!) to work from time to time. Most other people have their own dogs for show and tell, now it’s my turn.
Just hope Brian doesn’t lay a coil on the golf course or dry hump someone clad in ivory chinos from a different company.
He’s at that age. He wants a shag.
But if he does do any of the obscene things above, he’ll probably be hated for only 0.02 seconds. Because he’s too beautiful to deny.
Mate: How’s it going with Brian.
Peas: We phoned to say hi. Do you think I could give him a bath.
Mate: Is he dirty?
Peas: Nah. Just give the boy some girlie time. He’ll smell like Ginseng.
Mate: Just getting him in the bath may prove strenuous.
Peas: I can wash him and then blowdry him with my hairdryer.
Mate: Good luck.
I’m telling you though– having Brain around might get me out of this awful funk I’m in right now.
Before I buy a legion of cats that spit up hairballs and plot to kill me.
Hopefully all the neighbours will have to say about Brian’s sleepover is: ‘The bird in 27. Nuttier than a fruitcake, mate. Talking to what seems to be some sort of beast-dog in a chav accent all night.’
Thank God Dove gets back today. She can bestow some monkdom on me.