Dog Days of Winter

By Tony Moorby December 14, 2022

The dog diaries are due another entry. Don’t get carried away; I write these notes to remind readers of my disinterest in canine company, not to engender any sense of admiration or affection.

My long-held convictions of dislike for dogs has been further underscored by recent visits to my descendants, who have a misguided delight in sharing their lives with ‘man’s best friends’. Ha! Phooey and poppycock! The only outlier is Adrienne who has three children, five and under – nuff said!

Ally has exquisite taste that extends to home furnishings and interior design. She could easily advise others over décor and direction, while it would be wasted at home; her beautiful furniture is being decimated by gnashing and gnawing nuisances. Stuart and Gus, the French bulldog puppies are only puppies in age – a little over a year. In every other respect they are big and bullying, brash and brutal. Their heads are as broad as their shoulders – they look like a pair of front-end loaders! And when it comes to chomping on the Chippendale, their bites are worse than their barks. Two glorious swivel tub chairs adorning a nook near the kitchen – ideal for conversations with company during exercise of the culinary arts, now look like something from a Hanna-Barbera cartoon. I fully expect a spring to go “Boing” in a cloud of fluff. The perfectly comfortable chairs’ arms are diminishing by the day as the dogs chew them into oblivion and the covers flap in the breeze of air the conditioning vents. The sofas in the lounge are suffering a similar demise only from the bottom up. Ball feet become a snack between meals. The rest of the sofas are protected by covers of diverse materials that give the place a ghostly, lonesome look. Kevin and Bella lounge lazily, looking wide-eyed (Kevin is unable to do otherwise) at the tattered tumult whilst gathering the covers around them.

Being shorthaired dogs and winter on the way, they’ll tarry outside no longer than is bodily necessary. They’ve already got used to lying next to the heater ducts and adore a roaring blaze in the hearth.

In my book they provide zero entertainment value except learning a new vocabulary of vitriol directed at the miscreant malefactors.

Robby, my son with the disjointed dog-loving gene, has had even less luck to report. He was attacked by his girlfriend’s Pit Bull, Gracie! The Pit Bull was fighting with Emma, Robby’s Golden Retriever – strange names for either dog – as he tried to separate them, Gracie turned on him, inflicting wounds that sent him to the emergency room and Gracie to her previous home! Hoots of “I told you so” appeared to be disingenuous and sympathetically out of place. However, in my eyes, owning a Pit Bull is a terrifying tightrope that’s unraveling while you’re in the middle of an abyss.

Replacing the dismissed dog was accomplished with the acquisition of – wait for it – a French Bulldog named Louis. Where do they come up with these names? So, we now have a new strain to add to the observations to come.

Meanwhile Charlie, né Cujo and his buddy, Cash continue to prove the theory that less is more or in their case, more is less. The size of the dogs is in inverse proportion to the chaos created by these two lazy, lollygagging lummoxes!

After all these essays I’m sure you’re convinced that dogs do nothing for me. Would you believe that cats do even less?

Last modified on Wednesday, 14 December 2022 16:11