Getting the Hump

Getting the Hump

This weekend has been mostly spent prizing the dogs apart with a corwbar as they go at it, hammer and tongs, all over the house like something out of a Carry On film. You’d walk into the kitchen and find them banging away by the Dyson, and minutes later news of the Pope’s death is rather overshadowed by the mutts getting busy in front of the screen, Lucy‘s spaniel eyes bulging like ET being hit over the head with a cricket bat.

It’s not as if anything can come out of all their hard work - while Harry still has his meat, the vet whipped out his two veg some time ago, and it is only through a hormonal primal urge brought on by Lucy coming into season that Harry’s remembered what to do.

At it. Like dogs.

There’s something vaguely unsettling about the entire experience. It’s not just the fact that although they are different breeds, the pair of them have been given a roof over their heads as part of the Scary family, and all this hide the lipstick just isn’t right. It’s family. We might as well be living in some trailer park in Alabama, watching the World Cousin Shagging Championships on TV.

Worse, Lucy’s only about six months old, and is, to all intents and purposes, a puppy. Even in dog years and the pure biological fact that dogs reach sexual maturity much younger than humans, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

It all boils down to this: I seem to have Gary Glitter’s dog by mistake. He disgusts me and nothing‘s going to get me buying one of his records, ever again. And the dog, too. All I have to do now is stare at Harry and he slinks off into a corner looking guilty. The manky little sod.

For sale: One West Highland Terrier, male, neutered, pervert. Answers to the name “Aaaaargh! He’s doing it again!”

Steve Dix suggests Bob Martin's Anti-Mating Spray. Alternatively, I could just use my preferred brand of after-shave, which, in field tests lasting several years, shows exactly the same effect.