Saturday, May 28, 2005
Whistles of doom
The alley formed by the college wall and the houses is like some Satanic pipe for calling errant minions in for tea. Or maybe it's just there so I can hear just how windy the wind is and gauge it without having to put my hair outside. Yes. Thanks.
The small yappy-type dog has started up four doors down. I hate that little beast. It's in a state of constant hysteria. It sticks its idiot snout through the gate and just goes yap, yap, yap at nothing, about seven times a day. So self-righteous. Gratifying though to occasionally pass by with murderous red-eyed K and hear it go into overdrive.
Little Cesar-eating fucker. I remember one incident that contributed to my inexorable slide towards delinquent dog-ownership - a small yapping dog left outside all night in the yard of the house opposite. I was asleep on the sofa at about 1am and was woken up by a combination of the dog itself and people shouting for someone to shut it up. I shuffled out in dressing-gown and peered over the tall gate in the pitch dark, greeted by an unconvincing growl. It was raining. I got my torch. There was a kennel of sorts but it wouldn't go in. No water, no food. Shit everywhere. And this pathetic little black terrier-type just standing around, barking. It quietened down when I spoke to it. It looked old. I got it a Digestive biscuit. Then I rang the RSPCA who said that it was clearly neglect but they couldn't do anything. I put the phone down. I thought briefly about bringing the dog indoors. Then I went to bed. In the morning it was still there, shivering. I gave it another Digestive biscuit. A few days later I saw a full-page ad by the RSPCA, showing a dog left out in much the same scenario, with accompanying text saying that they're pushing to be allowed to intervene before abuse takes place and not just after it has done so. I tore it out and posted it through their letterbox.
Cunts.
It occurred to me at this time that I could do better.
I cannot get K to walk nicely on the lead whatever specially-engineered head collar he is sporting. It's like dog evangelism. "Heeyul. HEEEE-yul." But he will sit nicely outside the shop now when I fasten his lead to the paper box. I think his psychosis may be gradually loosening its hold. Depending on which scale of dog years you use, he is in his mid or late thirties. Should be settling down, then, sorting out his priorities, learning from his mistakes, getting to know himself better. Watching his weight. Being aghast at evidence of right-wing tendencies lurking around the edges of his personal philosophy. That kind of thing.
He's a handsome beast, though. If he were a dopey flavour-of-month Irish chain-smoking filmstar he would be Colin Farrell. And he'll look good when he starts to go grey, like George Clooney. (I'm still talking about the dog. The dog has black fur. He will age well.) Presently he (the dog, still the dog) is lying on his folded-up duvet bed on the landing. "Look at that!" I said, meaning that splendid example of wolf-evolution. He did not look, but gave his tail a cursory wag. I am happy now. Canine buoyancy.
This would be an appropriate moment to rave about beauty and how people's faces change and become more and more lovely and astonishing the more you study them, and how the face is perhaps the one thing that the imagination cannot improve on the reality of, but time is not on my side, alas. The Brief, fresh from Cos and tonsillitis (ah for there must always be Payment), is coming round in an hour for pizza and um, pish. I have London withdrawal. People there insist on telling me how lovely the weather is, how abundant and delightful the company, and how shiny the shiny things. I shall hunt each down and smite them.
I need a camera. And some energy. And too many other things to list although some of those may just be wants which are making so much fuss they could be mistaken for needs.
The small yappy-type dog has started up four doors down. I hate that little beast. It's in a state of constant hysteria. It sticks its idiot snout through the gate and just goes yap, yap, yap at nothing, about seven times a day. So self-righteous. Gratifying though to occasionally pass by with murderous red-eyed K and hear it go into overdrive.
K: Your mother sucks cocks in Hell.
Yappy Type: Yap. Yap. Yap. Ulp. Yap! YAP YAP YAP! YAP (breath) YAP (breath) YAP (breath) YAP.
Little Cesar-eating fucker. I remember one incident that contributed to my inexorable slide towards delinquent dog-ownership - a small yapping dog left outside all night in the yard of the house opposite. I was asleep on the sofa at about 1am and was woken up by a combination of the dog itself and people shouting for someone to shut it up. I shuffled out in dressing-gown and peered over the tall gate in the pitch dark, greeted by an unconvincing growl. It was raining. I got my torch. There was a kennel of sorts but it wouldn't go in. No water, no food. Shit everywhere. And this pathetic little black terrier-type just standing around, barking. It quietened down when I spoke to it. It looked old. I got it a Digestive biscuit. Then I rang the RSPCA who said that it was clearly neglect but they couldn't do anything. I put the phone down. I thought briefly about bringing the dog indoors. Then I went to bed. In the morning it was still there, shivering. I gave it another Digestive biscuit. A few days later I saw a full-page ad by the RSPCA, showing a dog left out in much the same scenario, with accompanying text saying that they're pushing to be allowed to intervene before abuse takes place and not just after it has done so. I tore it out and posted it through their letterbox.
Cunts.
It occurred to me at this time that I could do better.
I cannot get K to walk nicely on the lead whatever specially-engineered head collar he is sporting. It's like dog evangelism. "Heeyul. HEEEE-yul." But he will sit nicely outside the shop now when I fasten his lead to the paper box. I think his psychosis may be gradually loosening its hold. Depending on which scale of dog years you use, he is in his mid or late thirties. Should be settling down, then, sorting out his priorities, learning from his mistakes, getting to know himself better. Watching his weight. Being aghast at evidence of right-wing tendencies lurking around the edges of his personal philosophy. That kind of thing.
He's a handsome beast, though. If he were a dopey flavour-of-month Irish chain-smoking filmstar he would be Colin Farrell. And he'll look good when he starts to go grey, like George Clooney. (I'm still talking about the dog. The dog has black fur. He will age well.) Presently he (the dog, still the dog) is lying on his folded-up duvet bed on the landing. "Look at that!" I said, meaning that splendid example of wolf-evolution. He did not look, but gave his tail a cursory wag. I am happy now. Canine buoyancy.
This would be an appropriate moment to rave about beauty and how people's faces change and become more and more lovely and astonishing the more you study them, and how the face is perhaps the one thing that the imagination cannot improve on the reality of, but time is not on my side, alas. The Brief, fresh from Cos and tonsillitis (ah for there must always be Payment), is coming round in an hour for pizza and um, pish. I have London withdrawal. People there insist on telling me how lovely the weather is, how abundant and delightful the company, and how shiny the shiny things. I shall hunt each down and smite them.
I need a camera. And some energy. And too many other things to list although some of those may just be wants which are making so much fuss they could be mistaken for needs.
