Happy Half A Birthday
Man's Best Friend
“Outside of a dog, a man's best friend is a book. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.” - Groucho Marx
I’ve always been a dog person. There are two main reasons why. The first is that they love you no matter what. The second reason is their loyalty.
Take Boris Johnson, for instance, when he was Prime Minister he had a dog called Dilyn. Dilyn thought he was brilliant all the way through COVID and didn’t breathe a word about the parties to Sue Gray.
Thinking of someone else who wasn’t universally popular, Adolf Hitler, he had dogs who thought he was wonderful. They kept schtum about Poland and Blitzkrieg and all that genocide and stuff. Absolutely loyal to the end. No sense of humour, mind you, but there again, they were German Shepherds.
Then there’s Fred and Rose West, the serial killers, they had dogs who loved them dearly. Of course, they also loved digging in the back garden for bones, but they never judged Rose and Fred.
So, that’s kind of why I love dogs and I’ve always had them in my life. Well, until eighteen months ago when our last dog, Max, sadly passed away.
My wife was really keen to get a new puppy. I wasn’t so sure, though. I kind of liked the freedom of being able to go away on holidays or for nights out. So, we talked it through, we sat down and had a discussion, we weighed up the pros and cons and we came to a compromise. We decided to get a puppy.
My wife wanted a spaniel or a spaniel cross, so I started to look around. Turns out things have changed since the seventies when I got my first dog. Back then you only had two choices: a pedigree or a cross breed. Now there are hundreds of choices.
For instance, many years ago, I had a Springer Spaniel/Border Collie cross. The vet said he was a Springer/Collie cross, the insurance had him down as a Springer/Collie cross, I told everyone that he was a Springer/Collie cross. These days he’d be a Sprollie. I kid you not, that’s what they’re called, Sprollies.
Sounds like a cross between a spliff and an umbrella to me.
It doesn’t stop there, either. There are Labradoodles – a cross between a Labrador and a Poodle, they’re really popular. There’s a cross between a Pug and a Beagle, they’re called Puggles. I swear these are all true. A Pomeranian/Husky cross is a Pomsky.
At Kennel Club Headquarters, is there a Department of Silly Fucking Dogs’ Names? Does someone get paid to think these up? Do they send agents out to get the dogs? “Bring me a pet Poodle and a Schnauzer. I will make a Pet Schnoodle.”
I met someone last week who had a cross between a Maltese Poodle and a Toy Poodle and he openly admitted in public that he had a Maltipoo.
I admire him, I couldn’t have done that, I’d have been embarrassed. There’s another cross that I could never own. If a poodle gets jiggy-jiggy with a Cocker Spaniel, that makes a Cockapoo.
I couldn’t tell people I had a Cockapoo, I couldn’t bring myself to say Cockapoo, I would have to lie.
‘Nice dog.’
‘Cheers.’
‘What is he?’
‘A spaniel cross.’
‘What kind of spaniel?’
‘A cocker spaniel.’
‘What’s he crossed with, then?’
‘Oh, well, you know, it’s… well, it’s a Rottweiler. He’s half Cocker Spaniel, half Rottweiler. I’ve got a Cockrot.’
Well, on reflection, maybe not.
Anyway, back to the story of getting a new puppy. I found someone selling Cocker Spaniel puppies for less than a month’s wages and a kidney and we went to choose our new puppy. There were two dogs to choose from. To help them distinguish between the two they’d put collars on them. One had a little red collar and the other a little blue collar. They’d even started calling them Red and Blue. The puppy was a present for my wife so she was free to choose which we had.
It put me in mind of the film The Matrix where Keanu Reeves has to choose between the red pill and the blue pill. Choosing blue will see him remain in the contented experience of ordinary reality while choosing red will see him in an unsettling and life-changing battle where reality is distorted and there is a war between humans and those who would seek to enslave them.
We’ve had Red for four months now.
So, that’s where I am, I am at war with a creature who wants to destroy me, my home and my bank account. He cost enough all by himself but there’s all the stuff we had to buy – crates – two of them, an upstairs and a downstairs crate. Oh, and a third for the car and a bed for the sitting room. Blankets, toys, treats, a coat. The list goes on.
I told a friend how much he was costing us and he said: “Well at least you’ll have a dog on a string when you’re selling the Big Issue, they always sell more when they have a dog on a string.”
That’s true but not a dog like mine. Their dogs are always beautifully behaved. They’ve got a bit of string for a lead, they sleep on a bit of cardboard, drink out of puddles and eat half a Pret prawn sandwich and they’re brilliant.
My dog has three crates and a bed, he eats fairtrade organic puppy food at thirty-seven quid a bag and he’s essentially Al Qaeda in a fur coat.
I do wonder if the dogs you see with homeless people get a bit of smack to calm them down or a slurp of Special Brew. Well, if that’s true, some fucker is breaking in and slipping my dog cocaine and Red Bull.
The thing is, though, I love him to bits. He seems to love me. I don't quite know about the loyalty bit yet but he is cute and today is his half-birthday. He’s six months old. Happy half-birthday Red.