On a slow schlep to the bins this morgen I saw Agnes' husband who I hope is called Jim, or else it means that Agnes is always calling the man 'him'. Not good (for 'him').
He was walking Agnes' dog with the unnecessarily large head. I do not trust that dog; it gives me a funny look - you can see the tickertape running through it's mind that reads: 'wonder what she tastes like braised in butter and shallots'.
Anyway, 'Jim' (let's hope) asked about MF and about my dog, Connie Brix. I (yet again) had to apologise like mad for her barking whilst MF was in hospedale. And old 'Jim' said: 'Oh don't you worry. I know what dogs are like. No problem.'
And I said that it was very decent of him, considering that the dog had even driven me bonkers. And he said: 'Oh, I don't believe a word of it; I know that dog's like a baby to you. She's your little girl, isn't she?' And then he rubbed the giant head of his own dog and said: 'You gotta love 'em' and buzzed orf.
I tell you: if Connie Brix really was my baby I'd have called the exorcist in years back. My baby? More like: 'What a hairy face you've got, grandma, and such huge teeth!'.
I spend a small fortune of meaty sticks to keep that dog on side. I think I'm being played for a mug. When I'm out the house, I bet Brixie is reading my newspapers and sitting on the sofa watching teevers and drinking my wine. Soon as I get back in, it's all: 'Look at me, I'm a poor dog. Feed me. Love me.'
I'll catch you at it, Brixie - one of these days.