Thursday, 8 September 2011

Connie Brix is not my child!

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.

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