Dogs

Some old biddy got on the bus this morning carrying a little bundle of white hair under her arm. On first inspection I thought it was an armpit problem, but then realised that it was a dog. The little bastard had the sort of expression on its mug which said, "Look at me, cunts! I've got two more legs than you have, and this stupid bitch still carries me around... even on the bus."

Occasionally, I observe some dog walkers from the apartment, and I think, "What the fuck is that all about?" There they are, poor bastards, struggling up the street with 2 or 3 animals apiece. Surely if you own a dog, then that's the only reason you have it - to walk it around. Let's face it, they're good for fuck all else.

Then, there are DOG CLOTHES! Come on, let's be realistic... it looks fucking ludicrous. We dress them up, carry them around, and pick up their shit - who owns who? The missus has been banging on recently about getting one, and my answer's always the same, "Go ahead, but unless it can clean up after itself, order a pizza, and nip out to get me a six-pack, then I don't want to know."

I will concede that they're not completely useless. The mother-in-law keeps 3 of them for security purposes, however, they're not allowed in the house, and they'll only eat whatever they fucking get. In other words, they're kept in line.

When I was a lot younger I was told of another, more disturbing reason for keeping a dog. I worked with a divorced woman who treated her little mutt like it was human. It had its own room, got the best of grub, you name it. A few of us were out for a bevy one night, and the topic of the canine-human relationship popped up. This woman argued her case very strongly and then nipped out to the bog. While she was away, a wily old colleague of mine, Harry, piped up and said, "You know why they call them lap dogs, don't you?"