Chapter Five

Quel Domage! Oh, the shame of it! The unbearable Dexter has disgraced himself for the first time in full visibility of both dining humans. How they coped with their Crab Kerfuffle Emergency Spicy Mayonnaise (narrowly rescued, if I may say so, by the male human from forgotten crab claws at the very end of their unrefrigerated freshness) I do not know. Their stomachs must be stronger than mine, and mine is legendary. Did I not once consume without ill effect an entire half-gallon of used chip pan oil? And when I say ‘used’, I mean a near-three-month’s worth, complete with an unacknowledged mouse that had ventured to its untimely demise. The male human claimed it was a lost piece of vegetable pakora, but I know better, having cautiously masticated it for some hours.

At any rate, Dexter peed in a way I have not seen since the Great Victoria The Alternative Hypnotising Vet Waiting Room Flood, caused by three incontinent greyhounds who had been given lager by their neddish scaffolder owner. This was really unforgivable, unlike the recent faecal-nylon-chew incident. Admittedly, it has been a foul day of typically presbyterian Scottish weather, with drenching rain and heavy winds, and Dexter is not blessed with my massively warm and insulating coat, not to mention my determinedly stout and gritty nature. I do not refer to my girth. I am comfortably appointed. J’ai presence, as they say in my native Suisse. And as they say in, I believe, Russia, there is no such thing as bad weather. Only stupid little quarter-Staffordshire rescue dogs without natural bodily protection.

Dexter does not like the rain. He shivers, he complains, he insists on cowering next to the Rayburn stove like some wimpish Chihuahuahua or Pug.And then, unable to control his bodily functions, he pisses not in one place, not with due consideration for those who must mop, but on the move, covering the entire flagstoned kitchen while the humans watched, agape and aghast.

He did have the grace to be upset, even agreeing to expulsion into the wind and rain without his usual yowling. Though he lasted only about 10 minutes before engaging in a disgustingly self-indulgent bout of what I can only call screeching. If I desire re-entry to the house, normally due to my concern that I am being missed by the humans, and their emotional health may be therefore damaged, I give only one or two mild scratches. And since the new metal panel was fitted to the door, it seems to be surviving much better.

So they let the squirming horror back inside, and was he ashamed? No he was not. He wagged that excruciatingly length of gristle that would, in more humane and aesthetically advanced times, have been lopped off, leaving a more bearable stump. He simpered and jumped and demanded patting, as if he’d accomplished something worthwhile, rather than sprinkling his noisome urine at the humans’ feet. And under the sofa, too. They didn’t notice that. My sofa.

I watched all this with disdain, from my lofty position of continent superiority on the sofa. I have not peed inside the house for at least six months, and that was a deliberate statement of grave unhappiness at the female human’s insistence, during the absence at a conference of her life partner, of watching East Enders repeats for a full eight hours over a Sunday afternoon and evening. I could have held on, I suppose, but the sustained atmosphere of emotional Cockneyism grew unbearable. And she forgot to take me out, having become absorbed in somebody not really being somebody else’s mother. Or father. I forget. Or brother. This was BD, of course. Before Dexter. Did I suffer as I result? Well, let me put it this way, I was deprived of wholemeal toast and forced to eat damp discarded oatcake. A fate worse than bread for three breakfasts running.

Anyway, it appears that Dexter has been forgiven and that he has forgotten his momentous disgrace, his loathsome liquid littering. But I have not. I remember everything. I am the memory dog, like a donkey, or is it a horse? Or an owl? I don’t remember.

Dexter, The Dave Matthews Band, and trans-species dressing up as a cause for indoors urination

Let’s get this clear, right? I was put in an impossible position. The humans have decided that in bad weather they shall inflict horrid embarrassment by forcing me to wear one of several pieces of hideous apparel. There is a home-made neoprene monstrosity, adapted from a split wetsuit (how did said split occur? I am sworn to secrecy, alas. But it involved bodily...expansion by A Certain Human). There is a high-visibility vest designed, I think for some kind of roadworking cow, and a purple fleece that makes me look like some kind of hippy sheep. Not brilliant. And a grave insult to me street dog antecedents. Credibility there is none. These things are for pathetic middle class dogs, probably living in the posher suburbs of Edinburgh and attending spas and groomers. Mud is my groomer and the sea my spa. Or a dead seal, as was gloriously the case a month ago. A long dead seal. I smelt delicious!
Now, in normal meteorological circumstances I will whine and scratch in a soulful and obvious way, demanding access to the exterior urination and defaecation zones. But the thought of being forced into one of these ridiculous outfits has brought new tactics into play. The humans must learn. I will not be dressed up like some pathetic trans-species plaything of the bourgeous damned. I have my pride.
As for that great motheaten lump of overstuffed upholstery, Rug, not everyone has her almost infinite capacity for holding in liquids and solids for up to a fortnight. Although, as she has already admitted, there have been occasional, shall we say hiccups? No, that isn’t the correct term. Eruptions is a better word. Dumps. Like that infamous tale of the American rock band whose tour bus emptied its tank of sewage onto an open topped sports car passing below it on a double-decker bridge. the Dave Matthews Band, I think it was. I have alas, heard some of their music.  At first I thought the sewage-dumping incident was some kind of metaphor for their typical performance on stage. But it really happened.
I am, clearly, made of different stuff. I don;t mean I am made of different stuff from sewage, I mean different material from Rug. I eat different things. In fact, I have to tell you that this week I triumphantly swallowed several lumps of red rubber Kong bone, hitherto thought unDexable. The triumph of seeing those fleck of scarlet in my magnificent ordure was almost overwhelming. Brilliant! It was a pity I couldn’t have excreted it in the house so the humans could admire it more intimately, but I realise such presentations are only for very special occasions.

Such as the recent on-the-move pissing. I attempted to be casual yet stylish in accomplishing,  performing at the most visually and nasally arresting time, that is during a meal. But on the flagstone floor of the kitchen, and so mopped up with relative ease. True, I had consumed some asparagus in order to communicate more thoroughly, because after all, we dogs do have a duty to our and other people’s noses. We have a sense of smell and we know how to use it. or I do. Rug has an enormous nose so damaged by early abusive cage dwelling that I doubt she can smell much beyond her own drool. Which is, as it happens, delicious, and I consume as much of it as I can, whenever I can.
Anyway, the desired effect ensued: Out I went ( was thrust, actually; projected), coatless, jacketless, free and frisking like mad in the rain and wind! Brilliant! Legs could be lifted with interference or unfortunate soilings!

After five minutes I was absolutely freezing. Those inconsiderate bastards. I could have caught my death of cold.

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