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Beauty Pageant

dog in glasses“Gnstr boy! how are you doing this glorious day mate” it was him, the master, walking into the kitchen with rare gusto, something that happened only when he had got paid, or had embarked on a new relationship. He was dressed rather enthusiastically too, in khaki shorts, new spotless white shoes and matching socks – all of which I’d never seen before. And a new hoodie, in grey, that had the number 74 in black printed across its front. All looking pretty, for a chap whose often seen in pants and slim fit shirts.

“Today, you, I, and my new friend, who by the way you will soon get along with, we’re going to one rreeeeaally special event. One of a lifetime, and I promise, with the smashing outfit I got you, you’ll be absolutely minted!”

Oh, God, no. Last time he used that dreadful word, special, it didn’t end well. Not at all. Found myself on some golfing course, in drizzly cold weather, leashed onto a shed, and surrounded by dimwits of dogs, all of whom were so incapable, none of them could string together a couple of coherent words into a sentence on anything vaguely interesting. I remember thinking why anyone would want to own such dumb pets. I wouldn’t even donate any one of them to a Chinese butcher!

I looked at him suspiciously, wondering what was going on in his mind, and didn’t even try to wag my tail.

“Yes, boy!”, he exclaimed, kneeling besides my basket excitedly, the scent of his new aftershave filling the kitchen air. He ruffled his hands about my muzzle, and pinched my nose slightly planting a wet long kiss on my forehead. He always did that, and somehow thought I liked it. But I didn’t! It was cringeworthy and made me feel a little bit gay.

“We’re going to a dog beauty pageant

What? You’ve got to be joking mate. Not so long ago, you, in your infinite wisdom, took me to a golfing day out when you couldn’t even hold a  golf club, just so you could impress a squeaking bimbo.  Now its parading me in front of crowds and obese pets. C’mon, there are children in Africa dying of hunger and I need to find a cure for Bilharzia … not display my teabags in front of a jeering hoi polloi. Thats just grand, my free ticket to hell.

“Yup, and you my friend, are going to be dressed in a cute little doggy suit, and this is it!” with a grin across his face, he fumbled with a green plastic bag and took out the most hideous outfit I’d ever seen…

No. No, no, no, no, no. No! I mumbled, part- growling part-weeping, and not knowing whether to bark or whimper, trying a feeble half-protest but knowing instantly that if a lady was involved in this awful, dreadfully pathetic scheme of his, there was almost nothing I could do to convince him otherwise.

I hope I come back alive. Wish me luck.

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