Saturday, January 9, 2010
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Dogs without women
Even dogs get the yuletide blues. On such days, I take myself for a walk.
It's easy to get paranoid wandering the streets, especially being a lone dog in a city packed with other dogs who are full of joys, holding paws and have puppies snoozing in push chairs. Indeed, a lone dog such as myself can't help but feel alienated.
But still, I ventured into the city.
Where does one go on such days? Feeling a bit dazed, I had the fleeting thought I'd find solace in Saint Paul's Cathedral. But I never got on well in service -- the stone floors chafe my knees caps.
I'd been walking three hours when the paranoia finally overwhelmed me. I was in Trafalgar Square and I thought I saw Nelson give me the evil eye. I got good and angry, really virile. Spent three hours trying to talk him into an arm wrestle. He was not man enough, however.
I walked on in confusion. My head was spinning. Found myself in a rundown area on the outskirts of Chingford. Got bitten chasing a dormouse, believing the pompom on my hat had escaped and was running away.
I know it all sounds too fantastic, but occurrences like these happen to me on a daily basis. Last week, I sleep-walked to Buckingham palace where I got arrested -- for hunting the Queen's guards' helmets. Apparently they were not in season. They say those guards never move, but try approaching one with a BB gun screaming the nonsense of dreams:
POOCH: Good god, Ernest, don't walk upwind of them. They'll smell you coming!
As I say, I was sleep-walking, and one of the guards jumped me, knocked me out. Of course, I got up again...
By the time the police arrived I'd come to. They saw my tired, bloodshot eyes and asked me outright:
Police Officer: Have you been smoking marijuana, sir?
POOCH: No, no way. I don't smoke pot. I couldn't, the smoke disorientates me. And that makes it very difficult to insert a needle.
Apparently, officers of the law don't know a joke when they hear one. Boy, is my paw not on the pulse. I made a break for it and the police unleashed their dogs. These were not smart dogs, however. I managed to ditch them by urinating on a hydrant and, of course, instinct obligated them to stop and do the same.
By the time I arrived home I was too tired to be blue. I drifted into a deep slumber, where my dreams found me once more with Hemingway in the mountains.
It's easy to get paranoid wandering the streets, especially being a lone dog in a city packed with other dogs who are full of joys, holding paws and have puppies snoozing in push chairs. Indeed, a lone dog such as myself can't help but feel alienated.
But still, I ventured into the city.
Where does one go on such days? Feeling a bit dazed, I had the fleeting thought I'd find solace in Saint Paul's Cathedral. But I never got on well in service -- the stone floors chafe my knees caps.
I'd been walking three hours when the paranoia finally overwhelmed me. I was in Trafalgar Square and I thought I saw Nelson give me the evil eye. I got good and angry, really virile. Spent three hours trying to talk him into an arm wrestle. He was not man enough, however.
I walked on in confusion. My head was spinning. Found myself in a rundown area on the outskirts of Chingford. Got bitten chasing a dormouse, believing the pompom on my hat had escaped and was running away.
I know it all sounds too fantastic, but occurrences like these happen to me on a daily basis. Last week, I sleep-walked to Buckingham palace where I got arrested -- for hunting the Queen's guards' helmets. Apparently they were not in season. They say those guards never move, but try approaching one with a BB gun screaming the nonsense of dreams:
POOCH: Good god, Ernest, don't walk upwind of them. They'll smell you coming!
As I say, I was sleep-walking, and one of the guards jumped me, knocked me out. Of course, I got up again...
By the time the police arrived I'd come to. They saw my tired, bloodshot eyes and asked me outright:
Police Officer: Have you been smoking marijuana, sir?
POOCH: No, no way. I don't smoke pot. I couldn't, the smoke disorientates me. And that makes it very difficult to insert a needle.
Apparently, officers of the law don't know a joke when they hear one. Boy, is my paw not on the pulse. I made a break for it and the police unleashed their dogs. These were not smart dogs, however. I managed to ditch them by urinating on a hydrant and, of course, instinct obligated them to stop and do the same.
By the time I arrived home I was too tired to be blue. I drifted into a deep slumber, where my dreams found me once more with Hemingway in the mountains.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
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