toxicsoup

Well, not toxic, exactly... maybe just a little bit rank. But in a nice way. With a garnish.

Friday, November 11, 2005

fireworks, my arse

Imp and I walk along behind a tiny little white blob, just visible in the darkness.
It's freezing cold and we're both wrapped up in winter coats, huddled in our own body heat, faces kept low, necks tucked low into our collars like turtles.

Late night dog walk.

Dog owners across the country know about this... about dragging yourself out of the lovely warm house just when you're getting warm and sleepy and you would like to carry on sitting there, crouched over another can of Caffreys.
The problem is, TinyDog needs a walk... and my flat doesn't have a garden. So to save the carpets, we wrap up and enter the night.

This would be fine, but there's an added gamble: fireworks.
Diwali, Bonfire night, Christmas on the horizon, then New Year. Months of bangs and whistles and piss-takingly loud, earsplitting explosions that the dog hates.

She doesn't just hate them; she's terrified of them.
Her tail drops down, her ears press down onto her face, her rectum refuses to cooperate and she pulls with surprising force in any direction - OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGodIt'saBombMustGetAwayMustGetAway...
She launches herself off in horror and blindly runs backward and forward as far as the lead will allow, like a SwingBall on a spring.

And here we are now, in the dead of night, hoping it's past Fireworktime.
Apparently by law you're not allowed to set them off after 11pm but no one pays any attention to that law. Who ever heard of anyone arrested for setting off a firework after 11pm? (Should be banged up! Boom boom).

We can't see further than a few feet ahead because we're walking under a long row of trees, but we know there's a stream just to our left. TinyDog loves the stream - she always saves her serious bowel action for alongside the stream, in the gloomiest shadiest spot she can find.
We curse ourselves every time for not bringing a torch; finding a mini dog turd on the banks of a stream in pitch black... groping around with a Tesco carrier bag. Needle in a Haystack? Arse to that.

This time we're not so lucky.
TinyDog sniffs around, hunches up and assumes the position with that posture full of concentration that dogs have when they're about to pop one out. Too late. Some smallminded git with a hard-on for gunpowder lets off a rocket and it screeches somewhere overhead and explodes. TinyDog leaps sideways and we curse and complain and try to calm her down.

We trudge home in defeat preparing ourselves for another crap on the carpet before morning.

3 Comments:

  • At November 12, 2005 12:24 am, Blogger Sniffy said…

    They're still letting off really loud ones round here. Max ran into a doorway in shock earlier on this evening and he's not usually bothered by them.

    Fuckers. Hate them. They should be banned from general sale.

     
  • At November 12, 2005 3:37 pm, Blogger S.I.D. said…

    Yeah fireworks and animals just don't mix. Our rabbit is still traumatised from Halloween.

    Or is it since he came to live here?

     
  • At November 12, 2005 5:31 pm, Blogger funny thing said…

    I think it's option B, ColdEarth.

    In fact, from what I hear, your rabbit LOVES fireworks. Could have sworn I saw him dropping bangers through someone's letterbox....

     

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