Last Legs

That old fella with the little dog stopped to talk to me again yesterday while I was waiting for the bus. Before any hello's he launched into a story about how his dog was sick and blind, seventeen years old and on it's last legs.

Now, as you may know, I am not a dog person, and I'm about as interested in patting them, as say, a pig. But, in order to extend the hand of friendship, and pass the proverbial peace pipe, I crouched down and went to pat the sick little ball of fur, putting on my most convincing 'dog-person' voice (eg. Heeelllooo! Good GUUUUUUUURRLL!)

As soon as I touched it though, it yelped, and flew around, quickly transforming into an evil biting blur, and I jumped back just in time.

"She bites, you know", said the man. Oh, really? I would never have guessed.

He then went into a very detailed story about how she's a little too good at licking herself clean, and that the balls of fur she swallows are giving her bowel problems. You'll be pleased to know though, that the vet gave him special gloves to get his fingers 'right up there' to pull out the blockages.

"Great, big long bits of fur they are", he said earnestly, and then turned away and walked on, the blind little dog following close behind.

And there I was left standing, a little repulsed, a little shaken, and with 'dog-hand' and an hour to wait before I could get to a tap to wash it. As I watched them leave, I can't be sure, but I think I saw the little hellhound look back and wink at me.