Sybil Dartington-Smythe was having a small bit of a problem with her dog. It appeared that her small love bundle had become quite unexpectedly snappy, bless its little heart.
The small, furry and delightfully bulbous eyed little darling had apparently snapped at her ladyship’s hand when she tried to lift the little hyphenated sweetheart into the rear of her landrover discovery onto its (and this is not a joke) quilted silk napping quilt. The little beastie simply would not enter the rear of the vehicle and she was simply far too distressed to lift tinkerbelle-hyphenated-fluffykins into the back of her vehicle. What was she to do ? She can phone her friendly officers at the CTC Constabulary, they have ‘people’ who deal with this type of thing. After all, this is an emergency. The unexpected but surprisingly convenient passing of a local unit returning to the supermarket of the upper-class masses to take yet another victim statement for the loss of another basket full of beef joints, large jars of coffee, some vodka and razorblades were assailed by the alleged mother of the dastardly vicious T-H-F. That detected crime completion will simply have to wait. There is an emergency taking place.
After a rather confused but still strange radio message, one of the people who deals with this sort of thing arrives to get the relevant info and the rather smug and eternally thankful local officers drive off to enter the store to find their witness to begin writing. The subtle innuendo of laughter masking their totally false concern etched on their faces and still haunts me, even to this day.
I see the very well tweed dressed Lady Sybil, as I call her, and the similarly arrogant thing masquerading as a dog. A small fluffy surrogate child of a thing with bulging eyes and more reminiscent of my daughters pyjama case than anything reminiscent of the canine form. This thing is overweight and in need of some serious exercise as well as a good slap to put it firmly into its place. The collar is fitting of our family cat. Now there is a picture of conceited arrogance if ever I saw it. Tinkerbelle-hyphenated-fluffykins will simply not move his sorry arse from the floor and her ladyships efforts to load it into the back onto the security of its quilted silk napping quilt (otherwise known as a car blanket) have failed big time. She has a small scratch and has reacted like it was some major amputation. She is simply distraught.
I suggest she continues to put her shopping into the vehicle whilst I help the hyphenated furry one into the area of her car I call the boot of said discovery with a cheery ‘hup’ followed by a ‘good dog’.
I take the dog out again, put it into a sit, avoiding the slow growl at bodily contact by a human of a far lower class than it. Another sharp tug and ‘hup’ and little fluffykins flies upwards into the area still known as the boot. Almost by accident this appears to have worked out well again and the thing goes into a sit, just in time to see mummy come to see how her little darling is.
‘Sit, good dog. Hup, good dog.’ Another small tug on the sparkly piece of string cunningly camouflaged as a leash and one little darling is safely up onto its luxury quilted napping quilt.
Lady Sybil is deranged with pleasure at her little darling’s new found athleticism and response skills. Typical of the gratitude I have come to expect, she gets into her discovery and drives off towards the exit, completely oblivious to the world that exists outside of her small metal & glass enclosure.
‘Thank you officer’ I shout after her, waving a cheery goodbye.
I am trying to work out exactly which one was the more spoilt, ungrateful and arrogant.
The names have been made up to protect the innocent, but probably reflect in a stereotypical way the names of the people involved have evolved. It was only a small tug on the leash I can assure you and probably the only form of discipline the dreadful little fluffykins has ever had to put up with.
May it rest in peace after dropping the largest and runniest load onto the thickest and most expensive carpet Lady Sybil has in her imaginary mansion. I suppose one of her staff would have to clean it up anyway.
Filed under: Uncategorized
I sympathise with your having to deal with rude people and their ridiculous requests. It brought to mind a story of my grandfather from the early twentieth century. He was crossing the street in a small rural village to enter the post office when one of the local gentry arrived in her pony and trap and barked at him, “Hold the pony” in the plummiest accent. He walked on and she barked again with great indignance, “Hold the pony”. He went into the post office, posted his letter and emerged again. She barked at him apoplectically, “why didn’t you hold the pony?” He replied quietly, “I would have, if you’d had manners”, and walked on.
Obviously poor old Lady Sybil’s never heard the story.
Hysterical! Did you give that lead an extra strong pull, backed up with the toe of your boot? It’s amazing what that does for a small dog’s athleticism.
I tend to find that this sort of animal arrogance and refusal to behave properly can be successfully dealt with by a swift, hard kick to the jacksy. You could also try it on the dog.
That was effing funny.
‘May it rest in peace after dropping the largest and runniest load onto the thickest and most expensive carpet Lady Sybil has in her imaginary mansion’
Classic!!