Dead Dog Due

The dog was dead. It had been dead for a while and, given the way these things went, would probably be dead for a while longer too.

That was a small problem, really, when all was said and done. He loved the dog nonetheless and its being dead saved a fortune on food and vets bills, even if walkies had become a bit of an ordeal and fetch a wholly futile endeavor.

The locals, he knew, found it odd. ‘Stuff it’ they said, use it as a doorstop, make it earn its keep, at least when they weren’t crossing the road to avoid them as they wound their way around the estate in a laborious perambulation. But what did they know? Most of them didn’t even have dogs, never mind dead ones.

The trip to Crufts had been a mistake though, no denying that. The St Bernard’s had tried to eat the dead dog, the whippets had howled and the various mongrels, already chippy about the rampant class prejudice against them, had decried it as an abomination unto Dog. Probably at least, the owner wasn’t fluent in the canine language but he could spot religious mania when he saw it. Still, it had won best in class in its category of one and even if he’d been barred from ever attending again that was one hell of a laurel to rest on.

He’d fed the dog brains that evening, lamb’s brains, an unnecessary but welcome treat. What a good boy he was.

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