Fight club

There are few scenarios more annoying than waking up in the morning after a great sleep only to find that your dog has puked all over the back hall.

There are few scenarios more annoying but I reckon I can think of at least one…

That would be waking up too early in the morning after a dreadful sleep, one punctuated by terribly bad dreams involving a bloodless face hovering outside your bedroom window.

The party the night before had been a good one but the throbbing at your temples and the whine in your ears tells you that your current dehydration is only going to be fixed in its entirety via intravenous intervention. A day-long imbibing of fluids won’t even scratch the gritty surface.

One leg out of the bed and already contempt swells for the rest of the day – a contempt only exacerbated by the high-pitched whinging already emanating from the back hall.

Staggering down the hall and your guts are roiling. That cheeseburger pizza at midnight feels as though it’s sitting in the back of your throat and the smell of salami grease on your hands threatens to push your stomach towards a full-on coup d’etat.

Then you remember that so-called friend who persuaded you to take one of questionable florescent shots prior to the pizza and your stomach – now posing as Forest Whittaker playing Idi Amin in The Last King of Scotland – suggests that a puke-less coup remains wishful thinking.

At the door to the back hall you almost fall over when have to stop abruptly in order to avoid the yellow liquid which has seeped under the door. Your first instinct, one generated by a now threadbare nervous system, is to touch the liquid and bring your fingertips to your nose.

Thankfully, some primeval warning kicks in and your beer-addled brain finally realises – and in the very nick of time – that that yellow liquid is neither your – nor Idi Amin’s – best friend.

Another instinct sallies forth as you reach for the door’s handle. One brave brain cell rushes past the barricades in your otherwise gelatinous grey matter to inform you that opening the door would only result in an attack from the enemy: One hairy fool of a hound who’ll undoubtedly step through the yellow liquid and then trail it round the whole house.

“At ease, solder,” your dry mouth tells the one brave brain cell and then you embark on the circuitous route to the back hall’s other entrance, the back door of the house. Unfortunately, this involves finding shoes, a key and a coat and as an afterthought you snag the bolt of kitchen roll and a plastic bag from a cupboard.

The back door looms in your face like a gateway to another dimension – one populated by a leaky demon who may or may not have committed worse atrocities during the night.

You worst fears are confirmed when you insert the key, turn the lock and slowly crank open the back door. The demon is sitting up in bed but even at a glance you can see that he’s covered in green bile. The smell is so bad you can taste it. Depressingly too, there’s so much yellow liquid on the floor, the bed resembles a boat.

You sigh heavily. Your guts roil. The smell of the green vomit makes Idi Amin sit up straighter.

“Good God, dog,” you hear yourself saying. “Did you have to roll around in it?”

There is no attack from the enemy, however. He just sits there in his bile looking at you. He knows you’re not pleased. He can feel in his bones. He can probably sense that even your soul is hungover.

You consider closing the door and walking away – driving off, even – into the sunrise.

Suddenly the other door handle, the one which leads to the hall, begins to turn down. The image of the bloodless face from your dreams pops into your head.

“No,” your dry mouth manages. But the door is now opening.

“Don’t come in!” you croak. “Waffle’s a mess.” As an afterthought you add, “And watch you don’t stand in that pee.”

They did stand in the pee though, you learn later. You also learn that Waffle had been eating grass the night before and that no-one thought to let him out for a whizz before bed time. You take a mental note that your next pet is going to be a Tamagotchi.

The most salient lesson is that is takes three applications of dog shampoo – the guts of a whole bottle – to take away the smell of half-digested grass.

“Were you identifying as a cow?” you ask after the third rinse.

Ultimately, as a result of the whole fiasco, you decide to legislalte for two new rules.

The first rule is: You’re too old for these late night hanlins. The second rule is: You’re too old for these late night hanlins