By 
“I’m gonna ring the Dogs Trust on you.”
This was Anna on Boxing Day, annoyed that I wouldn’t give Waffle any of my smoked trout. Said trout was the pièce de résistance in my annual, go-to festive breakfast – to wit – a toasted and buttered bagel with cream cheese, chives and lovely, golden curls of smoked fish.
My reluctance to part with any of the trout was in no way linked to my congenital greedy-gutted-ness but rather that Waffle is allergic to every foodstuff known to mankind – apart from his prescribed (and very expensive) dog food.
“Waffle is probably allergic to smoked trout,” I tried to explain. “It would probably make his ears itchy.”
“That’s a lie!” Anna barked, indignant. “You gave him some smoked salmon last year and that didn’t hurt him.”
I considered replying to this statement with either, “Get off my back” or “you’re not the boss of me” or “shut your hateful face, wean.” Instead, I proffered the tried and tested silent treatment – as I continued to layer the lovely, golden curls onto a thick bed of cream cheese.
And yet, this tried and tested treatment did not work.
“I’m gonna ring the Dogs Trust on you, then,” Anna repeated.
“I’m pretty sure the Dogs Trust will have more to worry about, than a stupid dog who won’t stop whining all the live-long day. Speak of the devil,” I added, as Waffle sloped into the kitchen, no doubt drawn by the scent of the golden curls.
“You’re just mean,” Anna scowled. And then she disappeared, only to return moments later brandishing her tablet.
As I repaired to the kitchen table with my festive bagel and a cup of coffee, I watched Anna with the tail of my eye as she flicked away at her tablet. After a few moments, she cleared her throat.
“With your support, we have made a vital difference to the thousands of dogs who needed our help,” she read as I munched. “Owen Sharp, from the Dogs Trust is saying…” she clarified.
“The pressure on the animal welfare sector continues, and this year, we received more than 40,000 enquiries from owners who felt they had no choice but to give up their dog. As a dog owner myself, I know how devastating a decision like that can be, which is why we do all we can to keep dogs and their owners together, including providing support to thousands of dog owners through our Behaviour Support Line.”
She looked up at me expectantly, as I continued to munch, bookending bites with big, noisy slurps of coffee. I remained silent.
“I bet Owen Sharp would have something to say if he knew you wouldn’t let us give Waffle any Christmas treats – or any of that smoked trout.”
“For frig sakes! It’s hardly a case of animal cruelty,” I masticated.
“Maybe we should let Owen decide, then. And anyway,” she narrowed her eyes, “Maybe I should ring the Behaviour Support Line about your behaviour.”
Frig sakes! All I wanted to do was enjoy my friggin’ festive bagel with those lovely, friggin’ golden curls of smoked trout. How has it come to this, being verbally bludgeoned by a belligerent ten-year-old wannabe barrister acting on behalf of her rogue client, the Hairy Fool.
“Ring away!” I allowed, setting down my half-eaten bagel. “Ring away. Tell them I batter him around the house on a daily basis and that I lock him in the coal bunker every night – tell them whatever you want.”
Anna narrowed those already narrow eyes.
“Have you ever heard of Childline?” she asked. “I might ring them too while I’m at it.”
In my mind’s eye I pictured myself wrenching the bagel remnants from the plate and flinging them across the kitchen. Then I realised that Waffle would likely arrive at said remnants before I could react and scoff the lot – an act of scavenging which definitely wouldn’t help his allergies.
“For frig sakes,” I groaned. “Just give him the last piece of the trout.”
