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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Last night I was sitting on the floor of the front room, brushing Honey with the dog brush pictured below. She was voicing her approval, by grumbling and groaning as I brushed and swinging her head up from the floor to glare at me if I dared to stop. Bobby was dancing around me because he wanted the brush, presumably to continue chewing it. But he was wary of the brush from the day before, when me and Mum had taken great glee and excitement in firstly washing him in freezing cold water out in the back garden and then when he had dried, brushing him until he was nearly bald. The tiny dog now has the most attractive pink belly, because he’s almost completely lost his puppy fur. (I’d share this vision with the world, or at least the internets, but the connection between computer and camera remains chewed and unreplaced.)

Dad was sitting watching football and commenting occasionally on bits that I’d missed, or encouraging Bobby to go for my throat, something Bobby complete failed to do. Dad had his left arm stretched out to the sofa beside him, where Anarchy was lying.

Anarchy is a direct descendent from one of those obese, lazy and evil Roman dictators that used to lie about wrapped in bedsheets being fed grapes and chicken drumsticks by skinny girls also wrapped in bedsheets. He adopts the same kind of pose while lying on the sofa in the front room, and Dad had his hand across his belly while directing our brushing extravaganza.

It’s important to note at this juncture that Anarchy had also received a thorough brushing earlier on Sunday, as all the pets are in the middle of shedding winter coats and are scruffy and irresponsible about their own up keep. He was therefore a fraction crankier than usual. And he’s usually quite cranky.

I looked up from the brushing for a moment, just to make Honey scrabble up on to her front paws and swing her entire body at me in order to protest the stoppage, because that’s always brilliant. I noticed that Anarchy’s tail was twitching like an epileptic snake and commented to Dad that he was about to be bitten.

“No,” my Dad said with all the authority of a man utterly convinced of what he’s talking about, “he won’t bite me. He knows who’s boss.”

Anarchy took this as the dare that it was and promptly swung around until he was upside down, all four paws wrapped around my Dad’s wrist, and sunk his teeth in.

Dad looked bemused for a moment, until Anarchy loosened his grip and resumed his original position.

Me, Bobby, Honey and Mum laughed for about ten minutes.


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