October 6th 2015
Today I am wearing my stripy bow.
Was it Val Doonican who sang ‘Walk Tall’ in the 1960’s? My dad handed down this pedigree information when I was just a pup, and he also said never to follow that advice. Thing is, if you do what Val suggests you can’t help but miss loads of interesting stuff.
Take the other day for example. I was taking the old ‘un out for his morning walk, him walking tall, breathing deep and I have to say puffing a bit ( age and weight I reckon – might get him to the human vet soon) It’s supposed to get his system jolted into action. And me? Well, usual nose to the ground sniffing out what had gone on the night before. And I came up against something I don’t usually associate with a gentle morning stroll and a daily ablution or two. Pants. Yep, a pair of grey Next men’s underpants. Just lying there. I can tell you they pulled me up sharpish.
You see, a pair of prone pants must have a story. They certainly had a smell to my sensitive schnozzer. It’s not like the ones I used to get my head into and rip to pieces in the house, these were, I know it sounds silly, but they were sad. Pants with the blues ( even though they were grey – and wet from the autumnal dew) They were lifeless pants. But how did they get to lie in my way, on a pavement in the early autumn mist? I nudged them. I felt a slight tug at my neck. I snuffled at them. I flicked with a paw. Then the usual ‘ Come on, Johnny, leave it’. Where’s your inquisitive mind old ‘un? Don’t you want to know who they belong to ( I couldn’t see a name tag but who actually labels up their smalls – or mediums according to this pair – as I guess no one willingly leaves the house in the morning expecting to lose their undergarments. Would they?) So we moved on, more walls to sniff, friends to catch up with and trees to irrigate. A complete and perplexing mystery.
A quick update: two days later the pants had gone. Disappeared. Vanished. Melted away. I wonder if someone had suddenly realised ‘ Oh, the pants I put on this morning are missing, lets retrace my steps’ or maybe a friend of mine had got an extra minute to carry them home for a full forensic forage. I’ll ask about, and keep my nose to the floor just in case other stuff is out there in need of re-homing.
Your bow tied dog blogger.
Johnny Meringue.
