My little warm, brown friend, Harris, was bred, or his ancestors, strictly speaking, were bred to kill things, other creatures, to root them out and shake'n'bite them to death. I buy him soft toys from the thrift shops, remove the eyes and buttons and he grrrr-woofs like a good 'un, ripping the dog or monkey or giraffe to pieces, the lock and the pull of his jaws is amazing but an adult would only need to shout at him or smack him and he would cease his killing exercises; a crying baby, however, would only inflame him, the crying and squeaking representing progress on the road to another's dusty death. There are stratagems to ensure baby's safety, brushing his crib with the dog 's own scent is supposed to work but I would be very hesitant about introducing a new-born baby to HarrisWorld. He is a goodboy, Harris, he barks like a mad person but I have never known him bite or nip anyone and he endures all manner of indignity at the hands of mrs ishmael's grandson, who is eight and correspondingly stupid; that is a relationship which I am happy to police watchfully, a dog bite hurts at any age, however foolish the provocation. An infant, though, he needs better protection than Tony Blair and the parents of the child worried to death a few days ago by the family pet didn't know that, now, the kid is dead and the pet destroyed, funny how the filthsters always say destroyed or put down, put to sleep, none of them having the courage to say The dog was killed. Anyway, this is a horribly mundane and preventable tragedy, full of if-onlys, a mistake, an oversight, carelessness which will lead to a lifetime of aching regret. And what do we do? We arrest one of the victims. Can't arrest a rancid old peer for a lifetime of beasting but we can arrest a stupid and distraught father, former father. Sometimes, I feel like a motherless child, a long way from home.
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It’s a tragedy, to be sure, and an arrest only administrates or bureaucratises such grief but I guess that may be what many of our public services are for; births, deaths and marriages – everything else being some kind of associated provision. I guess there is ignorance or naivety at play – not for me however, living as I do next door to 2 Yorkshire Terriers who often look at me with the psychotic glare of ‘I kill you, I kill you and have you for breakfast’. There’s a 3rd dog – unsure of the breed but about twice the size and he’s not so much bullied, I don’t think that’s the case, but certainly lower down the food chain that Psycho & Killer (I really don’t think that’s their names). It is a bit daft of the parents though – I know parents who’ve got rid of cats when they’ve dropped kids and I had a half Siamese cat given to me on my 12th birthday I think – best mates we were, wouldn’t ever let him near a kid. I may have some culpability in his evilness by spending hours and hours with him chasing stuff on string, rustling under rugs or duvets to train him to be a psycho-daddy’s boy but even with me, or especially with me maybe – one wrong move and make sure the claws are nowhere near the eyes. Plus, cats have a habit of sleeping on people’s heads and I’m sure there have been quite a few incidents of dead kid smother cat and that’s before we get to allergies. It’s kind of foolish to think that pets are totally trained especially if they’re there before new arrivals – pack animals get jealous too.
One of the most freakish exhibitions of dog versus man was when I went to a chaps house who had a huge Rottweiler – bloke dog, about 8 years old or something – prime of his I will kill you in 3 seconds life – he was alright with me because I came in with his owner man but you know, he checked me out with a ‘you try anything pal and it’s curtains’ demeanour. Yet they had a 10 year old kid or something and the kid used the dog as cushion, duvet, I bet transport when he was a bit younger and the look on the dog’s face was awesome – hard bastard killing machine dog with kid best friend. Not quite the Omen scene but 2 species connected by affection that only time and play can create – it was very touching (still kept my distance like).
It is a good point, mr dick, that the public services' role is to provide a series of punctuation marks, in order to render intelligible the societal stream of consciousness. Of course, thereafter, arrests, prosecutions, interventions and seizures become springboards to the Rewards of Obedience.
The Chinese seem to have reversed the situation.
Koreans, too, mr alphons, filthy yellow bastards; nuking them is the world's only salvation, flatten Beijing and it's sing-song, gibbering millions, it's the only language they understand..
I saw Martin Jacques, former editor of Marxism Today, defending China's barbarism on the grounds that in the brief period since the time of PaedoMao and his monsters, China had been lifted from the StoneAge into the bright world of consumerisme nouvelle totalitairienne and thus the cruelties, purges and show trials are a small price to pay. That was a month or two back and I remain speechless in the face of such Duncan-Smithian logic coming from the Left. Some must be tortured, exiled and killed that others buy Poverty's baubles; way to go, Marty, way to go.
I've made friends with a hound with jaws like the guillotine I used to feed chunky bits of scrap metal through in the early seventies. He's ensconced on a daily basis in a large house clearance shop up on Brixton Hill. He's figgy fierce and called Mambo. When he's in the mood he will chase and butt and tug-of-war with his latest ripping rag toy. With furniture arranged in long, poorly lit corridors, involving many sidewards squeezes, hearing his thundering paws and seeing his salivating visage hurtling towards one would unsettle many. Earlier this year, on a cold dreech morning, I decided to play a little trick on him. Sidestepping his scuttling, I nipped into a large and very ugly Edwardian wardrobe and closed the door. I gave him two minutes. Dressed all in black, with a scarf covering all but my eyes, I could see where the elderly and wide-eyed West Indian woman was coming from, when she asked me, as I furtively peeped, then crept from the wardrobe:
"Is you wid them Isis people"?
Greetings and affection to you Mr. Ishmael. I've not got over the 'election' yet; the one pup I'd like to put down is the one we've all been sold.
My little pug is as you describe Harris, Mr I. He rips his toys to shreds, with a frenzy, usually within minutes. The only thing that lasted any length of time was a dragon from China - seemed to be made out of a very strongly woven fibre. When I give him a tickle on his tummy he likes to bite something. I let him bite my finger. I have no doubt he could take my finger off, or at least go to the bone if he wished. But he only ever gives a gentle bite. But its not advisable to get between him and his food.
Down here we live with killer animals as a matter of course. Usually the sympathy is with the shark or croc, and they are not normally killed when they take or injure humans. Though I guess a dog may be different?
You and your blog are absolutely disgusting.
I write this in regard to other post but this one is newest.
I wanted you to read this.
Was chatting to my old dear about this and she reminded that we had an Alsatian lady dog when older prick and me were kids but trained within an inch of its life - makes them happy apparently, feel wanted - and she used to use dog as toddler babysitter when nipping to shops 'n' stuff. Always suspected we were chavs!!
My mother had a cat for 21 years, And its favourite night of the year was november the fifth, sitting on the outhouse roof watching fireworks all night,I concur about well trained Alsation dogs, my ex wife had a bitch and it would check each bedroom at night to see if the children were asleep then it would lie at the foot of the stairs guarding!
Man and dog have had a fruitful relationship for over 30,000 years, but the dog's underlying nature is that of a pack hunter.
If you leave a small child alone with a dog you do so at your own, or rather the child's, peril.
As to the honourable members of the big house - they protect their own as they have always done, let's face it Janner is a man who doesn't understand personal boundaries whereas Blair didn't seem to understand geographical or legal ones.
You and your blog are wonderful: I changed my mind. Actually, I don't really have much of one, so it changes day by day.
So you are off to start your pressure chamber adventure tomorrow, Mr Ishmael. Perhaps you have already gone. Either way, good luck with it all.
Yes, best of luck at 20000 leagues, Mr Ishmael.
Hope you are well and I hope you are not been hit by "the bends" on your "release.
Thanks, all, but no joy in getting into the tank. I went for an MRSA swab, here, last week, before flying to Aberdeen in Monday. Nurse had all three swabs, out of their tubes, sitting on her desk and then proceeded to play darts with my throat as the board, stabbing and poking where she should've been twirling, she hadn't a fucking clue, God bless her. Six hours later I had a sore throat, ten hours later I could hardly breathe and I have been lying on the Sofa of Doom ever since. Doc says it's viral and I probably picked it up in the waiting room, although she had to agree that my throat was, indeed, quite scratched. You are supposed to remove the swab, like a big Q-Tip, from its tube, only to twirl it around the throat and then return it immediately to the tube, seal it up and send it to the lab, my swabs had been lying on the desk in the nurses' room for fuck knowshow long, collecting shit for nursey to stab into me, which she did. I had to cancel the hospital trip, they wouldna touched me with a bargepole, coughing and sneezing like a bastard, probably have killed all the other lonesome fuckers in the tank. Hope I can get back in, after a week or two. Thanks for the good wishes, anyway.
Suggest you leave courtesy in the car-park next time and adopt an uncompromising get-the-fuck-away-from-me-with-that-disgusting-object-and-come-back-when-you're-sterile-you-daft-cunt approach. (Or have it printed on a tee-shirt in case you can't speak.)
best of luck in your war against the germs...
verge.//
I must try but it is easier said than done, mr verge, you know what it's like, your legs're broken the minute you walk through the door. Oh, for mr mike's health-provider-as-tradesman set-up, Down Under. Made a step in that direction by getting a private scrip for a new product which claims to miracleise the treatment of this lingering problem. The Hermanns invented it, so it might be good. And I will try harder.
You're looking like a saint, Mr I. I'd stay away from hospitals if I were you, and it were possible. They're full of sick people.
Yes, thanks, I'll be careful not to touch the wall, mr mongoose, there's a brand new coat of paint. The tank isn't strictly speaking hospital and I hope to get in, soon. It is just for four mornings a week, I am in a patient hotel the rest of the time and back home for the long weekend, like an MP does.
Visiting the "behind the scenes" parts of the NHS constituted a significant portion of my "working life" prior to retirmement and your tale in not unfamiliar!
This is usually a hospital procedure, and, thinking about it, nurse, in the local. surgery, had never done it before, mr alphons.
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