From before-before, a not-previously published story about Mr ishmael's dogs, His Imperial Majesty, Rocky-Woo and Buster the Blog-Dog - mrs ishmael
28th September 2001
I have neither comment nor opinion to venture on the Imminent End of the World; other than, perhaps, hang on to your Swiss Army Knife.
It’s midnight again and the family are sleeping, apart, that is, from Buster. Buster, you may not know, can transform himself from a placid and charming individual into a one-dog death squad, and the other night, whilst I was on the loo I heard, from above, what sounded like all the souls in hell screaming in an inferno of agony – high pitched shrieks that made the hairs on my arm spring to attention; my heart pounded and my brain registered “this must be TIEOTW on which I have no opinion” or thoughts to that effect.
For many years I have urinated in a sitting position. I initiated this practice for fear, in other peoples’ homes, of them hearing my bodily functions – if you sit down the discharged liquid has less distance to travel and thus makes less impact and less noise and also, if one is a bloke, one can direct one’s urine to the side of the loo bowl and make hardly any noise at all. But, since those early sitting down to pee days I have found that the whole process produces less strain on the bladder and less piss on the toilet floor so that it is now second nature for me to sit down to pee. So, to the great good fortune of all concerned, but especially that of His Imperial Majesty, I was, the other night, only peeing and not pooing; had I been pooing I am confident that His Imperial Majesty Rocky Woo would have gone to his Heavenly Palace, Buster on one last trip to the Vet and the Sainted mrs ishmael to a mental institution, if, after the success of Care in the Community, we have any such places left.
Storming as best I could from the loo I panted up the stairs, underpants round my knees, trousers round my ankles. I found Buster’s jaws clamped tight like crocodile clips in the Royal Shoulder, Rocky Woo and the Sainted mrs ishmael shrieking not in unison but in complete demonic discord.
In diving into the murderous melee I managed to dismiss from my mind all thoughts of injury to my private parts unprotected as they were by either pants or trouserings; indeed, had I dwelt for a moment on the prospect of Buster transferring his vice-like jaws to my own meagre but familiar genitals then I, too, would have been on the landing with SMI, shrieking in terror. I, nevertheless, managed to separate Buster’s jaws from His Imperial Majesty’s flesh, albeit at a cost to His Imperial Majesty of tissue and hair and to myself of significant portions of my fingers.
When I got the Sainted mrs ishmael down from the ceiling and after we had checked the Imperial Body for more deadly wounds than were readily visible she ran through her customary list of Extreme Buster Sanctions including Termination with Prejudice and I through my Yes, Dears, No Dears, Dogs Fight Dears and This is Nobody’s Fault Dears.
I misheard something on the radio the other day. The words weren’t, but sounded like: “No reality belongs to me.” And I thought, that’s right, even if I heard it wrong it sounds right. No reality belongs to me. Nothing that happens is any more absurd than anything else that happens. Thus somewhat psychologically and emotionally fortified I was able to remedy, to bring peace to the Dog Wars by determining that Buster sleep alone in the kitchen.
And therefore I can inform you that in true Mafia fashion order is restored and the offender punished, for Tonight Buster Sleeps with the Dishes.