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Abstract

appity Yap. Yap Yap Yap Yap Yappity Yap. Yap Yap Yap Yap Yappity Yap…..</p><p id="3208">At this point my brother’s wife storms angrily out of her room. ‘What have you done?’ she says.</p><p id="1e21">‘What have <i>I </i>done?’</p><p id="3d6b">‘You've woken the dog,’ she moans.</p><p id="c0db">I shake my head and go and pee. Three hours later the mutt calms down, and I vow never to visit again.</p><p id="7d7b">Which is why I’m dreading going back this year, leaving my quiet, gentle, intelligent — if not lazy — feline friend behind. To be replaced by a mad — if not slightly likeable — Jack Russell, preposterously called, Jack.</p><figure id="9530"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*jCiZcQYb9Spz7612VF-Hwg.jpeg"><figcaption>Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@robfuller?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Rob Fuller</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/jack-russell?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></figcaption></figure><p id="7a4b">Thing is, he likes me. One might say, we get on well. But does that mean he can follow me around night and day?</p><p id="9f13">If you’d just met a new friend, would he follow you into the toilet?</p><p id="9eab">Probably not, unless it was that sort of friend. This isn’t, it’s a dog. And he won’t leave me alone. When I come back into the house after a walk, I’m practically assaulted in the hallway by Jack. Jumping up at me and nipping my hands like they’ve turned into a meaty snack.</p><p id="83a4">‘You’re exciting him!’ my brother’s wife complains, as though it’s my fault their dog is attacking me.</p><p id="5d77">The cacophony only dies down when Jack is placated by a handful of insanely expensive dog biscuits that cost more than my weekly shop, and for a second he’s quiet.</p><p id="89d7">Until I go into the living room, and he bounds onto my lap wanting to play (again). Sometimes he goes to sleep, and it’s a nice moment, and I even think of getting a dog too. Then he wakes up, and the madness starts again.</p><figure id="7bee"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*zOAOTZlzVSX6_vPIdN3xsQ.jpeg"><figcaption>Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@joeyc?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Joe Caione</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/dog-running?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></figcaption></figure><p id="a259">Mealtimes are the worst. They don’t set him a place at the table, like some folk. But they do let him sit in the dining room, his canine eyes boring into me like a laser, as I fork turkey into my mouth.</p><p id="e51a">For me, there’s nothing worse than someone watching me eat. My grandmother used to do it. Sitting across the other side of the table,

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her black eyes looking straight at me as though I was the reincarnation of the Devil.</p><p id="71c1">When I once asked her why she did this, she scolded me (a bit like my brother’s wife), and said she wasn’t looking at me, she was looking past me. Oh, OK, then —</p><p id="454e">A human looking at you eating is bad, but a dog is worse. Every mouthful you take, is followed by a wave of intense guilt. And as you clear your plate, the gaze from the dog becomes more and more intense as it begs mercilessly for a scrap.</p><p id="cf4f">Then as you eat the last morsel — having not enjoyed any of it — the dog gives out a pathetic whimper, and you feel like the cruellest person on earth. Only to witness, a minute later, the dog being treated to a meaty bone by its owner, unaware it has just destroyed your Christmas dinner.</p><p id="fa08">And that is why a dog is still a dog — even at Christmas. And a cat is just a creature that sleeps a lot — at any time!</p><figure id="02a1"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*wPEt_OJ6tMfDp3NeI5hozg.png"><figcaption>My Perfect Pet — Asleep (Image/Author)</figcaption></figure><p id="4e3d">Thanks for reading, for more dog’s dinners, check out</p><div id="3cc1" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/my-dead-family-tree-8dd90fba524c"> <div> <div> <h2>My Dead Family Tree</h2> <div><h3>A brief history of my departed family</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*M6J-4a-JaMmeThLkJI14Cw.png)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="70f1" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/the-joy-of-the-word-cunt-9bbaf5913679"> <div> <div> <h2>The Joy of the Word Cunt</h2> <div><h3>The expletive that beats them all</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*cePRvhi4Jm1JMyWfZmafWQ.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="9d18" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/why-the-90s-were-great-b0f4328d4bdf"> <div> <div> <h2>Why the 90s Were Great</h2> <div><h3>— I just didn’t notice it</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*mWxM71ovxpDCuIX-)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Dogs dinners

A Dog Is Still a Dog — Even at Christmas

Why a dog is no substitute for a cat — ever!

I have a 6-year-old tabby. It’s a farm cat that wandered into my garden a few years ago. It doesn’t do much. Just sleeps on my bed. And apart from whining a few times a day for milk and food, she’s the perfect pet.

I’m therefore devastated that I have to leave her for a week when I traipse back to the UK this Christmas to do the usual family rounds. That means three days with my brother and his demented Jack Russell.

I can wake up in the morning here, eat my breakfast, do my job, return for lunch, go back out again, return home, eat my dinner, and only then, remember I’ve got a small furry mammal who lives with me. As she waltzes out of the bedroom after a record-breaking 22-hour sleep.

I once read an article in a magazine: What Do All Successful People Have In Common — They Get Up Early!

This doesn’t apply to cats. But it can apply to dogs.

What Do All Annoying Dogs Have In Common — They Get Up Early!

It’s Christmas Eve at my brother's. It’s about five o'clock in the morning, and I need a pee after a heavy night on the beer.

I tiptoe across my room, open the door as quietly as I can, and gently (I mean super gently, like I’m a new superhero called Mister Feather), glide across the thick carpet of the landing.

I get to the bathroom and turn the handle as slowly as I can…

Creak!

Fuck!

I must have stepped on the one faulty thing in the whole house: an ill-fitted floorboard. Because downstairs it sounds as though Genghis Khan has released his army of hounds into the kitchen.

Yap Yap Yap Yap Yappity Yap. Yap Yap Yap Yap Yappity Yap. Yap Yap Yap Yap Yappity Yap. Yap Yap Yap Yap Yappity Yap. Yap Yap Yap Yap Yappity Yap. Yap Yap Yap Yap Yappity Yap. Yap Yap Yap Yap Yappity Yap…..

At this point my brother’s wife storms angrily out of her room. ‘What have you done?’ she says.

‘What have I done?’

‘You've woken the dog,’ she moans.

I shake my head and go and pee. Three hours later the mutt calms down, and I vow never to visit again.

Which is why I’m dreading going back this year, leaving my quiet, gentle, intelligent — if not lazy — feline friend behind. To be replaced by a mad — if not slightly likeable — Jack Russell, preposterously called, Jack.

Thing is, he likes me. One might say, we get on well. But does that mean he can follow me around night and day?

If you’d just met a new friend, would he follow you into the toilet?

Probably not, unless it was that sort of friend. This isn’t, it’s a dog. And he won’t leave me alone. When I come back into the house after a walk, I’m practically assaulted in the hallway by Jack. Jumping up at me and nipping my hands like they’ve turned into a meaty snack.

‘You’re exciting him!’ my brother’s wife complains, as though it’s my fault their dog is attacking me.

The cacophony only dies down when Jack is placated by a handful of insanely expensive dog biscuits that cost more than my weekly shop, and for a second he’s quiet.

Until I go into the living room, and he bounds onto my lap wanting to play (again). Sometimes he goes to sleep, and it’s a nice moment, and I even think of getting a dog too. Then he wakes up, and the madness starts again.

Mealtimes are the worst. They don’t set him a place at the table, like some folk. But they do let him sit in the dining room, his canine eyes boring into me like a laser, as I fork turkey into my mouth.

For me, there’s nothing worse than someone watching me eat. My grandmother used to do it. Sitting across the other side of the table, her black eyes looking straight at me as though I was the reincarnation of the Devil.

When I once asked her why she did this, she scolded me (a bit like my brother’s wife), and said she wasn’t looking at me, she was looking past me. Oh, OK, then —

A human looking at you eating is bad, but a dog is worse. Every mouthful you take, is followed by a wave of intense guilt. And as you clear your plate, the gaze from the dog becomes more and more intense as it begs mercilessly for a scrap.

Then as you eat the last morsel — having not enjoyed any of it — the dog gives out a pathetic whimper, and you feel like the cruellest person on earth. Only to witness, a minute later, the dog being treated to a meaty bone by its owner, unaware it has just destroyed your Christmas dinner.

And that is why a dog is still a dog — even at Christmas. And a cat is just a creature that sleeps a lot — at any time!