Working Dog

I was lay, relaxing upon the cold, tiled floor of The Little Pack Horse pub in my splendid little town. It has been a busy weekend – party Saturday, then jeez all these folks kept calling Sunday morningI. No wonder I was still knackered when the old boy took me to our local pub for a bit of snap on Monday evening.

I decided to rise, gently and in the stately manner that you would expect from a mature chap involving just a little stretching, and began my usual tour of the pub floor. There is often to be found various interesting items of food – crisps being a favourite, but also nuts and the occasional super big treat of a scratching. It was then that I heard the old boy remark that “I was really a working dog who could sniff out all sorts of things when trained – drugs and dead bodies in particular”.

This got me thinking. Was I a working dog? If I was, what the hell am I working at? Let me tell you. The nearest to work I would ever consider is cleaning up the scraps on the pub floor. These mutts who run about in fields collecting dead birds that get flung out of the sky is not my idea of fun. Or, I may add, a long term career with prospects!!

I understand people work, although from what I see regularly their idea of work, especially on a sunny day, consists of sitting by the river whilst drinking lager and eating fish and chips. I try to get over to them – I can if I’m roaming free – but mostly I’m on the lead when we’re near the tables and him indoors pulls me along without giving me a chance to deliver my “pitifully starved” look.

Is there work where there are no dogs? That must be strange. Moreover, if there is work why do people do it? From what I’ve heard from a few folks in pubs, mostly there are these folks who have “never done a day’s work but which we keep”. Who keeps them then? Does him indoors keep them? Occasionally he shouts at TV “ my son is keeping you, you idle bastard”. How can Robert keep this stranger on TV? Does he know them?

The Master had advised me many times “I’m supposed to be retired” when he rushes about trying to do things for his beloved Music in the Hall and Festival. I try to calm him down when he has a bit of a panic about it all, but he doesn’t seem to always welcome a lick upon his nose. I bet if any of his lovely “floozies” offered to lick his nose he would be less aggressive about pushing them off. I love them all because they make a great fuss of me. I go and stay with them sometimes as well, I love it.

So you see, I’m really not sure about being a working dog. I prefer being a kept dog. That is, if I was a dog. Which, as you well know, I am definitely not.

Woof! Woof!

Please tell all your friends about me. I promise I’ll be your waggy tailed pal for always.