AGAINST my better judgment, we got a dog last month.
However, there is some dispute whether he actually is a dog. The one brat thinks he’s half guinea-pig, half mega-rat, whereas I think he’s a sucked mango pip on steroids.
Well, that’s what he looks like. But as most Brits have never seen a mango, I’m on my own with that observation.
His birth name is Muttley, but I call him Mutters – first as an abbreviation, then I saw the irony. I had the mutters that I was outvoted three to one on this.
The brats also changed his name; he’s officially known as Muttley Crue.
When management decided we needed a mutt, I said no. Our last dog was a rescued Greyhound that had been mistreated in her racing days, so was timid in the extreme.
She was with us for nine years and never warmed to me as I think she distrusted men.
Still, I was the guy who took her for walks in all weather and cleaned up the poo, while the rest of the family applauded from the sidelines.
When the Greyhound died, I said no more dogs.
Obviously no one listened. The day after we arrived home from holiday, management dragged me off to the local dog rescue centre.
The two brats were now also working on me, so I relented but said I wanted a real dog, not some lap wuss.
The first one we looked at was a muscle-bound Staffie called Winston. We took him for a trial walk and after a nano-second I realised that Winston would rip through the flimsy box-wood fence at our matchbox home in one bound.
The next one was an overweight Beagle called Molly. I like Beagles as they are extremely brave animals. In Montana, America, they are used to to scare cougars off cattle ranches.
So Mollie it was. Then, as I was about to load her into the car, management asked the rescue people if she had been spayed. She hadn’t, which would cost us a whopping £200.
Molly went back to her cage. But by now, realising my life would be a misery until we returned with an animal, I noticed a pint-sized mango … I mean dog, furiously wagging his tail.
The next thing I knew he was in the car licking my neck as I drove home.
Muttley Crue
At home, we put out a doggie pillow, which Muttley Crue found very useful as a springboard onto the couch.
That evening I discovered, to my astonishment, that I was lying on the couch watching TV with a dog on my chest.
That night as I jumped into bed … you guessed it; the dog was already there.
I had no idea what breed it was, apart from being a mango pip replica, but figured it was somewhere between a Border and Yorkshire terrier with a lot of street cred thrown in.
Then, when walking Mutters one evening to the pub, we saw an exact replica. We asked the owner what it was. A long-haired Jack Russell, she replied.
I had never heard of Jack Russells with long hair, but that made sense.
Mutters has the typically edgy Jack Russell character. In other words, he chases speeding cars and squares up to our friends’ Great Dane called Rufus down the road.
After a week, I was curious – why had the previous owner abandoned such an exuberantly cheerful and affectionate dog?
We asked the rescue people, who said Mutters’ old boss had had a stroke, and his ageing wife was unable to cope.
I now eat my words. Their loss is our gain.
Mutters is my constant companion through circumstance rather than design as I’m the only person at home all day.
The morning starts off with me watching a TV fishing programme or a series called Mountain Men, about people living off the grid, which I find extremely motivating.
Mutters also watches, equally fascinated, perched on my chest.
From there, Mutters and I retire to the conservatory to write best-sellers (heh).
I never thought I would one day have a mango pip as my muse, but there you go.
