My Gay Dog

First things first, my dog isn't actually gay. That was just a snappy title. But it was inspired by a true event, like Titanic or the second Harry Potter. My grandad died a couple of months ago (reason to complain in itself, sure, but I'll leave that for now) leaving my dear, little, old grandmother with noone to look after and worry about. My older brother, younger sister and I are her only grand-children so yes naturally she turned to us at first, but even my sister is finishing school now and not really looking for someone to babysit her. Although she is looking for more babysitting work herself if anyone needs a new one. She will never be more drunk than you when you get home. And that's a promise...

And so Granny (as she likes to be referred to) turned to Scamp (as he likes to be referred to). Scamp is a cross between a yorkshire terrier and a jack russel. If that puts an image in your head of a small dog with some black, some brown and some white hairs of reasonable length whose main hobbies in life are sleeping and crying then congratulations, you've won a prize.

Scamp lives outside by day and fights crime inside by night. When outside he has the shelter of what we call his "box" to fend off the unruly advances of the elements. That's if he so chooses. Sometimes he prefers to stand atop his box whimpering in the wind and drowning pitifully in the rain. Yes it's a sad sight. But he's a dog. He's designed to live outside. That's why he has all of those hairs. He does not need a coat. Granny, however, disagrees. She bought him a small red "coat" a couple of weeks ago. Apparently the ten or so years he's been living in our back garden were nothing compared to the monsoon she's forecasting to hit the southern tip of Ireland in the coming weeks.

I don't like Scamp's coat. My brother does not like Scamp's coat. Scamp does not like Scamp's coat. We all agree that it looks ridiculous and he looks ridiculous in it. My sister, however, loves Scamp's coat and loves nothing more than putting it on him in the morning before he goes outside. She does not seem to notice, or care about, the fact that it is clearly too small for him, restricting his ability to perform basic daily manoeuvres like standing up and turning left, and above all, that it just looks stupid. What's more it likes to get caught when he's rolling around in his box (another pastime of his) leaving him upside-down and helpless, like an over-turned tortoise in a stupid red coat. He does not need a coat. He is a dog. Dog's should not be put in miniature human clothes. Whoever came up with the idea should be shot, or if they've already been shot, then they should be pulled from the ground and shot again, just to be sure.

Just imagine you're looking through a not very extensive book on the history of the world that has images of all the great people who've walked on this planet and each of them is accompanied by a dog in a stupid little red coat. How could any of them have been taken seriously? Do you think Julius Caesar had a little dog in a toga under his arm when he was barking out orders at Marcus Brutus or Russel Crowe in the middle of a battle? What if Martin Luther King's dream had been for all dogs to be kept uncomfortably warm and visible at all times to any oncoming traffic through the use of luminous fringing on an otherwise tartan dog-smock? Oh what a sad world it would be.