Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) (24 page)

Bluebell starts to chew on the treat as Winklehoven looks on in what I can only assume is supreme doggy jealousy. This warms my heart, and goes some way to making up for the painful bite marks on my finger that still haven't healed properly.

'Lovely morning, isn't it?' the woman says, entering into the requisite small talk that we are forced into while our dogs bond.

'Yep, makes a nice change.'

This is a stupid thing to say, as it's been like this for the past week. I just say it out of habit, given how changeable the British weather usually is. The woman then squints slightly, and a curious look crosses her face. I think I'm about to get recognised again.

We really have to stop going on the
telly
, or agreeing to be in articles in the newspaper. It's getting silly now.

'Don't I know you from somewhere?' she says.

'Well, yes, I guess you might,' I reply, trying to keep the smugness out of my voice, and failing completely.

'Yeah, I definitely know you!'

I chuckle self indulgently. 'I get this quite a lot.'

'Do you?' she looks amazed.

'Of course! I'm lucky enough to be quite popular.'

'What? Just because you used to work at the paper?'

Oh.

I appear to have read this a bit wrong. She obviously recognises me from my previous life as a poor, downtrodden copywriter for our local news rag.

'Um... yeah! Lots of people knew me there!' I say, trying to cover my mistake, but still sounding like an egomaniac. 'Where did you work?' I add.

Her face clouds.
'About three offices down from yours.
We'd see each other in the kitchen most days.'

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Quick Newman! Use the dogs to get you out of this!

I look down. '
Aaah
. Isn't that sweet? The way they're getting on with each other.'

Actually, they don't look like they're getting on with each other at all. Bluebell is still chewing away on her big treat, her eyes occasionally darting to Winklehoven. My dog is sat on its haunches, growling gently under its breath.

I recognise the signs. This is the noise Winklebastard makes when it's about to have a go at you for daring to not share your food. The amount of times it’s sat staring at me from the arm of the sofa, growling like that until I give it a chip, doesn't bear thinking about. If I don't service it with some free food off my plate, it will be down off the arm and thieving my pork chop quicker than you can say severe behavioural problems. The blame for this lies squarely at my wife and daughter's combined feet. They can't resist the stupid little dog's cutesy face, and spoil it rotten at every opportunity.

Bluebell knows none of this, and is therefore about to get a nasty surprise.

'Yes, they do... do look sweet,' the woman, who now dislikes me intensely, says, watching both dogs. She sounds quite unsure of herself. I can't blame her, as Winklehoven's growl has grown louder.

In an instant, the little dog ducks its head in, and tries to grab the treat from under the Border's nose. Bluebell is having none of this, and goes from being a well-mannered little doggie, to a gnashing ball of furry terror in a nanosecond. She goes for
Winklehoven ,
slamming into the Chihuahua and sending it sprawling. In a split second she's on top of it, teeth bared and issuing a high pitched snarl that wouldn't sound out of place coming out of the gob of Cerberus, the three headed hellhound from Greek mythology.

I am paralysed.

While I might fantasise about harm coming to Winklebastard thanks to its attitude, to see it actually happening in front of me is quite another thing. What am I supposed to do if Bluebell isn't stopped? Squish Winklehoven's body back through our letterbox and run for the hills when I hear it plop wetly onto the welcome mat?

'Oh no!' the woman yells, bending down to pull Bluebell away. The Border is having none of it though, as she is quite happy treading on Winklehoven's head right about now, and doesn't want anyone to spoil the fun.

My paralysis breaks as I see her lunge for Winklebastard's throat. I reach forward, batting the Border away with one hand, and scoop the Chihuahua up with the other, attempting to get it out of danger. This only terrifies Winklehoven even more, causing a fountain of piss to erupt from its nether regions and RIGHT INTO MY MOUTH.

'Oh fuck!' I scream in disgust, holding the dog away from me. This only changes the direction of the piss fountain, so now Winklehoven is panic urinating all over the poor woman, soaking the front of her t-shirt.

She screams as well, skipping backwards to get out of range. Bluebell, seeing this (quite rightly) as an attack on her owner, runs over to me and sinks her teeth into my canvas trainer.

'
Ow
! Fuck!' I screech, pain immediately replacing disgust.

So now I have one dog attached to my foot, its needle teeth puncturing at least one of my toes, while another sits in my hand, wriggling like mad and spraying urine all over the place.

'Bluebell! Leave him alone!' the now urine soaked woman commands her dog. The Border does so, much to my surprise. She must have it well trained.

I figure trying the same tactic can't hurt. I point a finger at the Chihuahua. 'Winklehoven! Stop pissing!' This doesn't work, of course. Even an obedient dog would have trouble obeying an order like that.

I take hold of Winklebastard with both hands and attempt to control its wriggling a bit, in a valiant attempt to stop the piss fountain from spraying the entire area. I can't put the dog down, for fear of it being attacked again by Bluebell. Imploringly, I look back up at the woman, who obviously has a better grasp of dog training than me. 'Can you make it stop pissing? Why won't it stop pissing?' I wail in combined disgust and horror, as the little sod continues to void its bladder all over my hands.

'I, er, I...
' she
replies, completely and understandably lost for words. She only came out this morning to give her lovely little Border Terrier a nice walk in the sun, and now she's being asked to give dog training tips to a piss soaked madman holding an epileptic Chihuahua.

'Why won't it stop?' I moan in a high pitched howl, looking at the golden stream the dog is still producing. 'Where's it all coming from?' I add, my face scrunching in revulsion.

'I don't know! Are you squeezing it?' she replies.

'I don't think so,' I tell her, loosening my grip anyway, just to be on the safe side. 'Can you squeeze piss out of a dog?' I ask over the never-ending spray. Even if this woman were the late, great Barbara Woodhouse, I think she'd have trouble answering that question.

'Put it down? That might stop it,' she suggests.

'But what about Bluebell?'

The woman looks down at her dog,
who
is now sat by her legs watching events unfold.

Have you ever seen a slack jawed dog?

Well, I fucking have, and it's a sight to behold, let me tell you.

'Bluebell won't attack again, don't worry!' the woman assures me. She still takes hold of Bluebell's collar as a precautionary measure though.

I lower Winklehoven to the ground, making sure to keep the genital region pointing away from me. It lies on its back for a moment, still urinating and wriggling, like the ugliest newborn you've ever seen. Then it realises that the only creature it's still pissing on is itself, and decides enough is enough. The stream of golden nastiness diminishes and Winklebastard rolls over and stands up again.

I look for signs of damage, but there don't appear to be any. All legs are pointing the right way, and no bloodstains are apparent. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Then I remember I am now covered in fresh dog urine.

'I'm covered in piss,' the poor woman says to me, echoing my thoughts.

'I'm so sorry about that,' I tell her. 'Can I wipe you down?'

A hand shoots up. 'No! I think I'll just go back to the car and make my way home. I can clean up there! Come on Bluebell!'

And with that, my poor dog walking chum is off back in the direction she came in, no doubt hurrying away as quickly as she can, just in case I decide to chase after her so I can squeeze some poo out of the stupid Chihuahua that I can then fling at her.

I look down at the offending article, which looks back up at me, trembling slightly.

'You've only got yourself to blame, you know,' I tell it. 'You really shouldn't have gone for her treat like that. You've learned a valuable lesson here today... Stop looking at me like that... I said
stop it
. I've got no sympathy with you at all. Absolutely none, so you can stop looking all vulnerable and scared, because it won't work. I am immune to your doggy manipulations... There, there Winklehoven, never mind.'

I reach down to give the little dog a pat on the head. The little fucker bites me on the finger.

'Oh, you utter cunt!' I shout, just as a tall, thickset man in a red
chequered
shirt walks round the corner with a large Staffordshire
Bull Terrier
. His eyes go wide as he realises what he's witnessing.

Look! Here is a man so utterly worthless and without manly virtue that not only does he own a small, teacup sized handbag dog, he feels the need to swear at it in public, in some pathetic attempt to exert what little remains of his natural authority over it. And does he smell of piss? Why yes, he does smell of piss. Have I ever seen such a god-awful display of humanity before? No, I don't think I have.

The man walks past and avoids me as best he can, given that we're standing on a narrow path next to a lake
.
Luckily, Winklehoven smells as much of piss as I do, so the
Staffy
also gives us a wide berth, figuring that breakfast should never be urine flavoured, unless you're absolutely desperate.

In shame and misery I walk us back to the car, trying to breathe through my mouth and not look down at the new stain rapidly drying on my shirt.

Back home, I walk in through the front door to be greeted by Laura coming down the stairs in her dressing gown. She looks at my hangdog expression, the drying streaks of piss on my clothing, the cut on my finger, and the trembling dog at my feet. 'Went well then, did it?' she asks.

'I don't want to talk about it,' I tell her, and drop the dog lead. 'I don't ever want to talk about it,' I add, moving past her and up the stairs. 'I'm going to have a shower,' I say, yanking my shirt off.

'What about the dog?' Laura calls up to me.

I swivel in an instant and look down at her, brow furrowed in impotent fury. 'I do not
care
about the dog, Laura. Unless your next request of me is
'Jamie, could you find the nearest mincer and put Winklehoven through it head first?
' I do not wish to hear another thing about the dog for the rest of the day... if not the week, month, year, or millennium.'

'Dad! That's horrible!' I hear Poppy shout from behind me.

I hold my bloody, painful finger up. 'So is this Poppy! So is this!'

Giving my daughter a look that suggests it would be best for her continued well-being that she gets out of my way, I stride across the landing and into the bathroom, locking the door behind me so I can't hear the inevitable sounds of dog mollycoddling going on downstairs. With a shiver of revulsion, I remove the rest of my clothing, turn on the shower, and step into the cubicle.

My foot comes down on a squishy lump of Winklehoven shit.

'Oh, for fuck's sake!' I scream in horror.