Walking the dog
I fell asleep on the couch last night. Stonkered! Daniel woke me up at 5am hissing at me, in half formed whispers. He was standing over me in the couch scratching his cock. His voice was really raspy.
“I don’t give a damn where you sleep, but at least turn things off, or are you lying about your green credentials?”
Silence. It was a drive by. Hit and run. The undies bandit hits again. I struggled to get up. “Green credentials, green credentials,” I hear myself muttering.
Clearly Dan the Man is still pissed. I see I am going to have to have a word to him.
I couldn’t get back to sleep. I tossed and turned. I think I was asleep much earlier in the evening, I’d had 8 hours. I went for a jog in the dark. Tiny shorts I’m sure I popped a bum cheek at one point – ah, podium dancing, I remember it well – no shirt. Sure it is cold to start with, but I am sure it must be good for me some how. Repentance. Yes father, I touched myself. Besides, I can only play he’man in the dark. The guys who jog around my neighbourhood are buff. I don’t fill the “just shorts” look quite as well as one or two of them do. As quite as well as I like to see them do.
They are young fathers, I see them with their kids in the street on the weekends. Young fathers. I still laugh about what my friend Fergus used to say. His type were young fathers.
“Those guys who are about 12 months into the pregnancy,” he’d say. You know when the baby is about three months old, the little lady is still torn in two, those guys, those guys are my type. Completely backed up and amazingly grateful. Like chocolate fountains at their twenty firsts, that’s the impression I like to see them do.”
Daniel was in the shower when I got back. I went to my room
I got in the shower when he was dressing in his room, a short time later.
He was gone by the time I had finished my shower.
Bruno and I headed down to Lygon Street to eat Kaya Toast and drink coffee for breakfast. We can jog down, it isn’t too far. Bruno is more of your sprinter, than your long distance runner, hard to believe about bulldogs, but they are. A short, sharp burst and then he is exhausted. He gulps his water at the outdoor cafe table, from a disposable container the owner brings out. Then he usually collapses face on paws, in that classic prone bulldog position, just the big brown eyes moving watching the world go by.
So Bruno? Yes, a British Bulldog. The last in a long traditional line of Grant Bulldogs. This is him, Bruno. (I named him) Bruno Grant. I think he is number 5. Oliver Grant, Zac Grant, Max Grant, Buster Grant and now Bruno. Bruno Grant. 3 1/2 yrs old. A red head. Dad and mum want to travel.
Mum arrived at the door one morning. I could hear her phone ring from behind my front door. The sun was behind her, as I opened the door, the ringing suddenly got louder. She was looking straight at me. She cleared her throat. She pushed the button on her phone.
“Amanda Grant,” she said all breathy and deep.
“Ah yes?” she said into the receiver. Her face lit up.
“Just a moment.” She covered the phone. “Darling, I’ve just got to take this. Do you mind?” Very drag queen, I thought.
I headed back to the kitchen.
Mum eventually joined me. “Sorry, darling.”
“Have you been watching Ab Fab again.”
And I kid you not she said. “Sweetie?” Quizzical look. “Darling?”
“You don’t know what I am talking about, do you?”
“Yes, of course I do. You are talking nonsense. TV show, reality? What does one have to do with the other?”
“Who was on the phone.”
“When?”
“Just now?”
“On my phone?”
“Yes, your phone?”
“You want to know who I was just talking to?”
“Yes.”
She looked alarmed not so much that she had seen that conversion through to its conclusion, but because the answer was still yes once we had worked through all of the variations. “Tammy, about lunch.” She was now looking at me as if I had completely lost my mind. She made big eyes and smiled. “I guess I don’t have to ask you if you are smoking again?”
“Do you want tea?”
“I’d kill.”
“Fortunately, that wont be necessarily.”
“Tammy and I are heading up the golf course for a champagne lunch, I’ll be legless by 3.”
“I hope you are not going to drive.”
The kettle boiled.
“Oh darling, my driving skills just get better with every point I am over. I come roaring home some afternoons.”
“Mum! Don’t you know being over is being over, whether you are drag racing in sunshine…
The teaspoon clinked on the cup as I stirred.
“Drag racing in sunshine, now there’s a thought for my mid life crisis.”
“Or if you are some nice lady coming home from the golf course lunch. Women of your vintage…”
“Oh settle down Old Man Grant, I’m catching a taxi. Tammy and I are going dutch.” She flinched her shoulders and looked awfully pleased with herself.
“Dutch?”
“Isn’t that what you say when you split the bill?”
“Maybe in the 80s.”
“Maybe you are right."
I pushed a white china mug with amber liquid towards her.
“Your father is retiring and we are going to travel.”
“Great.”
“We may even sell the house and buy a bed sit in town, we’ll be here so little.”
“A bed sit?”
“I hear they are all the rage.”
“What?”
“We might live on the QE2.”
“Did you hit your head this morning, it is important?”
“We have to clear out the house.”
“Have you been spooked by a ghoul in the night?”
“We can no longer afford to be a repository for every whim that you and Daniel have ever had, which you refuse to let go of even now you are men?”
“Are you terminally ill?”
“The snow boots, the snow plows...
"There are no snow plows."
"Snow boards, water skiis, roller skates, in line skates, outline skates, the 3 Honda Z shells in the back of the garage,
"They will be classics, they are blue chip investments...They are complete cars."
"If you haven’t used it in ten years, it is going out.”
“Not my bunny slippers too?”
“I’m sorry, but that is it and quite frankly, …um, …er, Bruno doesn’t fit into your father, or my life any longer, so he is being moved on, and you and Daniel are his next of kin.”
“Oh come on. There is no likeness,” I said. “I demand a blood test.”
“And as if by some momentous planetary alignment, you and your brother own a home together that has Bruno’s New Home written all over it.”
“What are you talking about? I have no back yard to speak of.”
“Trust me, he’ll adjust.”
“I don’t want Bruno?”
“Either of your beds will do him just fine. Don’t try and stop him, the great and the magnificent have failed before you.”
“He wouldn’t listen?”
“Like the most stubborn-arsed bulldog there ever was,” said Amanda. “Oh, perhaps I am older and just don’t have the patience, I don’t know.” She smiled. “He’s great, really.” She grabbed my forearm as if to emphasise the point.
“It’d be nice having a dog sleep on the bed again.”
“He’s in the car.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “How long has he been out there?”
“Here are the keys, go and rescue him. His things are in the back.”
“What? I don’t want him.”
“Go on, I wound all of the windows up before I got out. I don’t know about this area, I know you say it’s fine.”
If I got him out of the car, he was mine, I knew that.
“Go on,” said mum.
She’d leave him out there and drink ten teas and watch me sweat.
“Cough, cough.” She was waving me away. Now she was being dramatic.
That was it. The jig was up. Well played. I straightened up. I tipped my head as I turned towards the front door. She smiled.
His kennel got delivered the next day. Still, he knows me and Daniel.
Unceremoniously dumped on me? Dad called to see where his bulldog was. Mum came on the phone, there was a scuffle. Then the phone was muffled for some time. I’m guessing Mandy was giving him the low down. Dad came back on the phone, he sounded shell shocked. Clearly, he was not privy to Bruno’s new living arrangements, up until that point. He wished me well and hung up, sounding very much like the boy who had had his puppy taken away from him.
That’s how I got Bruno, some months ago. Mum and dad have been to Europe for two months. They’ve just got back. They want to go skiing some where in January, Germany mum thinks.
“How’s Bruno now she asks,” faux sincerity, I wouldn’t-swap-dribblepuss-back-for-anything demeanour.
Bruno’s pretty laid back. A walk to the end of the street, where he gets to piss on everything along the way. A dump at the end. And you can almost see the expression change on his face. Well, that’s me done.
The café owner is kind of cute. Handsome, masculine. His boyish face, his unrestrained enthusiasm. His big eyes… as Bruno gasps for his breath. He tries to talk, but continually faulters with laughed at Bruno’s panting. A dog of a thousand faces is the bulldog.
I often sit there, as cute owner guy talks to me, thinking, I’d so do you mate. He’s little, but he sure has a fine arse. I can so see him with my cock up his arse. Squatting down, up against a wall, poking his crack out. I like fucking little guys, you can practically get them to do whatever you want. Pin them down. Make them beg for more of it. Feel their legs go out from under them when you give them more of it.
“Nice day,” he says. "You not working today?" He always asks.
"How lucky are you," he says.
"How many hours do you put in a week?"
He smiles. "Ha! Too many."
He’s nice, friendly. He always comes out and watches Bruno, he still laughs at Bruno. He’d never seen a bulldog before Bruno, he remains endlessly fascinated with him. We laugh and joke, shoot the breeze.
He’d always retreats inside the restaurant in, due course. I feel the breeze blow up Lygon Street behind me. There is a chill in the air, with the promise of warmer to come. Bruno looks up at me with his big, brown eyes.
I never know if I should pick up Bruno’s water bowl, or just leave it behind for cutie pants to clean up? I think that I am not usually required to do the dishes for me. That's why I pay the bill. I usually leave it behind.
Bruno and I jogged home through The Carlton Gardens. Slow, shuffle kind of jog, but a jog to be fair.
He’s now snoring under my desk.
He’s smart. He sleeps on Daniel’s bed when Daniel isn’t home and he sleeps on my bed when I am not home. He sleeps with me too some nights.
I smoked two joints and had a pull. Sigh. The day was done.
“I don’t give a damn where you sleep, but at least turn things off, or are you lying about your green credentials?”
Silence. It was a drive by. Hit and run. The undies bandit hits again. I struggled to get up. “Green credentials, green credentials,” I hear myself muttering.
Clearly Dan the Man is still pissed. I see I am going to have to have a word to him.
I couldn’t get back to sleep. I tossed and turned. I think I was asleep much earlier in the evening, I’d had 8 hours. I went for a jog in the dark. Tiny shorts I’m sure I popped a bum cheek at one point – ah, podium dancing, I remember it well – no shirt. Sure it is cold to start with, but I am sure it must be good for me some how. Repentance. Yes father, I touched myself. Besides, I can only play he’man in the dark. The guys who jog around my neighbourhood are buff. I don’t fill the “just shorts” look quite as well as one or two of them do. As quite as well as I like to see them do.
They are young fathers, I see them with their kids in the street on the weekends. Young fathers. I still laugh about what my friend Fergus used to say. His type were young fathers.
“Those guys who are about 12 months into the pregnancy,” he’d say. You know when the baby is about three months old, the little lady is still torn in two, those guys, those guys are my type. Completely backed up and amazingly grateful. Like chocolate fountains at their twenty firsts, that’s the impression I like to see them do.”
Daniel was in the shower when I got back. I went to my room
I got in the shower when he was dressing in his room, a short time later.
He was gone by the time I had finished my shower.
Bruno and I headed down to Lygon Street to eat Kaya Toast and drink coffee for breakfast. We can jog down, it isn’t too far. Bruno is more of your sprinter, than your long distance runner, hard to believe about bulldogs, but they are. A short, sharp burst and then he is exhausted. He gulps his water at the outdoor cafe table, from a disposable container the owner brings out. Then he usually collapses face on paws, in that classic prone bulldog position, just the big brown eyes moving watching the world go by.
So Bruno? Yes, a British Bulldog. The last in a long traditional line of Grant Bulldogs. This is him, Bruno. (I named him) Bruno Grant. I think he is number 5. Oliver Grant, Zac Grant, Max Grant, Buster Grant and now Bruno. Bruno Grant. 3 1/2 yrs old. A red head. Dad and mum want to travel.
Mum arrived at the door one morning. I could hear her phone ring from behind my front door. The sun was behind her, as I opened the door, the ringing suddenly got louder. She was looking straight at me. She cleared her throat. She pushed the button on her phone.
“Amanda Grant,” she said all breathy and deep.
“Ah yes?” she said into the receiver. Her face lit up.
“Just a moment.” She covered the phone. “Darling, I’ve just got to take this. Do you mind?” Very drag queen, I thought.
I headed back to the kitchen.
Mum eventually joined me. “Sorry, darling.”
“Have you been watching Ab Fab again.”
And I kid you not she said. “Sweetie?” Quizzical look. “Darling?”
“You don’t know what I am talking about, do you?”
“Yes, of course I do. You are talking nonsense. TV show, reality? What does one have to do with the other?”
“Who was on the phone.”
“When?”
“Just now?”
“On my phone?”
“Yes, your phone?”
“You want to know who I was just talking to?”
“Yes.”
She looked alarmed not so much that she had seen that conversion through to its conclusion, but because the answer was still yes once we had worked through all of the variations. “Tammy, about lunch.” She was now looking at me as if I had completely lost my mind. She made big eyes and smiled. “I guess I don’t have to ask you if you are smoking again?”
“Do you want tea?”
“I’d kill.”
“Fortunately, that wont be necessarily.”
“Tammy and I are heading up the golf course for a champagne lunch, I’ll be legless by 3.”
“I hope you are not going to drive.”
The kettle boiled.
“Oh darling, my driving skills just get better with every point I am over. I come roaring home some afternoons.”
“Mum! Don’t you know being over is being over, whether you are drag racing in sunshine…
The teaspoon clinked on the cup as I stirred.
“Drag racing in sunshine, now there’s a thought for my mid life crisis.”
“Or if you are some nice lady coming home from the golf course lunch. Women of your vintage…”
“Oh settle down Old Man Grant, I’m catching a taxi. Tammy and I are going dutch.” She flinched her shoulders and looked awfully pleased with herself.
“Dutch?”
“Isn’t that what you say when you split the bill?”
“Maybe in the 80s.”
“Maybe you are right."
I pushed a white china mug with amber liquid towards her.
“Your father is retiring and we are going to travel.”
“Great.”
“We may even sell the house and buy a bed sit in town, we’ll be here so little.”
“A bed sit?”
“I hear they are all the rage.”
“What?”
“We might live on the QE2.”
“Did you hit your head this morning, it is important?”
“We have to clear out the house.”
“Have you been spooked by a ghoul in the night?”
“We can no longer afford to be a repository for every whim that you and Daniel have ever had, which you refuse to let go of even now you are men?”
“Are you terminally ill?”
“The snow boots, the snow plows...
"There are no snow plows."
"Snow boards, water skiis, roller skates, in line skates, outline skates, the 3 Honda Z shells in the back of the garage,
"They will be classics, they are blue chip investments...They are complete cars."
"If you haven’t used it in ten years, it is going out.”
“Not my bunny slippers too?”
“I’m sorry, but that is it and quite frankly, …um, …er, Bruno doesn’t fit into your father, or my life any longer, so he is being moved on, and you and Daniel are his next of kin.”
“Oh come on. There is no likeness,” I said. “I demand a blood test.”
“And as if by some momentous planetary alignment, you and your brother own a home together that has Bruno’s New Home written all over it.”
“What are you talking about? I have no back yard to speak of.”
“Trust me, he’ll adjust.”
“I don’t want Bruno?”
“Either of your beds will do him just fine. Don’t try and stop him, the great and the magnificent have failed before you.”
“He wouldn’t listen?”
“Like the most stubborn-arsed bulldog there ever was,” said Amanda. “Oh, perhaps I am older and just don’t have the patience, I don’t know.” She smiled. “He’s great, really.” She grabbed my forearm as if to emphasise the point.
“It’d be nice having a dog sleep on the bed again.”
“He’s in the car.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “How long has he been out there?”
“Here are the keys, go and rescue him. His things are in the back.”
“What? I don’t want him.”
“Go on, I wound all of the windows up before I got out. I don’t know about this area, I know you say it’s fine.”
If I got him out of the car, he was mine, I knew that.
“Go on,” said mum.
She’d leave him out there and drink ten teas and watch me sweat.
“Cough, cough.” She was waving me away. Now she was being dramatic.
That was it. The jig was up. Well played. I straightened up. I tipped my head as I turned towards the front door. She smiled.
His kennel got delivered the next day. Still, he knows me and Daniel.
Unceremoniously dumped on me? Dad called to see where his bulldog was. Mum came on the phone, there was a scuffle. Then the phone was muffled for some time. I’m guessing Mandy was giving him the low down. Dad came back on the phone, he sounded shell shocked. Clearly, he was not privy to Bruno’s new living arrangements, up until that point. He wished me well and hung up, sounding very much like the boy who had had his puppy taken away from him.
That’s how I got Bruno, some months ago. Mum and dad have been to Europe for two months. They’ve just got back. They want to go skiing some where in January, Germany mum thinks.
“How’s Bruno now she asks,” faux sincerity, I wouldn’t-swap-dribblepuss-back-for-anything demeanour.
Bruno’s pretty laid back. A walk to the end of the street, where he gets to piss on everything along the way. A dump at the end. And you can almost see the expression change on his face. Well, that’s me done.
The café owner is kind of cute. Handsome, masculine. His boyish face, his unrestrained enthusiasm. His big eyes… as Bruno gasps for his breath. He tries to talk, but continually faulters with laughed at Bruno’s panting. A dog of a thousand faces is the bulldog.
I often sit there, as cute owner guy talks to me, thinking, I’d so do you mate. He’s little, but he sure has a fine arse. I can so see him with my cock up his arse. Squatting down, up against a wall, poking his crack out. I like fucking little guys, you can practically get them to do whatever you want. Pin them down. Make them beg for more of it. Feel their legs go out from under them when you give them more of it.
“Nice day,” he says. "You not working today?" He always asks.
"How lucky are you," he says.
"How many hours do you put in a week?"
He smiles. "Ha! Too many."
He’s nice, friendly. He always comes out and watches Bruno, he still laughs at Bruno. He’d never seen a bulldog before Bruno, he remains endlessly fascinated with him. We laugh and joke, shoot the breeze.
He’d always retreats inside the restaurant in, due course. I feel the breeze blow up Lygon Street behind me. There is a chill in the air, with the promise of warmer to come. Bruno looks up at me with his big, brown eyes.
I never know if I should pick up Bruno’s water bowl, or just leave it behind for cutie pants to clean up? I think that I am not usually required to do the dishes for me. That's why I pay the bill. I usually leave it behind.
Bruno and I jogged home through The Carlton Gardens. Slow, shuffle kind of jog, but a jog to be fair.
He’s now snoring under my desk.
He’s smart. He sleeps on Daniel’s bed when Daniel isn’t home and he sleeps on my bed when I am not home. He sleeps with me too some nights.
I smoked two joints and had a pull. Sigh. The day was done.
Comments
Post a Comment