Only God Knows Why

The Canine Face Of Evil
November 13, 2010, 9:10 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

I have always thought that I was relatively good with dogs.  I’ve always considered myself a “dog person.”  And I don’t mean that I prefer dogs to cats (what a cheap false dichotomy!), I mean that I am a dogperson.  In any given situation, its is almost always possible to predict with 100 per cent certainty, what I am going to do by asking yourself  “What would a puppy do in this situation?”  For instance, I was recently told that I need to, “Seriously rethink how friendly you are,” after I jumped out of a moving car to say hello to people because I was so excited that I saw someone I knew on the street in the middle of nowhere unexpectedly.  And I know I’m not the only one.   I have friend who, when delayed from something fun, dances about akin to Homer’s “We’re missing the chili cookoff” dance. 

Speaking of the whole W(hat) W(ould) franchise, I really think that we could make our fortunes, and the greater community a better place, by selling WWBGD bracelets.  WWBGD obviously standing for What Would Bear Grylls do.  Although, I would politely ask you to remove these bracelets when naming your children (for your own safety).

Anyway, I have always been relatively able to get on well with dogs (within reason.  I’m looking at you, primary school best friend’s dog who bit me on the thumb unprovoked.  You:  Warm, hairy, friendly looking and cute.  Likes: affection.  Me:  Has opposable thumbs for purpose of patting…  What went wrong?), to the extent that I used to work in a Kennel and Cattery as my first job.  (Incidentally, how hard is it to worm a cat against it’s will?  Furthermore, how hard is it to convince a cat that it should will to be wormed?) 

And we used to have the BEST DOG EVER.  Now, I know everybody says that about their dog, but my dog was like the Sea Biscuit of house pets.  He was great at all the usual dog stuff (accounting, calculus, documentary film making.  His grammar was average though, having to start every word with an “R” and all) as well as being an excellent referee in sockbacksetball (a game where you sticky tape a wastepaper basket to each players back, and the aim is to get a pair of rolled up socks in the other person’s bin.  If you’ve ever wondered what your housemate/partner might look like if they were to suddenly have to move around the world using only the movements available to crustaceans, this might give you some idea.  Also, it’s pretty fun.  While we’re on the subject of sockbacksetball and dogs, they are both fantastic ways to tell if you should be dating someone.  First of all, ask yourself, “Can I imagine this person walking a puppy?”  Secondly, “Would this person play sockbacksetball with me?”  For two reasons, this is an excellent question.  1.  Are they fun?  2.  You may as well be single if they won’t play sockbacksetball because it’s a two player game, so where the advantage in having a non-sockbacksetball playing boyfriend?

Anyway, it’s all a bit, “I’m a puppy, you’re a puppy, we’re all in this together plus I’m not even covered in fur so do what I say or I’ll do that to you as well.”

 But not today.  I have been asked to look after two dogs while a friend of mine is away.  One is fantastic, and the other is SATAN.

I will document the movements of the doggy-antichrist in the desperate phonecalls I made to my dog expert, my Father.

Phone Call #1:

“Hey Vicki, What’s up?”  (This is actually not the very first line of the conversation.  My father answers every single phone call with his full name.  Every single time.  Every time.  You might be thinking, “Oh nah, he probably forgot once.”  Then you’d be thinking wrong.  Every time.  Got it?  Even though my name comes up on the caller id.)

“Oh nothing much.”

“How was last night?”

“Oh good.  We went out to Taco Bills for Mexican food for my friend’s birthday.”

“How was it?”

“Well, you know how Mum always told me not to eat anything bigger than my head?”


“Well, she never said anything about drinking…”


“They had fishbowl Margheritas! ”

“The size of your head?”


“How do you know that?”

“Well, we played, “How big is your head?” at the dinner table and we measured everyone’s heads.”

“That sounds fun.”

“Yeah, there’s even a theme song.  It’s “How Big Is Your Head,” to the tune of “How Deep is Your Love.”

<< Astute readers may notice that this post was meant to be about a weirdly nasty dog and that so far everything seems to be going fine.  I’m just trying to lull you all into the same sense of security I was lulled into, heady with, well, heads.  Also, you’re not that astute because this dog isn’t weirdly nasty, it’s SATAN.>>

“How’s the dog?”

“A bit naughty.  He keeps going into the places where he’s not meant to go, and I find it really hard to get him to go into the places where he’s meant to go, because he knows I’m going to shut him in there and makes me go in first.”

“Try walking in there with him and then quickly running out.”

Phone call #2
“HELP!!!  Now every time  I walk somewhere, the dog bites me on the Achilles!”

(Ever the pragmatist) “Stop walking around then.”

“Okay, I’ll try that.”

Phone call #3


“Take him outside, maybe he needs to pee.”

“The door’s open!  I don’t want to walk there because he’ll bite me again.”

“Try going outside with him.”


Phone call #4

Whispering: “I’m calling you from the house landline.”


“Because the dog has my phone, and he’s taken it outside in the rain and he’s playing with it, by throwing it up in the air and dropping it in the wet grass.”

“Go get it!”

Yes, that’s right folks.  The dog STOLE my means of getting access to help with him while I was just about to take a shower, meaning that I had to run out into the backyard in my underwear and chase him around in the rain in full view of the neighbours.

Dog.  Satan.


6 Comments so far
Leave a comment

That dog does sound like Satan. It’s trying to dominate you, so you need to like have a stare down contest with it. Failing that, bribe it with copious amounts of food. It’ll either learn that you’re awesome because you’re giving it food or will become really really fat.


Comment by Baschii

Appparently it speaks French! Every time I tell it to “Stop” in French, it stops. Either that, or it just respects that I’m bilingual and obviously know better than it.


Comment by Vix

I can’t blame the dog for wanting to see you chasing it around in the backyard in your smalls. Canny, evil canine.


Comment by bob

hahahaha! Thank you “Bob” of No Fixed (Email) Address. Do I know you?

From your use of the words ‘canny’ and ‘smalls’ I can only imagine that you are British or over the age of 40. Or some combination of the two (Over 40% British?). In this case, I can only deduce that you are my mother, which is also backed up by the evidence that you appear to believe that I am attractive. Unmask yourself, Mum!

Eep! Now that I put the words canny and smalls right next to each other, I accidentally imagined what canny smalls would be like. Crap!


Comment by Vix

Wait a minute! My Mum is in New Zealand with her boyfriend rolling down a hill in a plastic ball or something…far from Internet access. Grandma?


Comment by Vix

Well, you’re almost right, except I am not your mother or dear ol’ Granny Vix, and I am not (yet) 40. Sadly though, I am 50% British and I blame that on my mother for being born there. So I suppose that may explain the ‘canny’ and ‘smalls’, along with the rather Benny Hill idea of you chasing your dog around in your scanties.
Anyway, I better stop referring to your scanties and smalls, lest I find the Internet Crime Police kicking my door in, causing me to spill my cup of Earl Grey all over the duvet.


pa – your mum knows how to have a good time.


Comment by bob

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