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life with a politically astute collie-cross.
“I had a strange dream last night,” says the dog, stretching and shaking himself. “Very strange. And yet…”
“Go on, then,” I yawn. “What happened?”
“I was working in a department store, in charge of men’s clothing – ”
“In charge?”
“Yep.”
“In charge? You, a manager? You’ve not done an honest day’s work in your life!”
The dog fixes me with the kind of stare he usually reserves for cats who’ve made the mistake of strolling into his garden. “Do you want to hear this story or what?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“My apologies, then. I’m all ears.”
“I was working in this department store, in charge of men’s clothing – ”
“Yeah, you said.”
“ – when who should walk in but that David Davies fella. The MP. He wants to buy some underpants. So I look him up and down, and tell him that’s fine. But first he needs to show me his testicles.”
“Hmmm….”
“He stares at me, opens his mouth, and says….nothing.”
“Some people have led very sheltered lives, mate. Put them in front of a talking dog and they’re lost for words.”
“I see. I just thought he might not be the sharpest tool.”
“You mean to suggest Mr Davies may not be playing with a full deck?”
“Is missing a sandwich and not entirely sure where he left the hamper. Exactly. So I say it again. But v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y. And this time he answers. He says there’s no way on earth he’s going to do any such thing. Demands his underpants. Immediately. So I tell him I’m very sorry, but I can’t possibly do that. He asks to see the manager, and I – ”
“You tell him you’re the manager.”
“Precisely.”
“How did that go down?”
“I think it’s fair to say he didn’t take it well. I haven’t heard such language since I was a pup.”
“The incident with the vicar and the slippers?”
The dog grins. “The very one. Anyway, his nibs threw his toys right out of the pram. Screamed that he wasn’t showing some ******* dog his ******* testicles when all he wanted was a pair of ************* ******* underpants.”
“Nasty.”
“Indeed. I explained, as calmly as I could under the circumstances, that management policy was clear and unambiguous. In view of the potential dangers of unregulated underpant tourism – ”
“Underpant tourism?”
“ – anyone wishing to purchase underpants from our store must now show their testicles to a member of the management team, such as myself.”
“What do you mean, ‘underpant tourism’??”
“Underpant tourism. People strolling in and buying underpants willy-nilly, just because they feel like it, taking advantage of our generosity with underpants, regardless of whether they’re actually – ”
“Hang on, this is an allegory, isn’t it?”
The dog fixes me with a pitying stare. “You really aren’t at your best in the mornings, are you? Go fix yourself a coffee. I’ll be here snuffling my unmentionables when you’re done.”
