That is, until I met Boris. The biggest softie I’ve ever seen. Useless at deterring burglars, Boris is more likely to invite them in to share his bone and discuss the relative merits of the Bake-Off contestants.
My Polish friend P. had just acquired him and it was her turn to host the latest girls’ night out. We duly arrived, proffering flowers and wine but P soon perceived that Boris’ juvenile over exuberance could be a bit problematic.'But he wouldn’t hurt a fly! avowed P. ‘Yes, but there’s something about the set of his jaw.’
Boris and the bunch of red carnations wrapped in a plastic Tesco bag were hastily confined to the study. A horrible growling and tearing noise ensued. We looked at each other alarmed as P went to investigate.
‘Oh Boris, Bad Dog!’
He’d eaten the flowers and the plastic bag. Now I don’t know if carnations have a soporific effect when ingested, having never tried it myself, but he did seem to calm down after that and was brought back in to the group for proper social introductions. As I patted his head I felt a lump protruding under the fur of his skull. ‘P., Where did you get Boris?’’ He’s a rescue dog from Port Talbot.’
‘PORT TALBOT! I yelped. Boris started barking.
‘What the f...... h.....’s the matter with him? I asked, sending Boris into paroxysms of howling.
‘Shhhhh! He’s very sensitive about the ‘f’ word.
‘You cannot be serious! Brought up in Port Talbot he should be used to hearing language like that.’
And that was the problem. Being such a softie he’d probably failed his fighting exams and been thrown out on the streets. The vet had surmised that the bump on his head had been caused by a blow with a metal rod. Apparently Boris had been found wandering around dazed and confused in Port Talbot.
Mind you, that place can have that effect on one...
Which reminds me of that time we were sitting in a pub in Brecon...
We were there on holiday with a group of friends. S and I decided to play a game. A game which involved naming the most places in Wales which had certain unusual attributes. Now I used to work for the Wales Tourist Board and S, well, he came from Slough.
S started off. ‘Pwllheli’
‘Merthyr Tydfil’ I countered
’ Pwll’
' Blaenau Ffestiniog’
'Mold'
‘Splott’, I spat
‘Cwmtwrch’ he smugly replied.
I trounced him with’ Upper Cwmtwrch’
‘Porthcawl - in the rain’ he offered lamely.
Then I went for the jugular-
‘PORT TALBOT’
That clinched it. He had to buy the next round as the small group which had gathered for this free impromptu performance dispersed.
Well, I’ve got to tell you the latest on Boris. My friend P’s house move is imminent. As with all house moves, levels of Angst invariably rise, and this, combined with P’s, how shall I put this, emotive Polish character, has caused her to forget her own admonitions and caution re the ‘f’ word.
Boris simply couldn’t take the bad language any more and went Awol.
He spent the night in a pub about four miles away and, after his breakfast, was picked up by his worried ‘parents’. Luckily, he’d been traced through his microchip.
I think back fondly to my time with the Tourist Board. I still remember all the tourist spots. I wonder, if I asked nicely, might they find a job for this intemperate Taffy? Hmm.
A Churchillian bulldog is sometimes represented as a British national mascot. In these more enlightened and peaceful times it might be an idea to pension off the fiery Welsh dragon.
How about a picture of Boris, grinning broadly, chomping happily on a bunch of daffs?
A nice sensitive Taffy Staffy.
What do you think?
