I thought there was only room for one small and pointless dog in my life. As soon as we get somewhere with a garden (or before, if I can keep up the pressure on him indoors), then Ruby Tuesday will come on down. She’ll be a long-haired miniature daschund with a nose that’s longer than her legs, and will be setting up home on a goose feather pillow, with neutral tones, and breathtaking views of the fridge. It’s all been planned, from the shade of Bonio Madam will prefer, to the type of worming tablets I’ll be forcing down her delicate little throat. She’s not going to be the kind of dog you can tramp across the heather with. She’d get thorns in her paws and mud in her fur, and you’d end up lugging a sodden, shivering wreck across the fields of barley etc. Therefore, it is only fair that if we ever extend our canine collection, the new addition will have to be the kind of dog that only stops fetching sticks when it’s heart gives out, and can fit a toddler’s head in it’s placid mouth. A man’s dog, for the man of the house, the kind you accessorise with a hunting knife and a hip flask.
So when I met Brian on Brighton beach, my plans were thrown into jeopardy. Brian was a small and pointless dog of the very highest order. An 8 week old Chihuahua whose skull would split easier than a lightly boiled egg. His ickle legs weren’t much sturdier than an anorexic pigeon. In fact, his overall appearance was similar to an anorexic pigeon. If you took Brian for a walk, he’d be suffering from palpitations by the time you reached the front door. He’d struggle to drag a feather back to his master. There is no way Brian could ever be an asset to our lives.
Except. Brian oozed charm like a mars bar oozes calories, and proved just as difficult to resist. He trotted up and down the beach, tripping over pebbles, choking on shards of driftwood and using his protruding puppy dog eyes to con a sixteen stone man into giving him a cuddle. He was the reason ‘aaaaaw’ was invented. And I’ve never wanted to stuff something into a carrier bag and run for the hills so much since my days on the dole, when Tampax was a luxury purchase.
So, a dilemma presents itself. There is no way I am going to persuade Olly that two small and pointless dogs are what have always, always been missing in our lives. Even less chance that he’ll allow me to dress them in matching outfits and drag them around in a shopping cart. And small dogs have a point to prove, and they yip and yap and snarl and start fights they can’t finish, and are generally a sodding pain in the neck for anybody without misguided maternal urges.
A choice will have to be made. Do I go for dog number 1, Ruby Tuesday, who has a long, long body, and a small, small brain? Or dog number 2, Brian, who could be trodden underfoot and mistaken for a snail? But both of whom I can get completely ridiculous over. It’s like ‘Sophie’s Choice’ for the new generation.