Guess what’s coming to dinner

Press, 14 August 1989, Page 5

Guess what’s coming to dinner

Psychologists will argue that the keeping of a pet is a restful, constructive and bonding activity for a family — which just goes to show how little psychologists really know. Even as this is being written, late at night, a brown mountain of teeth and claws is outside, hammering at the window to be let in. I am far from restful and the only constructive idea in my mind at the moment is to bond the animal to the garage wall with super glue. However, I am fast forwarding through the week’s main event, but a few words of background are needed for the full enormity of what is going on to be fully appreciated by the observer. I was, as a child, a cat lover. My dear old Mum might also testify that I was a cat tormenter, a cat teaser and from time to time when I ventured too close to the irate moggy, I was almost cat food.

But Puss and I always had this understanding. He understood that I was always going to be bigger than him, and I understood that in any argument arising from the cause of, say a broken window, Mum would always believe me ahead of the cat.

“How did this window break?”

“The cat, Mum. Standing there on your dresser. Looked outside, saw a goldfinch on the lawn and launched himself at it. Through that very window there.”

Mind you, when a radio announcer one April Fool’s Day said you could boil your kettle by placing it in front of the radio, it was dear old Mum who fell for the trick. If she could believe that, I figured, she’d believe we had a demented cat who was on commission to the local glazier. So I have always had a cat around the house, and never a dog. I don’t dislike dogs, but have always had a healthy respect for big dogs, especially big dogs with more teeth than me.

Anyway, in the course of conversation the other evening, my wife casually mentioned that we were going to have a visitor staying for a while. Fine, I said. Anyone I know? An odd smile

crossed her face. "No, He’s a dog.” A dog? The boys had been pestering us for months to . get a. dog. “We’ll wash it and take it for walks,” they pleaded with those promises that most dog-owning parents know is a warranty that expires after a week.

Some friends were going on holiday and we had agreed to look after their dog. I thought to myself, I must remember to be here in future when I’m making these decisions.

‘Ah ...” she continued, “he’s not a small dog.” “Really? How big is this dog that I have, this amnesia block about agreeing to baby-sit?” “Well, you know the Lone Ranger’s horse?” “Yes” “That big.” “You’re joking?”

Two nights later, I met the thing face to fangs. She was not joking.

The Prime Minister had resigned, there had been an earthquake, but these events were mere bagatelles compared with the beast from The Land that Time Forgot that was standing in the hallway. He was growling in such a way that only my laundress knew the extent of my fear. His teeth were bared. If he had already had dinner, I had a damned good idea who he

had planned for dessert. “Say hello to the doggy, Daddy,” chorused the boys, delighted to see Dad bailed up in the corner. ‘Th.. th.. th.. that’s ... a bloody DOBERMAN!” “Pat him. Show him you are his friend,” said my wife. The family assured me he was friendly. I mentally said goodbye to my arm and extended a hand in a sacrificial patting gesture. The Thing responded with an- exuberant display of friendship. It continued it’s “getting to know you” displays that evening in the lounge. It‘ just wanted to be patted. For about five hours continuously, as I recall. I was trapped.in my chair and could not even escape from “Sale Of The Century” on TV.

This was animal torture and speaking of which, where was the cat?

Late at night, when, the dog was asleep, the Stealth Cat - would materialise on the windowsill, give the password miaow and sneak indoors. But like a furry vampire, she was always gone before sun-up. Daylight brought no respite for me. The dog needed its walkies so I nervously fastened a ship’s anchor chain round its neck and pointed it in the direction of the park.

It is acute embarrassing to be walked by a dog but the thing totally controlled where I went, what pace I moved at and which bushes and fences I would crash into.

At the park it took off at light speed and although not a water-skier, I now have a fair idea of

the sensation. Sitting on- the park sidelines, various cats smugly regarded this spectacle. It had taken 30 years but they were witness to the revenge for all the injustices committed against their late Uncle Tom. — DAVE WILSON.

Wilsons Week...