Marlowe's been sniffing around the window boxes again. He actually growled at me earlier when I tried to pull him down. And it's not that I haven't tried to lure him away from the boxes, I have. Only last night I left a little carton of Rabbit & Gravy dog food out for him, but he just doesn't seem interested in that. His presence is yet another worry to the long list which already plague me.

Out in the daylight I felt dizzy and disorientated. The air was cold and the autumn winds were swirling and gusting in under my grimy pyjamas. I felt naked and exposed. It was like the world was intruding upon me, unsettling something, shining a light right into my eye. I imagined a doctor stooping over me, peering in. But not a Dr Dennis, no, rather one of those weird doctors who wear them round lights strapped to their foreheads.

  “Hmm, slightly bloodshot eyes, malnutrition? Fatigue? certainly trauma related. Constricted glassy pupils, drugs, prescription, probably tranquilizers or AD's. Ah, nerve rings around the iris, interesting! Discolouration of the left anal section too. Hmmm, suggests an infection of the digestive tract, messy bowel problems also. Could be a kidney ailment but much more likely stress-fueled pancreatic cancer, yes, certainly that. Hmmm, Mr Spencer, you're completely fucked!”

When Marlowe finally left I rushed forward and properly secured the little catch on the gate. When he heard the tinkle of the lock he stopped and turned back. His face looked different, expressive and sad, like I had let him down or was trying to deny him something. As I shook the gate to ensure it was securely locked I felt a pang of guilt. Then from afar, Mr Bartholemew whistled and Marlowe spun around, gave a quick look up, and shot off back to his master.

“Any word from John?” Bartholemew called over, “You know the police are looking for him, something about that wheelchair on the church business? Apparently it cost the council over £5,000 to bring it down. Split across the tax paying community that'll be almost two pence each! Again, it's us hardworking decent folk who'll have to stand the cost! Oh, and I'd be grateful if you'd please stop feeding Marlowe. After leaving yours he won't touch the food I leave out here, and the last thing I need, on top of additional church steeple taxes, is having to throw away tin after tin of Super Saver Dog Mix! If I do see you feeding him again, I'll... I'll...  Well, I'll lay one of my specials flat on your nose, got it?”

I almost laughed. Him, 'one of his specials', ha! If he bent to touch his toes he'd have a brain haemorrhage. And how, after creeping in my yard and stealing chunks of rumpsteak, he's the nerve to class himself in amongst the 'decent folk', I'll never figure. Still, best not to go fisticuffs with one of the heavyweight neighbours just at this time, so I raised my thumb, nodded in comprehension and said “Got you Mr Bartholemew. Loud and clear. And no, no word from John.”

I think he was shocked that his tough bluff had actually worked, as on my submission he physically rose is stature then gave Marlowe a sexy slap on the behind which sent the hound scooting off home with his tail instinctively raised. Bartholemew followed, now picking up his pace. On reaching his door, he paused, twisted his shoes into the 'Welcome' mat then rubbed his hands in anticipation before rushing inside. Poor Marlowe, no wonder sometimes he walks with a limp.


  1. A limp?

    I hope there is no suggestion of ill treatment here. Or Mr. Bart will find himself the recipient of one of MY specials.

    I have state of the art weaponry that can seek and destroy an ant's egg on any location on Earth.

    Why we could cure terrorism tomorrow.

    If it suited our purposes.

    Anyway. Marlowe. You should report his limp to the RSPCA.

    If he has been up to no good then you get to adopt Marlowe and get an enemy out of the picture.


  2. Abigail: Ill treatment, you could say that. From the way bartholemew slapped that dogs behind and it raised his tail, well, i'll save that thought for under the covers tonight.

    RSPCA, that's not a bad idea, and I really can't abide others hurting animals or even our fellow men (unless it's an 'accident') X

  3. I was going to say that a dog with its tail down is a sign of an unhappy dog and vice versa.

    But I think I know what you're getting at.

    I'm innocenter than I thought.


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