Well it appears I’m still prone to attracting the lesser quality commuters to come and sit with me. Last night I managed to excel myself with my poor seating choice.
What I had thought was a scarf on a gentleman’s knee, turned out to be a dog.
At least I think it was a dog.
Actually, before I realised it was alive I had momentarily wondered if it was one of those Mirkins, and a pretty damned unkempt and lice infested one at that. I was about to ask why the man had a badly kept lady-garden wig on his knee, when it jumped up and begged for a mint.
An unusual thing for a Mirkin to do, I thought to myself before finally realising that it was supposed to be a dog. I’m not, as such, a dog man but I really do not see the point of pocket rats.
I especially do not see the point when the offending creature is owned by a man in Britain, rather than by Paris Hilton in L.A.
Mind you I really can’t see the point of Paris Hilton either.
I can only assume that these men have overheard other – more popular – men talking in the pub about how walking their little dog is like walking round with a woman magnet, but left before the important part about the dog having to be a Labrador puppy for it to work. I’ve heard this too; apparently on seeing a man walking a puppy you women just cannot resist running up and giving it a really good stroke, and then patting the dog (Badum-tsh – I’m here all week folks).
Maybe you can confirm this for me ladies – are all men with dogs sexier than men with, for example, bushy eyebrows and a grey chest hair? If the answer is yes, is that still the case if the dog looks like a pox riddled 70’s porn star’s fun jungle?
Any way, Roland Rat kept on sniffing and head-butting me while I was trying to type, which was annoying enough (no I’m really not a dog man am I?), but then the man started giving it mints.
Time after time the man’s hand went into the bag to retrieve a new mint to be licked off it, and time after time the dog made as much noise at it possibly could while eating it.
The same lovingly licked hand went into the bag, found a mint and then passed it into its owner’s mouth.
I could have died – putting aside my disgust at the thought of doing that, I’ve never heard anything like it.
The man made every bit as much noise and fuss about eating his mint as the dog had.
Mr. Minty was rotating his jaw faster than sound can travel – The sound carried on after he swallowed, giving him time to throw in another mint before the noise could die down. I’ve never seen or heard anyone chew as fast as this man could.
I turned and silently stared him down. I fixed him my harshest Paddington stare and watched as the penny dropped, uncomfortably slowly, that perhaps the music playing through his headphones was not helping him socialise too well.
His jaw slowed.
The chomping hushed.
He never once turned towards me but you could feel the tension. He knew what was being said.
The bag of mints was returned to a pocket.
The dog looked at him waiting for its next mint, when it didn’t get one it looked at me angrily; seemingly aware of my involvement in the lack of treats coming its way.
The noise stopped.
It all went quiet.
Peace at last.
The dog farted.