Dr Bongo on...
Dr Bongo on...Dogs
I gather that if, when I'm out and about, your dog should run up to me, jump up and slap its muddy paws against my shirt, then begin ardently licking my face, then it's 'just being friendly'. But when I bound up to you and do the same, this is viewed as some category of assault.
Good day. My name is Dr Adolphous Bongo and I'm writing to you today from the relative safety of the saloon bar of The Horse and Jockey, which establishment is providing temporary sanctuary while my own surgery is off limits. Not that I'm keen to while away too many precious moments in my surgery at any time - as a doctor, I find I have far more important things to do than be a doctor - but presently the prospect is particularly unappealing as my staff have instituted a 'bring your child to work' day.
I wasn't consulted, of course, otherwise I would have crushed the idea forthwith and the whole thing would have died a death, along with whoever came up with the idea in the first place. No, the first I got wind of it was when I arrived and found the little fuckers running around all over the waiting room, smearing their jam-stained fingers across the walls, hanging each other out of the windows and each behaving with all the self-restraint of a feculent, clodhopping, diarrhoea-stricken ape.
At least the feculent, clodhopping, diarrhoea-stricken apes that find themselves with nothing better to do than hang around The Horse and Jockey are wise enough to remain downwind of me, clumped together with those of their own kind, exchanging bullshit opinions about cars they'll never own and airing political views which are distorted enough to have seen them hanged in less progressive times. No children in here to career into furniture, burst your eardrums with their insane squawking or defecate in the complimentary bar snacks. No dogs either, thankfully, although one cannot help but speculate that most mutts would be somewhat more circumspect when choosing where to deposit their manure.
On the subject of unsavoury habits, one has to ask why they find it so necessary to lick their own genitals with such a disturbing degree of enthusiasm. I'm talking about dogs now, not children, although it would not be of any surprise to me to learn that some youngsters are happy to sink so low, both figuratively and, indeed, literally.
But regarding dogs, is it, I wonder, something to do with their diet? Is the standard serving of ground-up bones, assorted offal and rendered fat so very distasteful that they are forced to enliven their dining experience with a quick go on the old meat and two veg? I admit that I have occasionally had the misfortune of dining in a restaurant where my own genitalia might be preferable to what was being sent forth from the kitchen, but a sense of decorum has thus far restrained me from interfacing with myself in such a manner for the entertainment and amusement of the general public.
A gruesome ballet
Your average dog appears to have no such consideration for its fellow diners, sitting there with its legs splayed, going at itself with such horrifying vigour; it seems to treat the entire exercise as a piece of performance art, a gruesome ballet, the inevitable finale of which involves dragging its hairy arse along your carpet then slobbering in your lap. It will probably be expecting a biscuit at this point. Forgive me if I'm painting myself as something of a cultural elitist, but I just don't consider that entertainment.
Children, I understand, view this sort of thing as immensely satisfying. The more disgusting, unpleasant and scatological the spectacle, the more instructive they seemed to find it. As I speak, the various mutant offspring of my staff that are currently infesting my surgery are most probably rooting through every bin, waste receptacle and bucket, sifting through the choicest examples of gangrenous lumps and bumps that have recently been lopped off my most vile and cankerous patients.
Good luck to them. They have been warned not to poke around areas that don't concern them, so I cannot be held responsible for whatever misadventure should befall them. All I will say is that I knew those mantraps would come in handy and if I don't get back and find at least half a dozen of the little bastards writhing in agony, and a further brace or two busy gnawing off their own limbs in order to escape, then I shall be paying a visit to Traps-R-Us in the morning and demanding my money back.
Anyhow, I personally cannot see the attraction: they are filthy, witless creatures and I cannot understand why anyone would want to own one. Do keep up - I'm talking about dogs now, not children, although similar reservations apply. Not wishing to permit a mystery to prevail, I have personally made a study of dog owners and their motives.
Of course, it's very easy to conclude that anyone who chooses to own a dog is fundamentally insecure and requires a brainless, servile mutt at their side at all times so that they have something they can feel superior to. The only fly in the ointment for this theory is that in far too many cases the brainless, servile mutt is patently the more intellectually accomplished half of the partnership. How many times have I seen dogs throwing sticks for their owners? Exactly, twice - not many, I admit, but it's quite a spectacle, I can assure you.
Actually, I happen to be in sympathy with the dogs on this point. I'm not particularly interested in sticks myself, and doubt that I could be persuaded to fetch one, no matter what encouragement I was given. You threw it, you fetch it - that's very much my position on the issue.
So anyway, here's a suggestion for any dog owners, which I would urge you to give your full consideration: perhaps if you started throwing children for your dogs to retrieve, it might prove to be a little more sporting. Give me a call - I know where there are a number of them who are just the right size for hurling, and you would be doing me a great favour. Good luck.