Walkies!

We took the dog out for his first walk yesterday evening.

I'd waited for this moment for such a long time. The anticipation that builds up while waiting to walk your very first OWN dog almost rivals that of losing your virginity. Well not quite, most people would think that they'd eventually get a shag (even me), but not everybody gets to walk their very own pooch. Would it ever happen?

For years, I'd watched longingly at people taking their trusty pals on walks with them in the countryside.... and I'm referring to people walking dogs, not people going dogging... and watch from afar, hoping that a little pooch would find me exciting enough to come running to for some attention. Oh, how I loved the attention too; it was magical. A little doggy, with owners who loved it and whom it loved, finding time to come to lonely old me.

So the time was right at last! Little Rocky was finally ready to face the big world. Still too little to wear his new Foul Weather Coat that had dropped through the letterbox yesterday and not in the right part of town to wear his red paisley neckerchief, we thought that wearing his car harness was a good idea to enable us to pull him back without snapping his delicate little neck, should he want to get into mischief. He wasn't mad keen, but he got on with it.

Would Rocky be the sort of dog that walks calmly at your side? Would he become the sort of dog that can be walked off a lead? From last night's showing, no.

Rocky's first walk consisted of:

• Sniffing
• Pulling
• Running
• Jumping like a spring lamb
• Cowering from the attention of other dogs
• Barking at joggers
• Rolling in stuff

Most of these things I had kind of anticipated and didn't mind too much. What really got on my tits was the dog that insisted on following him around, nose firmly entrenched my poor puppy's backside. It's owner was somewhere on the other side of the field, oblivious to the nuisance he had unleashed. Fucking idiot. I asked Trump if I was allowed to kick it. She said no.

It wasn't the most successful trip out - it probably didn't help that I was distracting him while Trump was trying to walk him - but it could've been much worse. We decided that it might be best to take him out when it's quieter, both making a mental note of when the Yorkshire Terrorist was allowed to run feral.


Waking early Sunday morning
Half past five, Sunday 19th August: Sniffy is woken by the alarm. I argued with myself about just slinging him out into the back yard, but decided against it and got up to take him out while it was quiet. Aware of the risk of horrific murder in a frenzied attack, I wore my hi-visibility cagoul over my fleece - potential witnesses to the crime would remember seeing that particular ensemble.

Off we went. He was great. This has potential to be what walkies is supposed to be like. The only thing he growled at was an odd-looking Irish woman pushing a child's push chair that was laden with all sorts of things (I'm guessing her possessions), including a laundry basket.

And then it happened: his first wee. I was very proud of him. This was followed by even more frenzied sniffing and.... a poo! He'd done his first walkies poo! I was so proud of him, but then I had to get down to the task of picking it up using the inverted carrier bag technique (note: Tesco carriers have holes in them). From that distance, and what with me being totally conspicuous, it was obvious to the witnesses to my murder that the dog had pood. I could feel them saying "I bet she leaves that, dirty bitch". But would they be able to tell the difference between me messing about on the ground, carrier bag in hand, pretending to pick up a poo and messing about with a carrier bag and actually picking up a poo? Well, yes, if they had a look at the dog's reaction to being walked with a bag of poo hovering over his head. He didn't like that.

You know what this is like? This is the queer equivalent to straight people talking about changing their babies' nappies, but they don't get to wear hi-vis clothing.