On Saturday afternoon, after some intense styling and tactical fibbing, I head over to Trav’s to get Dotty, secret dating dog weapon.
‘Poo-poo bags.’ Trav holds up a black bundle. ‘You’ll need a few. And Dotty’ll have to walk in the middle. But don’t worry about the growling. She’s pretty much just playin’ with your mind to see what you’re made of.’
I’m beginning to have my doubts about Dot, although she has done some very good work in the past, bringing unknown chicks well within striking range. I’m also concerned that if Dot does bite Electra, her school, and possibly the government, will sue me.
‘About pickin’ up the crap,’ I say. ‘It’s not such a good look, is it?’
‘Well, you could just ignore it.’ Trav shrugs. ‘I’ve gotta say that’s my preferred option. Although there’ll still be a few seconds of kind of awkward silence while Dotty’s doing the business. And don’t stand down-wind. It can be horrific.’
I look at Dot, who is looking around with eyes the colour of ice, and just as cold.
‘Remember what she did to those guinea pigs and goldfish,’ I say. ‘When she was out with Dill. Because that got in the local paper and everything.’
‘Yeah,’ Trav concedes. ‘I s’pose that wasn’t so great.’
‘Where’s her muzzle?’ I think that was something the Council insisted on, after Pet Massacre Three.
Trav looks at me as if I’ve accused him of torturing children.
‘She doesn’t wear it, Marc. I’ve told you. She can’t express herself.’
That does it.
‘Sorry, Dotty.’ I pat her on the head. ‘You’re stayin’ home.’ So off I go to meet Electra in the park, near Thomas The Tank Engine, on which I noticed earlier this week someone had sprayed a big black Swastika.
I mean, yes, Thomas was a tool, but he wasn’t really that bad to the other engines.