Dream topping
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: One shouldn't take shit from anyone. Not even Tyson.
Swearwords: Some strong ones.
Description: One shouldn't take shit from anyone. Not even Tyson.
I'd been in the new flat for about three weeks when it happened, and it all came about by chance. A night out in the city for food, beer, great live music and back home in time to catch last orders at the local pub. A long day, a late night and a tiring one now that I'm knocking on a bit.
I keep bottles of water in the fridge and always bring one to the bedroom when I'm turning in to save me getting up in the night, although because I was three parts canned I didn't this time.
The flat is in a back lane and not quite so isolated as I at first expected it to be, but I'm slowly getting used to living at ground level after ten years up in the air in an attic flat. I don't have the views for a start, and what seems to be an endless stream of passers-by can be distracting during daylight hours. Like I say, I'm getting used to it.
I woke up dehydrated. It was almost light but I could still make out the projected time on the ceiling above my head; six forty-four.
I padded through to the kitchen for a drink and froze. There was someone at the window, I hadn't closed the blinds, but I quickly realised he was looking down at the ground. He soon moved on but I was curious. I slipped into my dressing gown and out the front door to the gate. As I suspected there was a big steaming pile of dog shit right under that same window. It wasn't cold so I waited for the guy and his dog, a bull mastiff, to turn back up the lane. There was no one else around.
“Are you just going to leave that there?” I asked, causing the guy to jump out of his skin and the dog to leap snarling to his defence. It wasn't on a lead.
“Fuck all to do with me, Jim,” he replied once he had composed himself.
“Yours is the only dog around,” I told him, “and besides I saw you standing at my kitchen window which is why I came to investigate.”
“Not mine, Jim,” he repeated. “What are you going to do. Have him DNA tested?”
As rough as I was feeling he could have had a slap, but I didn't fancy my chances against the dog. “Leave it there,” I said, “I'll see to it that it's removed.”
“Why don't you just fuckin' do that?” he replied, making his way back up the lane.
The dog shit stayed where it was all day and all night. I figured anyone up and about at that ungodly hour was in work and therefore in something of a routine so I had an early night and set the alarm for six fifteen. I got into jogging bottoms, trainers and a fleece jacket while the kettle was boiling. I crushed a bowl's worth of cornflakes in a tea towel, made a pint and a half of gravy in a big plastic jug, mixed the two together, stepped outside and poured it evenly over the offending mound. I left the lights off, opened the venetian blinds in the lounge and watched as man and dog came down the lane, the dog running free and in front. I let the dog pass the front door and stepped out to the gate as the man approached, pretending to do my stretches before a run. He froze at the sight of me, then quickly looked to where his dog was chowing down on the treat I had left out for him. I mean, is there a dog alive that could refuse such a dream topping? His face was a picture.
“TYSON!” he bellowed. “COME HERE. LEAVE IT.” But it was too late. Tyson had a healthy appetite and had made short work of it; all of it. “Bastard!” he said to me. You had no fuckin' right to do that.”
I gave him my best smile. “Fuck all to do with me ….. JIM …..” I told him. “..... but I'd suggest you take a day off work or you'll come home to one unholy fuckin' mess. By the way. Pick up after Tyson in future or I'll post it to you. That way it gets taken care of one way or another.”
“I'll get the fuckin' sack for this,” he wailed.
“And all for the sake of a free shit bag from the Vet or the pet shop. You shouldn't have a dog if you can't look after both ends.”
He put Tyson on the lead and headed homeward, muttering to himself while I went for my run. All the way back to my pit for another couple of hours.
I keep bottles of water in the fridge and always bring one to the bedroom when I'm turning in to save me getting up in the night, although because I was three parts canned I didn't this time.
The flat is in a back lane and not quite so isolated as I at first expected it to be, but I'm slowly getting used to living at ground level after ten years up in the air in an attic flat. I don't have the views for a start, and what seems to be an endless stream of passers-by can be distracting during daylight hours. Like I say, I'm getting used to it.
I woke up dehydrated. It was almost light but I could still make out the projected time on the ceiling above my head; six forty-four.
I padded through to the kitchen for a drink and froze. There was someone at the window, I hadn't closed the blinds, but I quickly realised he was looking down at the ground. He soon moved on but I was curious. I slipped into my dressing gown and out the front door to the gate. As I suspected there was a big steaming pile of dog shit right under that same window. It wasn't cold so I waited for the guy and his dog, a bull mastiff, to turn back up the lane. There was no one else around.
“Are you just going to leave that there?” I asked, causing the guy to jump out of his skin and the dog to leap snarling to his defence. It wasn't on a lead.
“Fuck all to do with me, Jim,” he replied once he had composed himself.
“Yours is the only dog around,” I told him, “and besides I saw you standing at my kitchen window which is why I came to investigate.”
“Not mine, Jim,” he repeated. “What are you going to do. Have him DNA tested?”
As rough as I was feeling he could have had a slap, but I didn't fancy my chances against the dog. “Leave it there,” I said, “I'll see to it that it's removed.”
“Why don't you just fuckin' do that?” he replied, making his way back up the lane.
The dog shit stayed where it was all day and all night. I figured anyone up and about at that ungodly hour was in work and therefore in something of a routine so I had an early night and set the alarm for six fifteen. I got into jogging bottoms, trainers and a fleece jacket while the kettle was boiling. I crushed a bowl's worth of cornflakes in a tea towel, made a pint and a half of gravy in a big plastic jug, mixed the two together, stepped outside and poured it evenly over the offending mound. I left the lights off, opened the venetian blinds in the lounge and watched as man and dog came down the lane, the dog running free and in front. I let the dog pass the front door and stepped out to the gate as the man approached, pretending to do my stretches before a run. He froze at the sight of me, then quickly looked to where his dog was chowing down on the treat I had left out for him. I mean, is there a dog alive that could refuse such a dream topping? His face was a picture.
“TYSON!” he bellowed. “COME HERE. LEAVE IT.” But it was too late. Tyson had a healthy appetite and had made short work of it; all of it. “Bastard!” he said to me. You had no fuckin' right to do that.”
I gave him my best smile. “Fuck all to do with me ….. JIM …..” I told him. “..... but I'd suggest you take a day off work or you'll come home to one unholy fuckin' mess. By the way. Pick up after Tyson in future or I'll post it to you. That way it gets taken care of one way or another.”
“I'll get the fuckin' sack for this,” he wailed.
“And all for the sake of a free shit bag from the Vet or the pet shop. You shouldn't have a dog if you can't look after both ends.”
He put Tyson on the lead and headed homeward, muttering to himself while I went for my run. All the way back to my pit for another couple of hours.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and ten collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of thirteen novels, two short story collections and ten collections of poems. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.