The Poodle and the Bulldog
by Alasdair McPherson
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: Idle thoughts on fellow guests at the poolside.
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They arrived the same day we did and it was clear at once that they were frequent visitors. Ahmed, the pool boy, greeted the poodle by kissing her on both cheeks and he shook hands with the bulldog. This was my fifth holiday in the hotel and it was only this year that I had been elevated to cheek-kissing status.
They were two ladies of a certain age. The poodle was about sixty with grey hair pulled back into a severe pony-tail. She had the haughty elegance of her breed and, although it had become a little faded, she still had the je ne sais pas that would have put her in contention for best of breed. The bulldog was younger – little more than fifty – with short blond hair drawn back from her face. She had little style and less elegance: designed for work rather than the show ring. They were given sun-beds in the prime position close to the pool looking across it to the front of the hotel, and there they settled like a queen and her lady-in-waiting.
They were both rather overweight. The bulldog, true to her breed, was stocky and sturdily strong while the poodle had clearly been a striking woman who still carried herself ramrod straight and with great dignity. They arrived already tanned, the poodle having the colour and patina of well cared for mahogany. The object of their vacation was quickly established: they read magazines in a desultory way and soaked up the sun, turning over every quarter of an hour or so. The bulldog unclipped her bikini top when she was lying face down but the poodle left her top alone after one abortive effort when she needed her companion to refasten the garment.
Every hour or so one or other would rise, adjust her bikini top, amble to the poolside and lower herself into the water to stand, breast deep, with arms folded on the pool edge. The poodle did not swim and never let her head enter the water; the bulldog could swim but rarely bothered to trudge across the pool and back using an un-fussy breaststroke.
They rarely spoke to each other but they did chat to their neighbours as they made their way to and from the pool. Their day started with a leisurely, generously proportioned breakfast and they were ready to begin sunbathing by nine o'clock continuing until nearly half past four with a substantial break for a substantial lunch.
Later, when the sun had set and a cooling breeze off the Nile had brought the temperature below eighty, they left the hotel grounds and walked half a mile to a restaurant owned and managed by an Englishwoman. They did not eat anywhere but in the hotel and in this single restaurant. They were probably impressed by the claim it made that the salad vegetables were washed in bottled mineral water not under an Egyptian tap!
They made no secret of the fact that they did not like Egyptians, although they accepted the attentions of the hotel staff, graciously in the case of the poodle, warily by the bulldog. The staff treated them with rather distant respect: there was none of the friendly banter with the poodle and the bulldog that the rest of us enjoyed.
As they made their way between the hotel and the restaurant they had to run the gauntlet of the local entrepreneurs. The poodle made the journey at a stately pace with a straight back and a regal air. The bulldog matched her pace but gave the impression that she was having difficulty repressing an urge to run around yapping.
The swarms of taxi and caleche drivers and the captains of feluccas that descended on guests as they left the hotel grounds met more than their match.
“Caleche, caleche! Do you want to know how much? £5 anywhere. Egyptian market only on today. Caleche, caleche!”
“Taxi”, “Felucca”
“You want to visit my shop? No hassle. Just look!”
The poodle simply looked immeasurably superior and behaved as if the importunities of the natives were to be heeded no more than the twittering of the birds or the soughing of the wind in the palm trees. It is easy to forget that the elegance of the poodle hides a very tough working dog much respected by owners and strangers alike.
The bulldog had a different technique that she demonstrated for me one evening when I met them leaving the hotel. I had been delayed, as usual, because I had been drawn into a number of interesting conversations with shopkeepers and caleche drivers. She offered to teach me her system for dealing with unruly natives. Slightly hunching her shoulders to bring her face threateningly close to mine, she spoke:
“You just say ‘GO AWAY!’ If you say it loud enough and very slowly they get the message.”
Swearwords: None.
Description: Idle thoughts on fellow guests at the poolside.
_____________________________________________________________________
They arrived the same day we did and it was clear at once that they were frequent visitors. Ahmed, the pool boy, greeted the poodle by kissing her on both cheeks and he shook hands with the bulldog. This was my fifth holiday in the hotel and it was only this year that I had been elevated to cheek-kissing status.
They were two ladies of a certain age. The poodle was about sixty with grey hair pulled back into a severe pony-tail. She had the haughty elegance of her breed and, although it had become a little faded, she still had the je ne sais pas that would have put her in contention for best of breed. The bulldog was younger – little more than fifty – with short blond hair drawn back from her face. She had little style and less elegance: designed for work rather than the show ring. They were given sun-beds in the prime position close to the pool looking across it to the front of the hotel, and there they settled like a queen and her lady-in-waiting.
They were both rather overweight. The bulldog, true to her breed, was stocky and sturdily strong while the poodle had clearly been a striking woman who still carried herself ramrod straight and with great dignity. They arrived already tanned, the poodle having the colour and patina of well cared for mahogany. The object of their vacation was quickly established: they read magazines in a desultory way and soaked up the sun, turning over every quarter of an hour or so. The bulldog unclipped her bikini top when she was lying face down but the poodle left her top alone after one abortive effort when she needed her companion to refasten the garment.
Every hour or so one or other would rise, adjust her bikini top, amble to the poolside and lower herself into the water to stand, breast deep, with arms folded on the pool edge. The poodle did not swim and never let her head enter the water; the bulldog could swim but rarely bothered to trudge across the pool and back using an un-fussy breaststroke.
They rarely spoke to each other but they did chat to their neighbours as they made their way to and from the pool. Their day started with a leisurely, generously proportioned breakfast and they were ready to begin sunbathing by nine o'clock continuing until nearly half past four with a substantial break for a substantial lunch.
Later, when the sun had set and a cooling breeze off the Nile had brought the temperature below eighty, they left the hotel grounds and walked half a mile to a restaurant owned and managed by an Englishwoman. They did not eat anywhere but in the hotel and in this single restaurant. They were probably impressed by the claim it made that the salad vegetables were washed in bottled mineral water not under an Egyptian tap!
They made no secret of the fact that they did not like Egyptians, although they accepted the attentions of the hotel staff, graciously in the case of the poodle, warily by the bulldog. The staff treated them with rather distant respect: there was none of the friendly banter with the poodle and the bulldog that the rest of us enjoyed.
As they made their way between the hotel and the restaurant they had to run the gauntlet of the local entrepreneurs. The poodle made the journey at a stately pace with a straight back and a regal air. The bulldog matched her pace but gave the impression that she was having difficulty repressing an urge to run around yapping.
The swarms of taxi and caleche drivers and the captains of feluccas that descended on guests as they left the hotel grounds met more than their match.
“Caleche, caleche! Do you want to know how much? £5 anywhere. Egyptian market only on today. Caleche, caleche!”
“Taxi”, “Felucca”
“You want to visit my shop? No hassle. Just look!”
The poodle simply looked immeasurably superior and behaved as if the importunities of the natives were to be heeded no more than the twittering of the birds or the soughing of the wind in the palm trees. It is easy to forget that the elegance of the poodle hides a very tough working dog much respected by owners and strangers alike.
The bulldog had a different technique that she demonstrated for me one evening when I met them leaving the hotel. I had been delayed, as usual, because I had been drawn into a number of interesting conversations with shopkeepers and caleche drivers. She offered to teach me her system for dealing with unruly natives. Slightly hunching her shoulders to bring her face threateningly close to mine, she spoke:
“You just say ‘GO AWAY!’ If you say it loud enough and very slowly they get the message.”
About the Author
Originally from Dalmuir, Alasdair McPherson is now retired and living in exile in Lincolnshire.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned two novels and is now trying his hand at short stories. The Poodle and the Bulldog is one of a series of observations on holidaymakers around a pool in Luxor.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned two novels and is now trying his hand at short stories. The Poodle and the Bulldog is one of a series of observations on holidaymakers around a pool in Luxor.