Copyright © 2019 by Matt Shaw

Matt Shaw Publications

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The characters in this book are purely fictitious.

Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

www.mattshawpublications.co.uk

www.facebook.com/mattshawpublications

For Chewie.

Because why shouldn’t a book be dedicated to a dog? There’s no rules about dedications. If I want to dedicate it to a dog…. I can. And I did. For Chewie.

Thanks for eating up all the crumbs I drop and saving me from having to constantly hoover, you snuffly little shit.

PUG

Crime Has A New Enemy

Matt Shaw

Includes:

My Pug Is An Asshole

My PUG is an Asshole

Matt Shaw

Introduction

When I was growing up I always wanted a dog. We had cats, a couple of hamsters, a chinchilla, some fish and - as far as I can remember - that was it. No dog despite my desire. In fact, living with my mum and dad, the closest I got to changing the “no dog” situation was when I was seventeen years old and met a girl called Gill but that’s another story - one that is also filled with bitter resentment, loathing and regret. Let’s move on.

I don’t know why I wanted a dog. To my recollection my friends didn’t have one so it’s not like I went around their house and fell in love with the idea of a doggy companion. I was driven to school by my mum so I didn’t meet any dog-walkers on the way to and from. I never went to the park to play on the swings, another place you might potentially meet dogs (and their owners). In fact, the only dog that I really knew growing up was Carla, my neighbour’s black lab. She was friendly enough but spent most of the time sleeping whenever I was round playing with Christopher or Claire, so it’s not as though I even formed a bond with dogs there. So, yeah, I don’t know why I wanted a dog, I just did. Sadly for me, my mum and dad didn’t.

I moved out of my mum and dad’s when I was in my twenties. Or rather I moved out of their house (for the second time) when I was in my twenties. The first time was a false start and I made a mess of things and had to go crawling back. Mind you, the first time I moved out, I was not in a position to own a dog either - what with working full time and not having much money. Now if you’re one of those people who questions why that should matter, let me just stop the book right here and call you an arsehole. Dogs crave company almost as much as the lonely men who hire ladies by the hour. They do not like being left alone all day feeling sorry for themselves and unloved (actually, that sounds like me growing up) and as for money - owning a dog is expensive. I know that now. If you don’t have a spare £100.00 a month, put this book down now and walk away. You are not ready to own a dog and if you think that sounds excessive - keep in mind I own a pug. Her insurance is £40 a month (for the best we can get because veterinary bills can be expensive) and she eats about £30 of normal dog food in a month. Add to that the cost of the toys and the treats and you’re looking at £100 a month at the minimum (for a small dog) and don’t kid yourself in pretending you won’t want to buy your doggie treats and toys. Anyway we’re getting ahead of ourselves… I wasn’t in a place to buy a dog the first time I moved from my parents’ house and nor was I in a place to buy a dog when I married my first wife. I was still struggling financially and I was working ridiculous hours each day. In fact, I wasn’t ready to buy a dog until I was in my mid-thirties so let’s fast forward to then and get things on the move, shall we? Oh, actually, a quick word before we do - please do not go into this book thinking it is a Marley & Me story where I get a naughty dog, grow to love it and then - after many adventures together - am crushed when it dies. At the time of writing, the mutt is very much alive and well, only a few feet away from me - licking this bone as though it’s the juiciest piece of meat ever. Stupid dog. Surely she must know there is no actual meat on it and it would be tastier if there was? Whatever. Keeps her quiet and that’s good enough for me.

Chapter One

Bored.

We have skipped a lot of my life and as such you’ve missed a lot of important information so, to make things easy for you and to avoid confusion, I’ll give you a recap similar to when you tune into your favourite weekly television show.

Previously on Matt’s Life:

Matt binned his wife. She wasn’t good for him and he wasn’t good for her. For a while he drifted the dating scene like a cool cat (if a cool cat went home, alone and completely unloved despite having paid a fortune for the dates) before eventually finding The One. Or rather The One “at the moment” (insert cheeky wink here later). A whirlwind romance and the girl moved in after three months. By Christmas they were engaged and by August, married. Not that some of her family regard them as married for no one was actually invited to the wedding but still… They were married. Matt’s career also took off in this time. Finally, his dream of becoming a full time author came to fruition and he disappeared from society - locking himself in his home day in and day out, writing book after book. The whole time thinking, God I’m lonely. And that’s when it hit him… A thought popping into his head completely out of the blue. A thought which - had this been a cartoon - would have been illustrated by a lightbulb appearing next to his head. I could get a dog.

And that’s where we are now.

I was sitting at my computer, bored one day. I have a cat still but she doesn’t hang out with me and Wife Number Two was at work. I was in-between writing projects and none of my author buddies were online to chat with. This is when I am at my most dangerous for I usually reach for my credit card and spend cash on pointless tat in an effort to cheer myself up. I don't know why I am programmed this way, I just am. I like presents and, if I have to purchase them for myself then so be it! Anyway, instead of heading to Amazon like I usually do, I zoned out momentarily and - when I came back to reality - I had Googled puppies. To be more precise, I had Googled Pug puppies in my local area. I hit return and - oh my days - the cute pictures that filled my computer screen… Instantly I was in love. That night, The Wife came home and we were chatting away when I decided to come clean to her that I had booked an appointment to go round this local woman’s house to meet the Pug pups. Now I think there is a part of my wife’s brain that thought I was joking, or that “tomorrow” would come and I’d find something else to do. Like, say, coke and hookers. But, no. The following morning, I woke up early and - off I went to, in all honesty, a shit-hole part of town. Hell, I’m not one to judge people or anything but - as I got to the front door, the window was smashed. I was almost tempted to turn away there and then. Had I been there for anything else, such as coke and hookers, I probably would have left but the pull of the puppies was strong!

I knocked the door and a friendly lady opened. I told her I was there to see the puppies and was invited in - whereupon I was set upon by a really hyper mummy Pug called Poppy. She was nuts but lovely. Had I been allowed to take her, I probably would have. Especially had I known what puppies were like to train but - we’ll get to that later.

Sarah (for that was the lady’s name) led me through to the living room. There, in the corner, was a large pen and - within that - a number of little slug-like shapes, all curled up. All sleeping. One little slug, sleeping in the corner by herself. Sarah explained to me that it was Poppy’s first litter. She showed me the paperwork showing she was a pedigree and she showed pictures of the dad pug (who didn’t live there). Everything looked to be above board but, to be honest, I didn’t care about that right at that particular time. I cared about holding the puppies. I asked if it was okay and she said it was but - first - she put Poppy out in the garden so she didn’t get upset. Apparently she had an issue with people coming along and grabbing her babies. I don’t get it personally. I hate children. If I had one, and someone came along and took it - I’d probably be grateful. Hell, I could sell the story to the papers, do loads of television appearances, write a book, rake the cash in… That’s how it’s done, isn’t it? It all starts with a little holiday to Italy and - away you go: Great holiday, sun, sea, sand, sex and then - a flight home without a screaming kid. Sorry - gone off on a tangent. Moving on, before I get sued…

‘She likes to be alone. The others all huddle together but she likes to go off into the corner of the pen by herself,’ Sarah said - pointing to the small pup in the corner. Ah ha! A loner, just like me! The perfect companion. We’d be there when we wanted each other but - at the same time - we’d enjoy our own space. (Doesn’t work like that, no matter what people tell you, Pugs are like fucking Velcro in the way the little bastards stick to you).

‘Can I hold her?’ I asked.

Sarah leaned down and picked the sleeping dog up. She didn’t stir. I even thought she was dead and was getting ready to ask if there’d be a discount if she was. I held my hand out and Sarah carefully placed the puppy in my hand. Yes, you read that right, in my fucking hand. A little dog… In…. My… Hand.

I asked how old she was. Two weeks. Already I was in love. I mean proper love. I wanted this fucking dog and - without thought - I asked how much she was. The price was confirmed. £1000.00 and the dog was mine, secured with a deposit of £250. She had barely finished the sentence when I told her that I would be back on Sunday with the money - and my wife - if she could “put her to one side” until then. She agreed.

I was thrilled.

My heart skipped a beat. I had secured a little doggie! My first dog! I was officially a dog owner! Without asking half of the questions I needed to ask. Questions - that were - actually pretty important given the fact that I currently rented a home and the paperwork clearly said, No Pets. But that’s just the little details, right? Who gives a fuck about the little details? I was a dog owner!

All I had to do was tell my wife.

‘What time is best to come by on Sunday?’ I asked, not even bothered by the fact I was doing all of this without first clearing it with the lady at home.

‘Midday would be best.’

I smiled. ‘I’ll see you then, then!’

Chapter Two.

I have something to tell you.

My wife phoned me on her lunch break. I had not been home long. She asked how my day was and immediately I blurted out that I had gone to see the puppies. Her tone of voice was not of a lady impressed but rather, of one who was concerned and - rightly so - for she knew what an impulsive idiot I can be sometimes. For instance, she went to work one day and by the time she was home - I presented her with tickets for a first class trip to Antigua. A week’s vacation for a little over £10,000. That is the potential for damage I have when it comes to what I’m capable of when bored. Admittedly it was a great holiday - one of my best - but that’s not the point. It was booked, it still had to be paid for. Similarly, the promise had been made to go back and get the puppy - or rather pay the deposit as she couldn’t go home with us until she was a few weeks older - and that too needed to be paid for at a time when I had actual bills to pay. See, the problem with paying bills is they’re boring to pay. If companies made it more exciting, like giving you a free toy plastic figure, I’d be more inclined to give them the money they foolishly believe I owe instead of spunking it up the wall elsewhere. Buy Now, Pay when you feel like it.

Wifey knew I was being serious when I said we were going back to see the puppies on the Sunday, and that I would be taking her. Immediately her sensible brain kicked in and she started asking question after question after question… Thankfully, before I had left Sarah’s home, I too had thought of the questions and - as a result - I had the answers. This was much better than I usually did. Usually I would agree to something and then - when it came to the finer details (such as who would look after it if we wanted another holiday) I would just shrug but - not this time. I had the answers and - not just that - I had bloody good answers.

‘Who’ll look after it when we go on holiday?’ she asked.

‘Sarah said, so long as we give her enough to cover the food - she will look after her when we go away.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep.’

‘That’s good.’ (A pause) ‘What about the cat?’

The cat was more of an issue. I had rescued her from the Blue Cross and part of that deal was, she couldn’t go with other animals because she was a grumpy fuck. I had, however, discussed this with Sarah too.

‘If they don’t get on, she would take the dog back and give us our money back as she would rather it went to a good home. That being said, she told us we could get a blanket and some toys - that stink of the dog - before we bring the dog home so we can slowly introduce the scent to the home…’

‘Really?’

‘Yep.’

‘That’s good.’ (A pause) ‘What about the costs?’

‘I cancel Netflix, which I don’t use, and we have this much saved each month. The food costs this much and insurance is this. Spare income currently sits at…’

‘Really?’

‘Yep.’

‘That’s good.’

Every question she asked, I was there - like a Ninja - waiting to strike her down and then… I dealt the first of my killer blows.

‘I said we would go back on Sunday because you would want to see them too,’ I told my wife. I left out the details that I would be handing over a £250 deposit at the same time.

‘Oh right. Okay then.’

‘Here, if we did have a dog,’ I asked… And pay attention for this is the killer of the blows… ‘What would you call it?’

<silence>

‘Chewie.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep.’

Chapter Three

“You manipulated me”

The Wife looked at me nervously as she approached the front door to Sarah’s house - still completely oblivious to the fact that I had a wad of cash in my back pocket, ready to hand over. I had pre-warned her that it wasn’t the best of areas yet, still, she was uncomfortable. I had told her to knock on the door but knew that it would be me that pressed knuckles to wood.

‘I’m not knocking,’ she said.

See?

I knocked. There was some commotion from inside and the door opened. Sarah was there and - out came Poppy, tail wagging and tongue hanging loosely from her smiley face (pugs smile, get over it). The Wife’s face lit up as she bent down to stroke Poppy. I knew I had this in the bag. It was too easy. Like the time I ran up to a small child in the street, stole their ice-lolly, stuck my finger up at them and ran off again laughing like a loon. Ah, good memories.

We walked in and I swear I heard the glass - in the door frame - crack a little more when Sarah closed it behind us. We hung back and she led us through to the living room where - once again - the puppies were sleeping. I was not surprised when The Wife made a bee-line to them without even being asked.

‘Can I pick her up?’ I asked Sarah. She nodded. She knew I was referring to the little pup with the yellow collar: The dog I had pre-chosen!

I leaned down and collected the puppy from where she slept and I gave her a little cuddle before I told The Wife to hold her hands out. She did. Carefully, like a loving father handing over a baby, I placed the puppy in The Wife’s hands. In that instant, I watched her heart melt.

‘That’s Chewie,’ I whispered.

The Wife looked at me and I winked. It was one of those cool moments in the movie where you realise the hero is finally going to get what he wants and clearly deserves. In this case, the hero was me. I was going to get my dog, not that I said anything yet. Instead, I turned to Sarah and reiterated all the questions The Wife had raised the previous day. This way she could hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. Not that Sarah was a horse. It’s just a saying. Don’t ask me where it comes from because, frankly, I don’t care enough to waste my time in Googling it for you. Just take my word that it exists. Anyway, we went back through the questions. The Wife then threw almighty curveball.

‘What about the landlord?’

Yeah, that was right. We rented the property we were living in at the time and it clearly stated that we weren’t allowed pets. I shrugged her answer off though. Fuck him. He had accepted the cat into the house for an extra deposit. He even let us install a cat flap in the back door. We also had three rats which he didn’t know about… The way I saw it, the dog was smaller than the cat and less destructive. So long as we respected the property and fixed anything the animals did, what did it matter? Had he said no to the cat (for one, we wouldn’t be living there) then it would be a different story but, he said “yes” so clearly didn’t mind animals. I calmed the wife’s worries by stating we wouldn’t let on and that when they did their visits, we would say we were looking after it for my brother. There was nothing in the contracts to state we couldn’t do that, after all, and the contract was pretty thick so - if it was a problem I’m sure it would have been said. Anyway, with the pug pup still in her hands quietly snoring, she was just as sold on the idea of getting the dog as I was.

I told her, ‘I have the deposit in my pocket.’

We paid the money.

‘So what happens next?’

Sarah wrote me out a receipt - at my request - and explained that we couldn’t take her home for a few weeks as she was too young and still feeding off her mum’s tits. Fair enough, I understand that. It didn’t mean I was happy about it though. For those of you who do not know me, patience is not my strong point. We wrote down the collection date and Sarah explained, ‘You can come and visit her whenever you want.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep.’

In hindsight I think Sarah regretted offering that for dog adopters because some of the people took the piss. They’d show up at Sarah’s house - sometimes uninvited - and then sit with her for the whole damned evening even though it wasn’t always convenient. The Wife and I made do with a flying visit once a week and each visit was torture - not because we didn’t like visiting Chewie but because it was hard leaving her there. Again, patience is not my strong point - especially when your puppy is getting cuter with each visit!

First visit her eyes were closed.

Eyes open and kind of taking things in.

Slowly moving around.

More pug-like.

Eating proper food now!

The Wife and I often reminisce about the first time we visited Chewie, especially in the early days because people would ask how she came to have such a stupid name. The Wife, if you couldn’t guess, is somewhat of a Star Wars geek… Yes, we have a girl dog named after Chewbacca. In her defence though - and forgive me if it is explained within the trilogy - but is Chewbacca actually a dude? I mean, he runs around naked and it’s not as though we ever see his penis. Food for thought (him being a her, not his penis).

Upon explaining that The Wife had named the dog without even meeting her, let alone knowing the sex, she would usually turn to me at that point and say, ‘You manipulated me into getting that dog.’ I just smile when she says it. She’s right. I did. I worked her perfectly and - as a result - we got the dog that I had always wanted. The dog that turned out to be a complete and utter bastard but - let’s not get ahead of ourselves… We still have the homecoming to look forward to.

Chapter Four

Worse than Christmas Time

If you have a child who wants something, you will know how annoying it is when they want something and keep asking for it. They’ll ask for such and such, you will say no, they will then ask again and again and again until one of you explodes. It’s one of the most annoying things about children. And me. You see, I’m the same. If I want something, I will keep asking and asking and asking until - finally - I’m allowed it. Just ask The Wife.

‘You’re a bastard, you said it would just be the tip!’ is what she once said when she finally gave in to me pestering her. We’ll leave that there. I’ll let you figure it out.

Anyway.

Imagine a child asks you for a dog.

‘Can we have a dog?’

‘Okay.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep!’

Then explain to that child they have to wait for the dog to come home.

‘But why?’

‘Because she’s not ready to leave her mum yet.’

‘So when can she come home?’

‘Four weeks…’

‘Really?’

‘Yep.’

Now the kid knows it has a dog coming. It knows how long it is going to be and yet - every fucking day - that child will ask over and over as to whether the dog is finally coming home. And, when you say it isn’t, the child will sulk as though you are the one who has decided the time-frame. Again, I know this because - in this case - I am that child.

Interesting fact: When you put a deposit down on a puppy, the time you have to wait will feel at least three times the actual time you have to wait. Now you probably can’t compute that in your little brain. It’s okay. We can’t all be as great as me. But to give you an idea of how bad that is - cast your mind back to when you were a child. Yes, all those years ago. It’s December the 1st. Christmas is coming in 24 more days. When you were growing up, and the smell of Christmas hung in the air thanks to the pines of the tree in the living room, how long did those few weeks feel? By some treacherous magic, the month of December felt longer - somehow - than January through to August. Waiting to collect your puppy? It’s the same. Maybe, somehow, a little worse. Actually, there’s a money-making idea: Someone needs to invent a calendar in which you open doors whilst waiting for your puppy to come home. Behind each door could be a doggy treat that you can save up. The final door could be a picture of a kitten. Surprise, bitches, we couldn’t afford a dog - have a cat instead. Or, better yet, a message that read: “Life is full of disappointments”.

I would make a great fucking father.

*

It felt like years from the moment I paid the deposit until the moment I got to pick Chewie up and yet - something I haven’t told you - I didn’t even have to wait the whole time! Nope. I got her a week early! How awesome was that?! What happened was, I was fast asleep. I can’t remember what I was dreaming but my phone woke me up at what I like to call twat o’clock. I looked at the phone and my heart dropped. It was Sarah. Why was she calling me? Had something happened? I answered and she explained that Poppy wasn’t well. Basically, she had sore tits. The vet had advised to stop the pups from sucking on them and keep pups and ma separate. Unfortunately, this stressed both the kiddies and the parent. The vet’s advice to Sarah was, ‘Get the puppies collected early. It’s only a week and they’re all doing well.’ So - yeah - an early morning to collect my dog!

I swear to God I’ve only ever gotten out of bed at that speed once in my life. Rewind the clock back to when I was a teenager. It was a really hot day, despite being 7am, and the sun was glaring through the window. I had to go to school but had decided the night before that I wasn’t going to go. I was going to bunk off around Southampton and catch a film at the cinema instead. So, yeah, knowing I was having my own private (slightly naughty) adventure, I jumped out of bed and packing my rucksack with a change of clothes. I remember that day fondly. Mum dropped me off at the front gate of the school and I walked out of the back. Anyway, none of this is important. What’s important was - I was allowed to have my dog early!

‘I’ll be there in an hour,’ I told Sarah, my heart beating joyfully in my chest. My Wife completely unaware of what was happening because she’d already left for work. In my mind, I thought I’d collect Chewie and bring her home and not tell The Wife I had her early. Leave it as a surprise until she walked in at the end of the day, only to find me bonding with the puppy without her.

Note: That last sentence sounded a bit pervy. That’s not the case. By bonding I just mean that we would be building the foundations for a strong relationship. Of course, it didn’t quite work out that way…

Chapter Five

She pissed on me!

I could have got to Sarah’s house within twenty minutes. I had told her I would be an hour because - damn it - I needed to go to the shop! I needed to buy a dog bed, dog food, treats and a couple of toys to spoil her with. I mean, I had to! I couldn’t just rock up, steal her from her mum, bung her in the car and drive back to my house without anything nice for her. It’s a bit - kidnapper…. Or rather, dognapper ish.

Remember at the start when I said dogs are expensive? I spent £60 that day and that was not the end of the costs. Every time I go to the pet store to fetch some food, I end up with treats and toys. Every single time. You would probably say she doesn’t need as many toys if you saw them all but I swear to you - she runs to where they are, moves them around until she finds one that she fancies, and then comes running back to me to play too. Another day, it will be another choice. She literally plays with them all. Well nearly. She doesn’t touch the big crocodile I bought but then - to be fair - it is bigger than she is. Still, it’s the thought that counts right?

So I got to Sarah’s house and literally ran to her front door. Once inside she started preparing everything for me. She gave me a blanket that smelt of Poppy (in case Chewie got lonely at night) and she gave me some food, the papers and some little treats - which Chewie was presently too young to enjoy (remember - it’s the thought that counts). Sarah got Chewie for me and handed her over.

‘Are you ready to come home with me?’

‘What? I mean, you’re nice but… I’m quite happy here. Besides, I have to look after the dogs.’

‘What? No. Not you. I’m talking to Chewie.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep.’

Okay, that was a lie. None of that was said - other than me asking Chewie if she was ready to come home with me. I was just filling space. You know, giving you value for money and showing you that I’m a little bit weird in the head. The latter being good for when you see me out and about. You’ll think to yourself, he’s weird in the head and cross the street to get away from me. You see, I don’t like people.

Chewie didn’t answer my question.

Sarah kept Poppy busy and I made my Great Escape. Once I was in the car, I just sat there cuddling Chewie for a moment. I reassured her the car journey was okay and that she was going to a loving home now. She didn’t understand a word but I like to think we bonded a little.

Carefully, I put her in the car dog bed type thing (probably has a proper name but I can’t be fucked to find it) and made sure Chewie was secure. I gave her a blanket and put a soft toy in there. Then, I fired up the engine of my car… A short drive (well, about 20 minutes) and we would be home. Except… The Wife worked another 20 minutes down the road in the opposite direction and - well - it felt wrong not to swing by and say hello… A gesture that was kind and certainly not intended to rub it in that I was going home to play with the puppy whilst she was stuck at work for the next seven hours (Please insert an evil laugh here).

So, anyway, I walked in with a smug grin on my face… A puppy cuddled up against my body, cradled in my arms and a flock of women surrounding me. Seriously - if you’re a single man reading this - ignore the bad points of my book. Go and buy a puppy. You will drown in pussy. Meanwhile, The Wife, if you’ve just read that comment - erm…. Fuck off! You don't support my work* anyway so why start with this book?!

*   She does support my work but now she will be more annoyed about that comment than the pussy one. So I saved myself. Sort of. Fuck it, send flowers to my funeral please, I have a feeling it will be a somewhat lonely affair.

‘OH MY GOD! AWWWWWW!’ were pretty much the words that came out of The Wife’s mouth, and the mouths of her colleagues. A fair reaction given how damned good-looking I am. <sigh, don’t crush my dreams> They all flocked around and - being a gent - I handed Chewie over to The Wife for her cuddle. She, of course, responded by doing stupid girly voices to the dog as though that was the way to communicate. Personally, when you talk in a different voice to an animal, I think you’re immediately showing the dog you’re a bit of a spaz. Talk normally and the dog thinks, fuck - here is a person who knows shit. Talk like an idiot and the dog thinks, Well - this is going to be one easy motherfucker to manipulate.

The Wife wanted me to stay all afternoon but she knew I couldn’t. It wasn’t fair on me. It had been a long day and my legs were tired. It also wasn’t fair on Chewie who was confused to Hell and - going by the blinky eyes - tired as fuck. I took her back, after fighting The Wife’s colleagues for control of her and took her back to the car after about ten minutes. I secured her and kissed The Wife who was - it’s fair to say - insanely jealous that she wasn’t coming home with us. Personally speaking, and this is the bastard part of me, I was quite happy she wasn’t because I knew we would spend the afternoon fighting over Chewie! I’m not a patient man and I don’t really like to share.

In fact, I don’t like to share.

Chewie was mine.

*

I was lying on the settee. I had collapsed there the moment Chewie and I had got home. She - in turn - collapsed straight on my chest. This cute, tiny little pup snoring soundly - seemingly content in her new environment. Actually she was so tired I don’t think she knew where the hell she was. She’d slept most of the way home and she had fallen asleep the moment I put her on my chest after I laid down. I took the opportunity to snap a few photos with the camera and post them up to social media where everyone else declared their love for her. And quite right too.

I’m not sure how long we laid there but it felt like an eternity. Chewie was snoring soundly, occasionally making these funny little squeaks, and I was looking on lovingly - scared to turn the television on for fear of waking her. This moment though, this was why I wanted a dog. Suddenly, she stirred. She opened her eyes and got up on her shaky legs. I cooed and spoke to her in a manly voice and she… She kind of squatted and parted her back legs and… Oh my God… It’s so warm… The urine soaked into my tee shirt and trickled down my sides. I’d not even had the damned dog a day yet and she’d already pissed over me. This, as it turns out, was the start of the troubles.

A Change of Pace

The more astute of you (so probably not many - insert a cheeky grin here) might notice the lack of chapter heading for this part of the book. That’s because I am mixing it up a little. Instead of going through the rest of my time with Chewie in chapters, detailing how cute she is and how hard it was to get some training done with her - I thought I would just start talking about the various ways in which she is an asshole. For, if I don’t, I’m worried some of you will get bored with your low attention spans and skim parts of the book which might have had vital information contained within a lovely little anecdote of how cute she is. I say that because I am the same. I’d be reading and think, not another fucking story about how cute she is, and then I would skip a couple of pages completely unaware that the middle part of the “cute” story contained a great segment whereby the dog actually jumped onto the kitchen side and took a steaming great shit in the guy’s mug of coffee. He - because the coffee was browny-black colour - didn’t notice and swigged it right down. Now this hasn’t happened to me, it’s just an example of what could have been missed had I continued the book in the same style as before. For those who did actually skip parts of the earlier job…

Previously in Matt’s Life:

Matt got the dog home early because of a medical issue forcing mother dog and puppy dog to be separated. On the way home, he fell in love. This was all he had wanted for at least the last five minutes: A dog of his own. Life was perfect. Before the end of the first day, Chewie repaid Matt’s life by pissing all over him in some kind of fucked-up bestiality-watersport scene. And that wasn’t the only issues with bodily functions Matt was to experience.

So there you have it. Now, let’s take an in-depth look at how the dog is an asshole and reveal lots of “bastard” things that you most probably didn’t think of when you contemplated having a dog. Given we’ve just been talking about bodily functions - it seems like a logical decision to continue talking about them…

It’s all a bit shit (and other gross bodily functions).

In Chewie’s defence, she has never shit on me. She has shit next to me, across the room from me, behind me, to the other side of me, in my office, the kitchen, the living room, explosive shit and normal shit in her pen, she’s crapped on the floor of the bathroom and she’s even dumped repeatedly in my car but - she has never shit on me. So, well done Chewie.

Being honest, the crapping was only really a problem for the first few months (6 months, I reckon). Now she knows that - to go outside for a poo - she must ring the bell that hangs by the back door. Same for if she needs to have a piss although this all depends on the mood she is in. If it is raining outside and she thinks she can get away with pissing in the house - I would not put it past her. What makes it frustrating is not that we have to clear it up but rather - she knows it is wrong. It’s like, some days, she just wants to annoy us. God only knows the state of the underlay hidden beneath our carpets…

Now I’m actually really forgiving when the dog goes to the toilet in the house because - these days - it has to be for a reason. Also - the worst thing you can do is to shout at them. If you start doing that, they will simply sneak off and do it elsewhere. Little bastards that they are.

It’s weird, though, when I think back to wanting a puppy. At no point did I ever stop to think I would have to train her to go outside. The most basic of points and I had completely overlooked it in my excitement of having a canine companion. I mean, I knew I would have to pick up the odd turd when we went on walks but - I didn’t think about how many times she would crap in the house or, now she is trained, in the garden. I’ll be honest, I just leave it now. Then, once a week, The Wife or I will go out there on a poo-pick-up. Otherwise it’s all we would be doing, day in and day out. No thanks.

Anyway, there’s another fluid that comes out of dogs too. Again, no one told me about this either but - basically - female dogs get their periods. Yep, that’s right, they spend weeks (not days, like women) bleeding. Now, it’s loads of blood. The room doesn’t look like she has been slashed across the vagina with a knife but that doesn’t matter. It’s still gross as fuck, made worse by the fact her vagina swelled up. She went from having a fairly tidy one to having her lips hanging so far down I’m surprised she could still walk. It remained like this for about a month. A month of not being able to take her out for a walk, for fear of her getting raped. A month of having her bleeding around the house (and on you). A month of her being annoying because she wanted to go out. Before the period was even done, I phoned the vet to get her booked in for the operation to ensure it never happened again. Hey presto, a few weeks after she had finished (as advised) I took her off to the vets and that particular problem was dealt with. It still haunts me though although, sorry to say, we’re not done with this end of the dog yet. There’s yet another damned thing no one told me about and - at the time of writing - I’m dealing with it right now. Any idea? Probably not. This seems to be a secret between dog owners. Well, let me tell you…

Dogs express their anal glands.

Now, I’m not talking about the odd little love puff. This is not a bottom burp. I don’t know exactly what it is (again, I can’t be arsed to Google it) but I do know that it is absolutely rank. And the amount of times she’s actually done it on me… Grim. Anyway - let me explain so you can get the full picture. From time to time dogs - for whatever reason - express their anal glands. I guess you could kind of explain it as kind of “scenting” the area. You know it’s going to happen because suddenly you are overcome by the fishiest of smells. That’s right. Fish. Like, you’ve walked straight past a fishmongers only - you haven’t. Instead, the fishmonger has come to you and literally pissed an invisible fish-juice over you. A stench, so foul, that you have to go and change clothes. Otherwise - more so if you’re a woman - people will think you have a dirty vagina when they walk by you. You might think I am being crude but that’s not the case. We can’t deny that the great unwashed does sometimes smell of a rank, out-of-date fish… Weird then, that if you do lick it - it doesn’t taste the same. No. It tastes like battery acid. Let me just clarify now, to avoid awkward confusion, I am not talking about the squirt from a dog’s anal glands. I have moved, effortlessly, to a dirty woman’s foo-foo. How do I know about the taste? I refer you back to the opening part of the book where I make mention of my first girlfriend. More hair than bare. Anyway, I digress.

Supposedly dogs usually express their anal glands when they poo. Sadly, with Chewie, this doesn’t seem to be the case. She expresses it when you’re dressed, ready to go out for the evening. Maybe it’s a little “fuck you” because she doesn’t want to be left alone? I don’t know. I don’t talk “dog” which is why my first relationship failed (see what I did there?). So, yeah, Chewie has soft poo normally which means - the glands don’t get squeezed. You can do it yourself. What you do, you slide your penis… I’m joking! But, not really. You can do it yourself. You have to put a finger up and… You know what - I don’t need to write it because no one who reads this book is going to want to do it themselves. It is disgusting as fuck and you’ll end up arguing with your partner as to who’s turn it is to take the bastard to the vets.

‘I did it last time!’

‘Really?’

‘Yep!’

‘Well fuck off, I’m not doing it!’

‘I’ll cook for a month.’

‘Nope.’

‘Two months.’

‘And wash up?’

‘Yes!’

‘No, sorry, I can’t do it…’

‘And I’ll clean the toilet…’

‘Not happening.’

‘… With my tongue.’

‘Okay, tempting. What else?’

Apparently it can be quite painful for the dog, which is a shame. There is an operation they can have to get it removed and sometimes that is a necessary evil. For Chewie - it hasn’t come to that yet although, as I type this, I have an appointment in four hours to get her glands expressed again. And, yes, I’m the mug who has to take her. Can not wait (sarcasm here). You’re probably wondering what the problem is. The vet does it, not you. That’s true. The problem is, you have to hold the dog down so the vet can slip a digit in and - well - there’s no way of doing it without having your nose quite close. He expresses the glands, you get a lungful. A smell that you continue to catch whiffs of for the following week.

Oh, and did I mention, if the dog needs help expressing her glands - it’s a procedure you have to do fairly often. Not only is it grim but costly as the vet has to do it (at least in my local surgery). His fee? £40 a visit.

Quick Counter Argument to this problem:

I put this segment of the book on Facebook just to gauge reactions, and one of my friends replied, ‘My ex expresses anal glands for a living as a dog groomer. This pleases me much more than it should.’ I laughed because I know the ex in question and - yeah - they are a complete cunt. So, if anyone ever deserved to do this job for the rest of their life? It’s this person. But…. It doesn’t mean it is worth owning a dog for.

Anyway…

Piss, shit, blood and butt-juice not put you off owning a dog? Read on.

Exercise

When we first got Chewie, we couldn’t walk her outside because she hadn’t had her jabs and - even when she did have them - we had to wait a while to ensure they were “definitely in her system”. It was infuriating because I just wanted to head to the park and immediately play fetch - this being something I’ve always wanted from a dog. See, although I like cats, they only play one game. It’s the “Fuck You” game. You try and get your cat to do something and it looks at you and says, ‘Fuck you.’ Ah, great game. With a dog I envisioned exploratory adventures in the woods, hunting for treasure. I pictured standing in lush green countryside, up some hill - surveying the area with hand raised to eyes protecting them from the sun. I didn’t want to wait for all of this. I’d waited long enough to own the damned dog, why should I wait for more things? I had done my waiting! That being said, I didn’t want her to get ill so I did as I was told.

During the first weeks we used to go out around town together but I would never put her on the ground because - as said up above - I couldn’t. I literally carried her, either cradling her in my arms or with her over my shoulder. Remember when I said dogs were great for attracting the women? When I walked around with the dog like this, the ladies flocked to me. It was great. I would chat and flirt and then - when The Wife approached - be standoffish. Weirdly though, if I walked the dog (still in my arms) and The Wife at the same time - women stayed away but men approached. This was not so great. She went from Chick Magnet to Dick Magnet. I don’t know how Chewie did it but it was annoying as fuck. I didn’t want dudes approaching. Where’s the fun in that? Anyway - when I first wanted a dog, I never thought it would be a good way of meeting men. That backfired.

Anyway.

So I was talking about going on exciting walks with the dog. I loved the idea of getting out and about with her and seeing things normally unseen (given the fact I hate walking normally) but I didn’t consider the fact that I’d have to take her for a walk even if I didn’t actually want to go out for one myself. You know, I’d wake up wanting a lazy day on the sofa with my feet up and shit on the television but Chewie would be running around, itching to go out. Obviously, not being a complete and utter cunt, I would get up and fetch the harness and load up on dog-poo bags and then put my shoes on and find my keys and go to the door and - Chewie doesn’t want to go. She’s staring out at the pissing rain and then to me, back to the rain, back to me… You can almost hear her say, ‘Like fuck am I going out in that.’ Now you have two choices, force her out or let her have her own way. Sadly, having come this far, you can’t let her back down. You’re in charge so you must take her out. You think it will be okay as it is raining and so she will run round the block with you but - that’s not the case. She sulks. She drags her feet. She goes painfully slowly to ensure you both get a soaking. And - whilst doing it - she has a really smug look about her face. People laugh when I say that normally. They ask how a dog can have a smug expression. These people are clearly not dog-owners. They’re more than likely to be cat-owners. A cat has one expression and that’s the “Fuck You” look.

Even on the days where you do want to walk, it still doesn’t work out the way you had imagined it. You tend to get a few corners away from the house and then the dog decides to shit. You do the right thing and bag it but then have to carry said bag around because there are no bins anywhere. You just have to complete the walk (until you find one) with a stinking bag of shit hanging in your hand. Actually - this reminds me of a story… And, I swear to you, it’s the truth…

So I had gone on a long walk. I say “long walk” but it wasn’t that far at all. But, for a pug, it was like running a marathon. As a result, Chewie was walking behind me - lagging behind like a little twat. Now, when I see people walking a bigger dog, I usually make a comment when they approach.

‘I’ve got a snack for your dog.’

I then nod down to Chewie. The other dog owner sees my small dog and then laughs despite knowing - it’s probably not a joke. Given half the chance (and certainly if hungry enough) their dog could technically eat mine.

So…

I see a man approaching. He’s a skinhead and he has a big dog walking by his side. I don’t know the model of the dog. I think it may have been a Ferrari. I don’t judge him because he shaves his head. I’m not one of those people. I get ready to say my line. We close the gap. I speak.

‘Got a snack for your dog,’ I tell him.

He does not look at Chewie. Chewie is hidden behind me. Instead, he looks towards the bag of shit hanging from my hand and then back to me with a look of genuine disgust. It dawns on me what has happened but it’s too late - he has now gone past and to shout back would be weird. Instead, I continued walking - thankful that he didn’t pound my face in. Not that I am judging him.

‘Thanks for that, Chewie!’ I said.

I swear to you, I could hear her laughing. I told The Wife the story, recounted it brilliantly too, but she said the dog hadn’t been laughing - she was just breathing heavily because she’s a pug. Whatever. I know what I heard. My Pug is an asshole.

Anyway, I was side-tracked.

The reason the walks aren’t as good as you imagined are because - flip-side of what we spoke about earlier - sometimes you want to go and the dog doesn’t. Chewie, instance, will just stop walking. You can try all the bribes under the sun to get her moving but she just won’t budge. In the end, much to the anger of other dog-walkers, you just end up dragging her… Her little bum leaving a heavy indentation in the concrete as she wails at you. Okay, that was a slight exaggeration but you get the idea. This is not the only issue that ruins your walks.

Humans.

Humans ruin your walks too.

Let me make this very clear: I don’t mind people coming along, with their dogs, and being all friendly. It’s nice when you get to stand around (occasionally) and make small talk with people who are out walking their dogs. If anything, it’s made me more sociable than I’ve been in my entire life. Hell, this… This moment right here is part of the fantasy when you think of walking the dog you have not yet purchased. You meet dog walkers, you can fetch, you explore, you get fresh air, you get exercise… It’s all good. What I do not like though, is when children come up to you and attempt to pet your dog. Sometimes, they get the dog too excited and other times, they scare the shit out of it. I don’t mind so much when they ask, or when their parents tell them to ask but when they just grab… It’s times like that I wish I had a massive, child-eating dog as opposed to a slobbering (supposedly overweight) Pug. Also - what are the parents thinking when their child just starts grabbing at a stranger’s dog? Do they honestly think that crap is acceptable? Just because a dog looks happy and friendly, doesn’t mean it won’t just suddenly nip at them and - if it does - who’s to blame? The dog and dog-owner, of course. Well, great big hairy lesbian mammoth bollocks to that. A dog bites you? Good. I’m just upset you didn’t lose a limb, you snatchy shit. Now, fuck off!

I apologise for the language. It’s clearly a subject I feel strongly about. I’m out and about on my walk, these people are ruining it. Oh - and want to know what makes it even worse… When strangers come up to you and talk to the dog only. Yep! They ignore you and just talk to your pet in the voice of an idiot. They look and sound so stupid that even the dog is sitting there thinking, ‘Who’s this cunt?’ If you’re one of these people - leave us dog walkers alone. You’re ruining our walk.

Now you might be thinking that this isn’t the dog’s fault and it isn’t. These people do not make my pug an asshole. What makes my pug an asshole is more to do with the fact that when these people come up to you (and your dog), your pet would rather go home with them! The person greets the dog, you have a brief chat and then they walk off… The dog, with you struggling on the other end of the lead, attempts to go with them despite you shouting  SIT and WAIT and STOP and STOP FUCKING MOVING! It’s embarrassing. God only knows what the other person is thinking. Probably think we’re at home - in the quiet of the evening - beating the dog, hence the desperation for it to get away. I’ll be honest, sometimes I just want to let go of the lead and run in the opposite direction.

‘Your problem now! Enjoy! She’s a cunt!’ And you laugh manically into the distance, your middle finger raised. Mind you, I don’t know why I am upset about Chewie running off with a stranger… Sometimes it would be nice to have a little time to myself because - damn - this dog should be nicknamed Velcro.

Just Piss Off Already

In my head, owning a dog is brilliant. When you’re lonely and need a quick boost - there they are, waiting to cheer you up and fix whatever went wrong in your day. Indeed, my nan had a stroke last year and I was called by her neighbour. I rushed to the house to see her and then went to the hospital. I was there all day with a family member I hadn’t spoken to for a few years. It was a tough, tough day. Hang on, that’s deep. Let me skip to the end quickly just to say that my nan is fine now (weaker but she is talking and walking) and bridges were built between myself and said family member so - happy days. Okay, back to the actual day. The day was long, stressful and I could barely stop myself crying as I drove home due to worry over my nan and the buried feelings between myself and the family member. In short - I felt terrible. When I got home though, there was little Chewie (about 3 months old at that point) and - boy - was she pleased to see me! The moment I stepped over the threshold, she came bounding down the hallway, tail wagging. I picked her up and cradled her in my arms as she demanded belly rubs and squirmed around with excitement. In short: She lifted my spirits right up. Now that is what I envisioned owning a dog would be like and - for the most part - it is. But, it’s not that simple… Why? Because, sometimes you just want some peace and quiet. A little space to yourself - if only for a wank.

Right, I’m not sure about other dogs. I have no experience with them. What I am about to say, though, is very much a trait of pugs. They are - to put it simply - velcro. They just stick to you. Doesn’t matter what you’re doing, they want to be a part of it. On the one hand, it’s lovely and - on the other - seriously, just sod off. Even going to the toilet offers you no reprieve but we will get to that in a minute.

All day I have this dog pestering me, begging to eat the food I am enjoying and generally just giving me no peace and quiet. It’s frustrating. So - when The Wife comes home - I am grateful as fuck. I think, finally, I get some time to myself. The Wife, however, has had a hard day at work and wants a few minutes to unwind. Maybe even do a little work out routine (for some weird reason she thinks this is a good way to unwind when, really, we all know a wank is the answer). Anyway, she walks in and it goes something like this:

‘Oh good, you’re home!’ I hand the dog over.

‘What? I want to go and do a work out.’

‘Well how long for?!’

‘An hour?’

‘Really?’

‘Yep.’

‘I’ve had this fucking dog all day…’

At which point she explodes about having been out of the house since 6am that morning. I then counter-argue that I’ve been working hard all day too - or trying at least - but not got half of what needed to be done because of the fucking dog. She storms off, doors slam. At no point in my dreams of dog owning did I ever stop to consider arguments. Still - fast forward a little… She’s done her workout, you’ve had some time to yourself and now you’re both on the settee, chilling out. The dog between you. You try and reach an arm around. The dog is there. You wink to The Wife hoping she recognises the signs you’re up for some adult fun and - the dog winks back. You stick your tongue out towards the wife and flap it around wildly - teasing her that you’re in the mood for a spot of muff-diving and - that asshole dog sticks its tongue out. My pug is an asshole because not only does it stress me out during the day but it also causes arguments and kills the sex life. Hell, we might as well have had a child.

Anyway.

Toilet business. You leave the door open because, if you don’t, the little bastard ruins the door. Unfortunately - leaving the door open - this leaves you taking a wee, or dump, with a dog looking at you - wondering what the hell you’re doing.

I’ve been giving this some thought. As much as it annoys me, I don’t think the dog can really be blamed for how it acts in this situation. The reason being, when you take the dog out for a poo, or wee, you tend to stand there waiting. Sometimes you can even find yourself standing there, watching them - urging them to go. So basically - when you go to the toilet - they’re just copying what you do when they go. To them, you see, it is normal. We have made the dogs think like that. unfortunately, when in my garden, I can’t not watch my dog because the little bitch will often take leave under the fence which brings me to another reason my pug is an asshole.

Chase Me!

You’re standing in the field. You throw the ball. The dog chases, grabs it, runs back to you and drops the ball at your feet. It looks at you (the dog, not the ball - don’t be weird) lovingly. Its tongue hangs out as it pants (the dog, not the tongue - do I really need to explain this?). You collect the ball and throw it again. The dog is already setting off for it.

‘I love you, best friend!’

‘I love you too,’ the dog doesn’t reply because it can’t actually speak but would definitely say something like this if it could. And, for the rest of the afternoon, you play lovingly. Except the reality doesn’t work like that. The reality is irritating as fuck.

The dog fetches the ball. That bit works. The dog grabs it, comes back and stops by your feet. Good girl! You bend down but the ball is not dropped from the dog’s mouth. Instead, the dog backs away from you.

‘No, drop it.’

She doesn’t though.

‘Drop it!’

You reach again, the dog backs away.

‘Drop it you little shit.’

You reach. The dog runs.

‘Get back here, you fucking turd!’

The dog is now running circles around you. Literal circles with its mouth clamped around the ball. Meanwhile - other dog walkers are watching sympathetically. They’ve been here before and it’s only changed (for them) now their dog is old and can’t be bothered to play the “game” anymore. I’m telling you: Dogs are assholes. And… And don’t think it’s just this (the balls) they make you chase them for. They have another, equally annoying habit. Or rather, Chewie does at least.

Picture the scene:

My Wife comes home from a hard day at work. It’s been hot. It’s been sweaty. She wants a shower. So far, so good. I’m in the kitchen cooking dinner (seriously, The Wife can’t cook) and suddenly Chewie runs by. She’s panting in a way I immediately recognise. She has a mouthful. I look to see what she has got - after all, she has been quiet for a while now and that always means trouble - and, oh look, she has stolen The Wife’s day-old knickers.

‘Chewie!’ I shout.

By now she has stopped running and collapsed in a heap. By now, she is munching on the moist gusset of said knickers. I go to get the knickers off her and - yep - she grabs them, gets up and runs off. Once, even, the backdoor was open and the little twat ran straight out and into the garden. If the neighbours look out of their window at this point, they would have seen me chasing the dog around, fist raised in anger and the dog not giving a flying fuck.

Gone are the days when The Wife gets home from work and jumps into the shower whilst I sneak into the room and have a sniff of her… Sorry, what? Forget I said anything. Move on. Nothing to see. In fact no, I’m not ashamed. Sometimes a guy just wants to, you know… Be closer to The Wife (or any female for that matter) and if the closest he can get is a pair of dirty knickers then so be it, by Jove! Anyway, regardless of a person’s tastes… No one thinks about having to fight a dog for a pair of dirty knickers when they’re considering becoming a dog owner. It’s just not one of those things that factor into the thoughts, you know? You think about playing fetch, cuddling, walking - not fighting over crusty cacks! What makes it worse is, even if you’re quick and get them back fast, they’re still fucking ruined. A gusset of moist-goodness now one filled with dog spit. Hardly something you want to stick your nose into, is it? I mean, unless you’re a fucking weirdo.

Oh - and speaking of weirdos.

Believe it or not but we did do training with Chewie. The woman was as useful as a water resistant sponge but - at least we tried. This woman - we shall refer to her as Dragon for that is how I feel about her - was an absolute twat. She was self-righteous and a proper money-grabber. During the class, we were told to put our hands up if we needed anything or were having troubles. We did. She would always tell us we needed a home-visit so we could go through the problems properly. Of course - that meant a fuck ton more money. Like I said, money-grabbing Dragon.

Still - she informed us of the time she was sitting in the living room when her dog came bounding in with a sex toy in its mouth. Apparently the dog had found the toy in the bedroom and - well… By now, if you’re like me and have pictured the Dragon properly, you’ll be vomiting blood so we will leave that right there, yeah? The point is, though, that clearly it’s a common problem: Dog’s steal shit that doesn’t belong to them and then make you chase them around until you’re able to get it back (or they’ve eaten it). Dogs are dicks.

Oh - one positive though… If you do happen to get to your partner’s pants before they put them in the wash or the dog gets them, they’re yours for good. You see, your partner will come out of the shower and go to pick up the dirty clothes scattered around. They don’t know this, you’ve already stashed the pants.

‘You seen my pants?’

‘Think the dog had them.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep!’

‘For fuck sake…’

You turn away from your partner and unleash a crafty smile… You evil genius you. Still doesn’t excuse it completely though. You’ll lose more cacks to the dog than you’ll gain for yourself. That’s the way the cookie crumbles and, speaking of cookie’s and crumbs…

Manipulative Bastards

Meal times are ruined when you get a dog. Even if you feed your dog at the same time, they tend to wolf their food so fast that they’ll be done long before you’ve finished munching upon your first potato. Do they sit there and patiently wait for you to finish yours? Or maybe they go off and entertain themselves for a while - allowing you time to digest your dinner? Do they fuck. They waddle over and sit by your feet - staring up at you with puppy-dog eyes. Occasionally they’ll shuffle their feet forward ever so slightly, or they’ll make a bit of a whining noise - you know, just to be sure you’ve seen them there. If you have already gone out and bought a dog and are just waiting for it to arrive into your life - take my words very seriously - do not look your dog in the eye whilst you try and eat. It is impossible not to give them scraps and - once you’ve done that - you’ve lost the game. Whenever you try and eat something, the dog will be there fully aware that you’re a soft touch. To this day I can’t eat in peace and I can’t remember the last time I had any snacks without having to snap a bit off for the dog. What makes the whole damned thing even more annoying is I’m the one who is treated like a criminal when I go to the vets.

‘Your dog is overweight,’ they say as they eyeball you suspiciously.

‘Really?’

‘Yep.’

‘It’s not my fault. I go out for the day and she sneaks herself a sandwich.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘It’s true. I once came home and found her cooking a full on roast.’

Tell you what - all this talk of food… I went to the Pet Store today, to grab her some biscuits, and I ended up buying more toys and - of course - treats (because that’ll really help with the diet the vet put her on, I’m sure). As I type this, I find myself gagging and my eyes burning. She absolutely stinks as she occasionally lets slip with a fart that literally sounds like air escaping from a tyre. Or, sometimes (and far more treacherous), there is no noise at all. Actually, bollocks to this, I’m gagging her. Time to call it a night and go to my bed whilst I’m still able to breath. I can pick this up again in the morning.

*

Chewie’s stomach has settled. Thank God. Here, I was thinking about her farts last night and there is one benefit to them. Usually they are silent. This means they catch you unaware and you cop a lungful before you know what has happened. It’s disgusting but you can use it to your advantage… If you let out a silent guff yourself (or “love puff” as my wife calls it… At least, when she does it) you can, nine times out of ten, blame it on the dog. Well I can anyway because I’m a little more beefy. My wife can’t blame the dog because she is a little more “ready-salted” flavour. Very distinct. Anyway, there is that little point to consider when bringing a dog into your life: You can blame your bottom burps on them. In fact, they’re quite useful really, when you really think about it.

‘Gross! The dog farted again!’ (stifle laughter as partner chokes)

‘The dog must have stolen your knickers. Dirty bitch.’

‘I didn’t eat it. Must have been the dog.’

And before you think I am an evil bastard for blaming everything on the dog, keep in mind the title of this section: “Manipulative Bastards”. See it doesn’t matter what a dog does. It could shit in your brand new shoes, it could rape your wife… The fact of the matter is - dogs are capable of giving you a look which melts your heart and turns you into mush. You go from being really angry to thinking, awwww you’re so cute before declaring your love for them. Nine times out of ten you don’t even realise it has happened until it is too late and then - well - it’s too late! The dog wins! I guess that’s why I am sitting here now thinking that my pug isn’t actually the asshole I initially stated she was when I first started this book. She’s looking at me and - you’ll think I am crazy - I am sure she is smiling. She’s kind of cute, in an ugly kind of way. Her little snores are endearing and I love how she depends on me. She loves me unconditionally, even when I am in a foul mood - she is there to cheer me up and remind me that, actually, the world isn’t that bad. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think that maybe I’m the asshole for penning this book in the first place. I’m the bad guy, not her. She’s innocent in all of this. She’s…

… Just manipulated me with the puppy dog look. For fuck sake, I fell for it again. I stand by my original statement: My Pug is an asshole and - with that - I am done.

In all seriousness though

Chewie is a nob, there is no mistaking that. She has lots of quirks (like barking at her reflection in the television screen) and likes to test my patience most of the time but there is truth in what I stated in the earlier paragraph, hinting that I love her. I do love her. I just came into the dog-owning world unprepared and whilst this book is written with tongue firmly in cheek - I hope it has raised some issues to you, the wannabe dog owners, that there are some things you need to be aware of before investing in a dog. If you know everything, the good and the bad - you can make an informed decision and go out and get a dog of your own. Or, you can realise, it’s not for you and you can get - oh I don’t know - a cat instead. Which brings me to the blatant advert for the second book: My Cat is a Cunt… Nah, I’m joking. I don’t need to write that as a book. Everyone knows what cats are like. The point I am trying to make is: If you want a pet, do all of your homework before you go and buy one. Make sure it is right for you. Don’t be one of those assholes who gets one and then gives up on it because it annoys you from time to time. At the end of the day, they’re not just pets. They’re little beings who are trying to live a happy life and everyone deserves to be happy. If you disagree with that statement, do not get a pet because - in case you can’t see it in yourself - you’re a selfish prick. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to go and hug my asshole pug.

PUG: Crime Has A New Enemy:

Pugs are the in-thing at the moment. I don’t understand why but I do worry that people will run out and purchase one just to be “popular”. They need love, like any animal, and they come with their problems. That is why I wrote “My Pug Is An Asshole”. But… I fear I might have gone the wrong way and put people off from having such a dog in their life now. So, I figured, why not attempt to turn them into a Superhero? Why not make people think that they’re not only loving but also capable of greatness?

The following story is a concept for a new Superhero.

I don’t know. It might work? It might be possible and this hero could be the next best hero? Loved by millions with its own range of teddy bears and films? Like I said, I don’t know. You tell me.

TODAY

They paused whilst loading the stolen goods into the back of the van. Their attention had been disrupted by the feeling of something, or someone, watching from the shadows of the alley. One of them peered into the darkness squinting their eyes.

‘Someone’s out there,’ the masked man said with a hint of panic in his voice. He’d already been inside and had no intentions of going back. Yet, still on parole, if they were busted now - that was exactly where he’d be heading. Go to jail, do not pass GO, do not collect £200.

His colleague stepped up to his side and also narrowed his eyes in an effort to detect movement. He said, ‘I can’t see anything.’

The first man snapped back, ‘Listen!’

Neither of them could see anything within the black of the shadows but - the sounds were audible. A rasping noise, low.

‘What is that?’ He took a tentative step forward as his colleague hung back close to the rear of the half-filled van.

His colleague asked, ‘Can you see anything?’

‘Nothing. There any pigs round here? Sounds like a damn pig…’

A snorting noise. Something snuffling around in the darkest point of the shadow. Something definitely there and watching them.

‘In the middle of the city? There ain’t no pigs around here that I’m aware of. That ain’t a pig.’

‘Come on out and you won’t get hurt,’ the man called from over by the van.

Whatever it was, whoever it was; they didn’t reveal themselves. Instead there was a faint sneeze-like noise.

‘I don’t like this.’

The thief by the van called his colleague back, ‘Let’s just get this loaded and get the hell out of here. Whatever it is - it’s over there and we’re over here so… Let’s just…’ He stopped talking and his mouth fell agape. His eyes had been drawn back over to the source of the snuffling noise. It had come from the shadows.

His colleague was standing in a similar state of disbelief. Neither of them able to speak. Neither of them able to move.

There was a stale-mate between them and it.

‘What… What the hell are you?!’

It answered. Its voice was half-animal and half-human. Low and raspy. ‘I am…’

PUG

Crime Has A New Enemy

BEFORE

1.

Jack had woken up with a sore throat and a head that pounded worse than any hangover he’d ever experienced. With each step from bed to bathroom, his head pounded that little bit worse and, by the time he reached the lavatory, he needed to sit down before he fell. He wasn’t surprised about the way he felt. He’d felt rough when he’d gone to bed and had a sneaking suspicion it was only going to get worse. It was hardly surprising given how many people had gone off ill from work this last week; all complaining of the same symptoms.

Jack sat on the toilet, not daring to move for fear of passing out. Still - with his stomach as it was - he was in the best place possible.

There was a scratching at the door. Jack’s head was buried in his hands - elbows resting on his legs. There was no need to look up. He knew what the scratching was. It was his pug, Chewie. She’d woken at the sound of him stumbling around, just as she did most mornings. Although, just because he was up and moving around, it didn’t mean she bothered to come to see him. Lazy little bitch would often stay in bed and happily snore the morning away. Not today though.

Chewie scratched on the door a little more before she finally managed to push it open. When she saw Jack sitting there, perched on the toilet, her little tongue stuck from her mouth and she ran excitedly towards him, skidding on the tiled floor in the process. Her little, curled tail wagged from side to side, almost too fast for the human-eye to catch, as she greeted her most favourite person. At least - her favourite person all the time there wasn’t someone else there, offering food to her.

Jack’s stomach growled as a burst of crap leaked from his rear. He groaned in discomfort at both his aching stomach and the heat of his bowel movements as they stung his ring.

‘Don’t get too close, girl. Don’t need you catching this,’ he moaned. Chewie didn’t move away though and - truthfully - he knew she wouldn’t. They never told him when he had gone to see her as a little pup that pugs are actually made from velcro. Once they had a bond with someone, they stick to them and it’s only when they want to leave that they “unstick” themselves. Chewie - a two year old pedigree - was no different.

Jack groaned in pain as his stomach made more gurgles, readying himself for another round. Chewie sat and looked at him with big eyes full of expectation. It was breakfast time, what was he doing?

Jack’s backside dribbled again. Less this time but still enough to glue him to the spot for a while longer. He knew she was there less to say hello and more to remind him that she’d not yet had her breakfast but - stomach twisted in pain again - she could wait a bit longer. The vet would be happy at least. She’d said that Chewie was overweight so - a little wait for breakfast might help with that.

Chewie shifted her front paws on the tiled floor and huffed the sound of impatience. Jack couldn’t ignore her now. He looked her in the eyes and - again - she shifted her weight from paw to paw and licked her lips expectantly.

‘Daddy’s dying,’ he told her. ‘Give me a minute, yeah? Pretty sure I’ve never made you miss a meal time, have I?’

Chewie’s head went from side to side as she listened to what Jack was saying. Her little flat face - so full of expression - really made it look as though she understood what he was saying and, who knows, maybe she did?

She let out a bark. Hurry up.

Jack laughed but it was a laugh which was soon interrupted as his stomach clenched and pushed out more of whatever the hell was poisoning his system. Be gone, bug.

2.

Had it just been a sore throat and a headache, Jack would have dosed himself up and headed to work. The stomach issues were enough to stop him in his tracks though. He’d been up for an hour now and more than half of that time had been spent perched on the lavatory. The rest of the time was spent moving his bedding through to the living room so he could spend a day crashed out on the sofa, and unproductive visits to the same bathroom when his body not-so-playfully teased him with the threat that more was potentially coming from him.

By the time he’d managed to make himself comfortable, stretched out under a duvet on the sofa, the sore throat had started to tickle. In his current predicament he had hoped that his throat was just going to stay painful for the rest of the illness’ duration. His preference being to swallow razor blades than to have a tickle in his throat which would then turn to a cough. With an upset stomach, it would be far too easy to get the timing wrong with a cough. One false move and the pants get it.

Chewie, full of breakfast but not so much that she couldn’t enjoy a good gnaw on a beef bone, walked into the living room with bone in mouth and crashed out on the rug. With a paw either side of her bone, pinning it in place so she could really get her tongue into it for the beefy goodness stored within, she began to gnaw noisily.  A little bribe to keep her quiet so that Jack could crash out in peace. After all - usually it was a case of breakfast, a walk around the block and then he’d go to work for a few hours. Meanwhile Chewie would stay at home and sleep the walk off until his lunch-break from the office, when he’d come back home for an hour.

It wasn’t the best situation to be, leaving her alone for four hour stints in a day but - ever since his girlfriend had left - it was making the best of a bad situation. He was just thankful the other bitch hadn’t tried to take Chewie with her when she packed up her bags.

Apparently the new guy wasn’t a dog fan.

Jack had already phoned into the office. They weren’t best pleased about him not going in for the day but - then - that was mostly because almost half of the workforce had the bug now. When his manager said that, Jack offered to come in if they didn’t mind him soiling into a bucket next to the desk to save running back and forth to the bathroom but - health and safety reasons - they weren’t too keen. Funny that. He then added that if half the workforce already had it then surely that meant it was contagious and - with that in mind - it was clearly better to stay well away. After all - they didn’t want the other half getting it too.

His line manager wished him a speedy recovery and - now - with Jeremy Kyle on the television, Jack couldn’t help but pray for a speedy recovery too.

‘What is this crap, Chewie?’

Chewie didn’t even look up. She only paid attention to the television when there were other animals on the screen. Most notably, she seemed to take offence to other dogs (which Jack understood) and horses. Apparently horses was a pug thing. Maybe some distant pug relative went to battle with a horse over something stupid? Ever since - there has been a long standing hatred between the species? Well - from pugs towards horses at least as, when out and about on walks down the local nature reserve, it appeared horses weren’t fussed about pugs either way. So yes, Chewie would only pay attention to the screen when it showed other dogs, horses and, for some reason, cartoon animals. Apparently she didn’t care if some toothless idiot was accusing an ogre-like relative of stealing from them.

-   We have the lie detector test results in. We asked Mik if he had ever stolen from you and he said…

-   No.

-   And why did you say no?

-   Because…

-   HE WAS TELLING THE TRUTH!

Jack sighed as he flicked channels back to the on-screen television guide in the hope of finding something better to watch. There was a cooking program, various house buying shows, shows about people wanting to escape to the sun, a withered old battle-axe of a judge lecturing people in her courtroom, a clearly-homosexual (but also rather witty) judge lecturing people in his program and antique shows. Having crap on the television sure did take the fun out of being poorly.

‘Feel free to put me out of my misery, dog.’

Chewie responded with a very audible Pfffffffff from her rear-end. Jack instinctively held his breath. They also had not told him that pugs, besides being like Velcro they are also food orientated, are stubborn, have issues with their eyes, issues with breathing, like to express their anal glands and - of course – are very flatulent.

‘Thanks for that.’

Chewie stopped gnawing the bone long enough to look at Jack with a tilt of her head. He couldn’t help but to smile, even when her stink hit him. She was a pain in the butt (and the nostrils) but there was no denying she was cute. In a weird, flat-faced ugly kind of way.

Realising Jack was just talking to her and not actually offering her any food, she turned her attention back to trying to get the beef filling from the bone.

3.

It was the second day of his bug and Jack wasn’t feeling that much better. The only blessing being was that the upset stomach had at least subsided. He couldn’t be sure that it was gone completely though given he’d not eaten anything for the past day for fear of it going straight through him. It was funny how the chronic squits could make a man forget his appetite but just as Chewie was told she could lose some weight - he figured it wouldn’t do him any harm not to eat either. He wasn’t in bad shape but he certainly wasn’t the fittest. Jack and Chewie looked a right pair of unfit slobs as they huffed and puffed their way around their morning walks. The pair of them seemingly in competition with each other to be the loudest. That wasn’t true of course, but Jack often believed that would have been how it looked to those they encountered whilst out and about.

Still - this would be the second day in which she wouldn’t be getting a walk. Whilst his stomach had calmed, his chest now felt like a huge weight was being pushed upon it. It hurt to breath, his lungs rattled and the tickle in his throat had turned to a full on cough and still, when he asked again, Chewie wouldn’t put him out of his misery.

Jack asked, ‘Is this what it feels like to die?’

Chewie was curled up by his feet, snoring loudly as Jack flicked from channel to channel having taken up residence on the settee again, after first calling into the office to let them know he wouldn’t be in. Once again it was the same old rubbish shows. Chat-shows, annoying game-shows, property shows… What kind of market research did the television networks do to deduce that these were the shows people wanted on during the day? Or did they do no research and just opted for these because it was cheap to air? More likely. Still - after a rough day yesterday, getting his stomach under control, and then a sleepless night thanks to the damned cough - at least the junk on the box would help him drift to sleep.

*

Jack knew it was a dream but he didn’t care. He knew he was tucked up under the blanket, in his small home, feeling like rubbish but - again - he didn’t care. Right now, in this moment, in this dream - he didn’t care. He wasn’t coughing up a lung, he wasn’t swallowing razor blades, his eyes weren’t sore and his chest wasn’t heavy. He was just standing on the beach, barefoot. He wriggled his toes, burying them into the golden sands. The sun - high in the sky - was blazing down on him with a warmth he’d not felt since his last trip abroad a couple of years back, when she was still with him. This wasn’t a real vacation and the warmth he felt wasn’t real either - it was all in his head. But again, he didn’t care. For now this was all he could have and certainly all he could afford and - well - it would do.

All around him, his dreamt up beach was deserted with only him standing on the purest of sands. His footprints being the only ones visible. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the sea looked  inviting and tranquil, slowly moving up and down with the gentlest of waves.

Jack knew the air he breathed in deeply was all but a figment of his imagination but - again - he didn’t care. All the time his brain let him believe it to be real, he’d continue sucking it up in the hope that, in the awake world, it would help him get over the illness.

With the warmth continuing to blast down upon him, he removed his shirt and laid on the sand using his top as a pillow for his head. There, he closed his eyes and let the dreamt-up sun continue to toast him. He sighed. Dream or not, with the birds calling out as they flew around and the sound of the waves lapping at the shoreline, it was bliss. A reminder on just how much he needed a vacation right now too.

In his dream (and maybe in the real world too) he smiled as - from seemingly out of nowhere - the water started to lap at his ear. The smile suddenly vanished as he realised, the sea didn’t tend to just lap at one body part. He opened his eyes and…

*

‘What the hell, dog?!’

Chewie was lying next to Jack with her face close to his. Her tail was wagging from side to side as she greedily licked and nibbled on his earlobe; a strange addiction she seemed to have acquired when she was a puppy and had never seemed to have grown out of. Some days Jack found it cute and it even made him laugh. Other days he found it as irritating as hell and - having been woken from what had been a pleasant dream - today was one of the days where it was nothing but annoying.

4.

‘Get off, you idiot!’

As was often the case when Chewie got amorous, Jack pushed her off and sat up as he wiped his ear clean from her spit. Chewie wasn’t deterred though with her master playing hard to get and neither was she finished. Having clearly woken up full of beans, and having missed Jack in dreams of her own, she jumped back up onto the settee and onto his stomach causing him to exhale with a very audible oof. She immediately reached up and started to lick all over his face as he squirmed beneath her.

‘Ergh, gross dog! Stop! Stop! Enough… What are you…’ He gagged violently as her tongue caught his lips and slipped into his mouth. The gagging reflex triggered a violent coughing fit as he pushed her back off the sofa. She didn’t jump back up. She sat there, tail wagging affectionately as he leaned forward coughing up a lung with a phlegmy rattle.

The problem with the cough was once it started, Jack actually found it went on and on and - worse - it brought up lumps of a somewhat luminous snotty substance into his mouth where it pooled on his tongue. An unpleasant bitter taste with an even more unpleasant slimy texture which he’d either have to spit out, or swallow once he was able to.

Chewie’s tail stopped wagging and she tilted her head to one side as she continued watching her master hack up a lung. It was hard to tell exactly what she was thinking, with her flat face always looking on the sad side but - once he stopped coughing - Jack hazarded a guess that she wasn’t concerned for his well-being but actually worried about who’d be feeding her if he were to pass.

‘Damn near killed me,’ he moaned. With no more toilet paper on the glass coffee table before him, into which he could spit, Jack no choice but to swallow the heavy load of gunk in his mouth. As he did so, he retched as his imagination played back various scenes from the many films he had watched since she had left him. He suppressed the need to gag, therefore potentially starting another violent bout of coughing, by mentally telling himself, it’s not the same as the films, it’s not the same, it’s not the same… But then - was what he’d actually swallowed worse or better? He shuddered at the thought of both and closed his eyes, mentally taking himself through to his happy place. Only when he was convinced that he had his body back under control did he open his eyes.

Chewie was still looking at him.

Jack said to her, ‘Only myself to blame though, right? I mean - I did ask you to put me out of my misery.’

The sudden movement and coughing fit had taken it out of Jack, not that he had much in him anyway. He slumped back down into the man-shape dent he’d made from his two days and nights of dozing on the sofa. The moment his head touched upon the pillow he’d brought in with his duvet, Chewie jumped back up and curled herself into a little ball of cuteness next to his legs. Jack laid there a moment, uncomfortable and with an aching chest as - more or less immediately - Chewie started to snore.

The way she fell asleep so easily, Jack couldn’t help but make a comment, ‘Alright for some…’ Frustrated he’d been pulled from his slumber, especially in such a moist way, he reached for the controller and switched on the television.

On screen a pompous idiot of an ex-footballer-turned-chef was berating a manager of a failing restaurant, blaming him for all the establishment’s shortcomings. Jack sighed. Sooner be stuck behind the desk at work. As the show played on, Jack felt the full weight of his heavy eye-lids as he struggled to keep them open and his eyes focused.

TODAY

5.

The building alarm had been disabled soon after it had rung out into the midnight air. A quick cut of the cables was all that it had taken, along with the know-how. One of the two masked men had backed the van up to the rear of the building while the other man worked the padlocks on the shutters from the inside. After all - easier to empty the electronic goods through a wide shutter rather than a narrow doorway.

The driver of the van hopped out and ran round to the back to open it up. As he did so, the shutter opened fully. His colleague was standing there with a triumphant grin on his face - visible through the mask.

‘What, you an idiot? Start grabbing the televisions. Ain’t got all night.’

The grinning fool stopped smiling and nodded. His colleague was a professional at this - or rather, he had done it before although he’d been caught that time. The grinning fool though, it was his first time and he was keen to make a good impression. He disappeared back into the building to grab the first of the televisions as his partner in crime stepped through the shutter to join him.

‘Let’s get this done. In and out.’

*

They briefly stopped loading the stolen goods into the back of the van. Their attention had been disrupted by the feeling of something, or someone, watching on from the alley’s shadows. One of them peered into the darkness and squinted their eyes.

‘Someone’s out there,’ the masked man said with a hint of panic in his voice. He’d already been inside and had no intentions of going back. Yet, still on parole, if they were busted now - that was exactly where he’d be heading. Go to jail, do not pass GO, do not collect £200.

His colleague stepped up to his side and also narrowed his eyes in an effort to detect movement. He said, ‘I can’t see anything.’

The first man snapped back, ‘Listen!’

Neither of them could see anything within the black of the shadows but - the sounds were audible. A rasping noise, low.

‘What is that?’ He took a tentative step forward as his colleague hung back close to the rear of the half-filled van.

His colleague asked, ‘Can you see anything?’

‘Nothing. There any pigs round here? Sounds like a damn pig…’

A snorting noise. Something snuffling around in the darkest point of the shadow. Something definitely there and watching them.

‘In the middle of the city? There ain’t no pigs around here that I’m aware of. That ain’t a pig.’

‘Come on out and you won’t get hurt,’ the man called from over by the van.

Whatever it was, whoever it was; they didn’t reveal themselves. Instead there was a faint sneeze-like noise.

‘I don’t like this.’

The thief by the van called his colleague back, ‘Let’s just get this loaded and get the hell out of here. Whatever it is - it’s over there and we’re over here so… Let’s just…’ He stopped talking and his mouth fell agape. His eyes had been drawn back over to the snuffling noise. It had come from the shadow.

His colleague was standing in a similar state of disbelief. Neither of them able to speak. Neither of them able to move.

There was a stale-mate between them and it.

‘What… What the hell are you?!’

It answered. Its voice was half-animal and half-human. Low and raspy. ‘I am… PUG.’

6.

‘What are you man?’

It stood there in black jeans and a black hoodie top. Its hood was over, covering its face but not enough to hide it completely. It wasn’t human, this thing staring at them. Large dark eyes, eyeballs themselves mostly black yet with a brown circling around the blackness. Staring. Unblinking. Seeing all from where they bulged from the head.

One of the thieves asked again, ‘What are you?’ He squinted harder into the darkness, towards the figure. ‘The hell is up with your face?’

Its face was covered in fur which hid the folds of skin. Body of a man, face of a pug. Fists clenched tight.

‘The hell kind of mask is that? You some kind of retarded Batman?’

But it wasn’t a mask and the figure before them wasn’t an “it”. The man before them was Jack.

Jack took a deep breath in. There was a snort from the back of his throat as – with narrow nostrils - he struggled to get all of the oxygen his body desired to help the sudden adrenaline rush he’d got from an impending fight. He tried to speak despite the lack of air, ‘Put the televisions back and no one needs to get hurt…’

The two masked men looked at one another and then burst into a fit of laughter, clearly amused by the freak’s supposed threat.

‘Tell you what…’ The leader of the couple picked up a bit of trash from the ground and threw it in the opposite direction. ‘Fetch!’

Despite his best efforts to stand still and ignore it, Jack couldn’t help himself and charged after the bottle - huffing and puffing as he did so - as the two men laughed.

‘Come on - let’s get out of here… Shut the van up.’ The leader of the two walked through to the front of the van and jumped into the driver’s seat. He fired the engine up and waited for his colleague to join him. Yet he didn’t come and neither did he hear the sound of the back doors being slammed shut. Without looking back, he called out, ‘Come one! Let’s go already before the freak…’ He stopped talking and slowly turned his head to the window next to him.

Jack was standing there. In his hand, he held the same bottle the dirty criminal had thrown out for him to fetch.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ he said.

Jack slowly turned his head to the right to look at something else - a purposeful movement done to intrigue the driver. As per Jack’s want, the driver followed his gaze. At the rear of the van, the second man lay unconscious.

‘What the hell are you?’

Panicked, the driver put the van into first and stamped on the accelerator as he pulled away from the building. In his haste, a couple of the recently stolen television sets tumbled out of the van and onto the concrete below. Even so - the driver did not stop as he continued down the alleyway. Jack stood watching. There was no need to chase when he could get the scum’s address from his unconscious friend, just as soon as he opened his eyes.

Jack smiled albeit for only a short time as - with the excitement over - he started to reverse-sneeze violently.[1] An act which often brought him to his knees.

7.

The criminal was just a young lad. If Jack had to guess an age he would have said he was late teens, maybe early twenties at best. His face was clean shaven but his hair, scraggly and fairly long, looked greasy in the light of the storeroom that he’d been stealing from. Jack was standing before him with his hood up as best he could, over his face, to save from being caught on the CCTV cameras. The cameras, meanwhile, were finally recording the criminal’s image now Jack had removed the thief’s mask.

‘Come on, man, it was just a few television sets. They’re insured. It’s not like anyone really loses out… What’s the harm?’

Ever since he had come round, the lad had been trying to convince Jack to let him go. Jack wasn’t listening though. He’d tied the robber to the chair and had no intention of letting him go. Instead, he wanted the name and address of his accomplice and - then - he wanted to go and “fetch” him. This guy was going nowhere. He got to just sit there and wait for the store’s owners to come and hand him over to the police.

‘This is stupid.’

‘Stealing is stupid.’

‘It wasn’t my idea! I didn’t have a choice!’

‘Everyone has a choice in how they run their own life.’

‘The man I was with, I owe him money. He said if I helped him with this - he would go ahead and wipe the slate clean! If I didn’t help, he said he would be adding interest daily.’ The unmasked criminal continued to panic, ‘I have a kid. I’m struggling with my girlfriend… There was no way I could afford the interest! You have to…’

Jack raised his finger up and pressed it against the youth’s mouth to shut him up. He didn’t want to hear excuses. Whether he was in trouble or not, there were always choices and this guy took the easier option for his problem solving. As a result, he’d have to pay his debt to society just as anyone else would who’d choose such a path. This wasn’t a game and there were no get out of free jail cards.

‘Are you going to kill me?’

Jack didn’t mean to laugh but he couldn’t help it. The guy clearly was as stupid as he was coming across. Jack considered answering him with heavy sarcasm: Yeah, I’m going to tie you down in front of the store’s cameras and then - in full view of them - I’m going to kill you. He refrained. The idiot would have only believed him and then started to scream and shout - potentially attracting unwanted attention in the process.

‘I want you to tell me who your friend is and I want to know where he lives.’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘You can.’

‘He’ll kill me.’

‘He’s a small time crook stealing televisions from a small independent store. He isn’t going to kill you. He’s just going to be upset and take you off his Christmas card list.’

‘I can’t tell you. He’s dangerous.’

‘I’m dangerous.’

The lad hesitated a moment as he looked up to the big eyed, flat-face staring back at him. Jack was weird looking for sure, even slightly unnerving but dangerous?[2]

Jack realised what was going through the lad’s mind and quickly added, ‘Don’t let my looks deceive you.’

‘I can’t tell you his name,’ the thief continued.

‘Then I can’t let you go.’

‘What?’

‘Well if you were to tell me his name - and where I could find him - then maybe I would be inclined to release you and let you walk away. I mean - you probably even have time to find out if these CCTV cameras are real or not and - if they are - where to find the tapes. You might be able to stop yourself being sent to prison. But, yeah, you could get off lucky if this is your first crime. Maybe get some community service or something? Although that won’t help with finding work. If you’ve been done before though - probably looking at time, even for some television sets… And, for why? You want to protect some bigger idiot than you? Some fool who believes he is a crime lord because he managed to swipe some tellies…’ Jack started to laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘This. This whole thing is so funny. You were stealing televisions. It is hardly crime of the century. No one was hurt. It’s dumb. The whole thing is dumb. And look at you protecting your friend…’

‘From a freak! I’m protecting him from a freak.’

Jack took a step back. It was hard to notice the disappointment on his face - what with his pug-like features, he still looked just as sad as when he’d first woken the idiot up. But he was disappointed.

Before the change, Jack had been a police officer. With a bad foot, he couldn’t walk the beat and nor could he go out in the patrol cars. He was forced to sit behind a desk completing admin roles. When his life changed overnight though, he knew he’d never be accepted back at work and nor would he be accepted walking around society during daylight hours. He knew people would look at him as though he was a freak. Worse than that, he knew they’d want to conduct tests on him and so he called in sick and hid away from the public eye. Eventually ceasing his calls to work completely. Forced to stick to the shadows and only venture out at night, he started to see the scourge of society. The dregs. He saw them smashing things up just because they were bored, he saw them cursing strangers who walked past, he saw them sitting around doing whatever narcotics they could get their hands on and - like tonight - he saw them breaking into places they had no business being. He figured - if he was forced to stick to the shadows then he may as well strike from them too.

‘Do you have a criminal record?’ Jack asked despite already suspecting the answer would be in the affirmative. When the lad didn’t answer, he took the silence to be a yes. ‘How old is your kid?’

‘A few months.’

‘I wonder - when you get out of prison - will he be calling someone else daddy?’

It was the right thing to say. A little emotional blackmail to get the lad to give the information requested of him.

‘What’s his name and where does he live?’ Jack asked again.

‘It was just some television sets!’

‘Name. Address.’

8.

Early morning. Jack sat on his living room sofa, exhausted. It had been a long night but he’d done what he had set out to achieve. He’d found a crime and got the individuals responsible arrested for it. One, he had left tied to a chair in the store he’d been burgling and the other - he had made an anonymous phone call to his old friends back at the station. He gave the man’s name, he gave his address, after scoping it out for himself - he even gave the details of where he’d stashed the van (a garage block behind the flats in which he lived). Then, he had sat back and waited for the blue lights.

Jack knew it hadn’t been the crime of the century, or even of the last millennium but - it was still a crime. He had still come along and put a stop to it and he had still got the people involved arrested. He had done his part to clean up society and that - no matter how small in the great scheme of things - was something to be proud of.

It wasn’t as though Batman had first come onto the scene and immediately gone against The Joker. He had started small too. Something he could easily sink his teeth into and test his skills without getting into too much trouble. Just as Batman  worked his way up from fighting petty criminals to drug kingpins and worse - so would Jack.

The Bat started with muggers and other petty crooks and Jack started with robbers stealing from a television shop. It was still a crime and he had still done his part. Two more crooks were off the street. Jack felt… Well, no, Jack didn’t feel that great actually, or even remotely close to being good.

Did Batman struggle to breath as much?

Jack sniffed in hard and immediately made himself sneeze thanks to causing his nose to tickle with the attempted intake of breath. After the sneeze came the huff and then the obligatory puff. Chewie looked at him as though to ask what the hell his problem was.

‘Don’t even’ Jack said when he noticed the look. ‘The amount of times I’ve had to sit there listening to you do this?’

Chewie looked away with a huff of her own.

With no pre-warning, a reverse sneezing fit suddenly hit Jack once again. The struggles with breathing he was starting to get used to but this always took him by surprise and - worse - really knocked it out of him. In an effort to get it under control, he leaned forward in the hope that it would help but - to no avail.

Chewie, sympathetic as ever, leapt upon her toy donut and started to viciously shake it from side to side. Well, as viciously as a pug could attack anything. Again, they’re hardly the most threatening of animals unless of course you have a severe allergic reaction to their wind but - to date at least - there are no reports of such an allergy.

*

Since waking up that morning and finding himself like this, Jack had not phoned anyone. Having scoured the Internet he had found no records of this ever happening to anyone before - at least, not outside of some illegal experiment. Supposedly being the first, there was no way that he wanted to be subjected to the tests he so rightly feared. History has long since given many examples of first destroying what they do not understand only to ask questions later. That being said, with the reverse sneezing and his struggles to breathe, Jack knew he had to phone someone. Sure they might not be able to help him but - even though it looked as though he was turning to a dog, he wasn’t ready to roll over and play dead just yet.

There was only one person he could call.

Still on the living room sofa, Jack scrolled through the contacts on his mobile phone until he found the relevant number. His thumb hovered over the screen for a minute as he hesitated. Jack’s brain was already warning him that - if he called this number - he would be putting himself in the firing line for awkward questions, numerous tests and - possibly worst of the lot - the unwanted attention of the press. From his time working the desk, in the force, he knew that when the press got wind of something, they were like vultures circling the dying. They didn’t care if they were hounding the victim or the criminal. They only cared about the story.

His brain said, if you press that number - you just need to be even more careful.

He took in a deep breath which also caused a snort and - with that - he pressed the number and set the handset to speaker. The line clicked. The calling-tone came though.

Jack muttered to Chewie who’d since laid down in front of the (off) fireplace, ‘Want me to book you in for a check-up too?’

The line clicked and a female voice introduced herself, ‘Boscombe Veterinary. Carol speaking. How can I help?’

‘Hi. I’d like to make an appointment for a home visit, please…’

9.

Becky looked at Jack with the kind of horror he’d expected. It was similar to how the crooks had reacted the previous night, even though their faces hadn’t been entirely visible. It was the look he imagined everyone to gaze upon him with. Surprising really, given how people used to approach Chewie when he took her for a walk. Awww look at the little pug.[3]

‘Please don’t scream.’

She didn’t scream though. She just looked at him with her mouth agape and her eyes wide. Part of him wondered if she was looking to the front door behind him; the door he had let he walk through before he closed it and revealed his face to her.

It was obvious she had no idea what to say.

‘I expect you have questions,’ Jack said.

Jack had known Becky for a couple of years now. She had been Chewie’s vet since Chewie was a tiny little pup, capable of fitting in her hand. She had been the one to lecture Jack when Chewie’s weight started to creep up, she had been the one to advise about eye ulcers and she had been the one to completely spoil the little bitch with treats whenever they went in, to such an extent Chewie would often rather stay there and get fat then go home with her treat-less master. The amount of times Becky had met both Jack and Chewie was probably the only reason she wasn’t screaming. Unless of course she wasn’t screaming simply because - again - pugs just weren’t threatening looking. Weird, yes. Threatening, no.

She stammered over her words, ‘Wh-wh-what happened?’

It was a question Jack knew would be coming his way, especially from Becky, but it wasn’t one that he necessarily had the answer to.

With a shrug, he said, ‘You might want to go and take a seat and I’ll tell you everything.’

Becky hesitated a moment, unsure whether she could trust him. It was one thing to see - and trust - him as an owner of a pet she cared for but something else entirely to trust him in this situation. She would have, perhaps, felt easier had he come to the surgery and seen her.

Jack saw her reluctance to move into the living room where Chewie was locked away. Chewie was always closed in when visitors came knocking because - quite frankly - she was a turd. It wouldn’t matter who came to the door, she always bound over to them and literally run circles around them in a desperate attempt to get some kind of attention. It was an annoying habit which continued, even when the only attention she did get was a swift kick up the backside. Now, because she wouldn’t learn her lesson, she was locked away whilst a door was opened.

Jack reassured Becky that everything was okay. ‘What would I do? Lick you to death?’[4]

It was enough of a comment to make Becky smile although there was a part of her which worried that Jack might actually attempt to lick her. Keeping her back to him, Becky reached back and fumbled for the door handle. She pushed it down and gave the door a shove only to be immediately greeted by an over excited pug. Straight away - Chewie started running around Becky’s feet, desperate for some loving.

Jack shrugged and said, ‘Thankfully I haven’t got that trait. At least - not yet.’

Becky laughed.

Jack scooped down and - with his timing just right - lifted the energetic mutt from her game of helicopter. Becky walked into the living room and Jack, struggling pug in arms, followed.

‘I’m sorry for phoning and not pre-warning but, well, what was I supposed to say?’

Becky took a seat, unable to take her eyes from Jack’s new visage. He didn’t take offence though. Had it been the other way around, he too would have been staring at her whilst trying to make sense of it.

He continued, ‘I didn’t know who else to call.’

‘Well, no, quite.’ Becky had no clue as to who he should have phoned either but she was confident, despite her training, she was not the right choice.

So as not to make her uncomfortable by sitting next to her, Jack sat across the other side of the room. Chewie had recognised Becky the moment she’d seen her though and pledged her allegiance by jumping up and cuddling in next to her. Chewie’s obvious thoughts: She gave her treats at the vets so maybe she’d get the same here too?

‘Well,’ Jack said after a brief silence, ‘where to start?’

BEFORE

10.

It had been a night of tossing and turning. He couldn’t get comfortable in bed and so Jack had gone back down to the sofa where he could, at least, prop himself up a little better in an effort to stop the coughing. The only issue now was the damned dog hair. Every time he rubbed it from his face and shut his eyes again, he could feel more there, irritating him. Worse yet was when he felt it scratching his eyeball.

At one point he had sat bolt up-right and glared at Chewie. She’d seized the opportunity to cuddle right in close to him the moment she had seen him come downstairs with the duvet. A night on the sofa, with a blanket and her master? Yes, please! Chewie was oblivious to the glaring though. She was snoring loudly, another reason why Jack was glaring at her.

‘Yeah - make the most of it. You won’t be allowed on the sofa again,’ he said. He knew he was lying to himself though. She might have been annoying to him, especially waking him from his sleep earlier that day by licking his ear and then licking into his mouth, but he loved her. Jack was childless. Neither he nor his ex, had ever wanted children but he imagined his love for this dog being the same a parent would feel for their kid, no matter how much of a git it was being. You drew on the bedroom wall in your own crap? That’s okay. Daddy still loves you. Jack wouldn’t be pushing Chewie off the sofa any time soon; he knew it, the dog knew it.

Jack laid back down and closed his eyes once more in the hope that - sooner or later - sleep would come for him.

Sleep had come.

*

The morning had come with a heavy price. Jack’s head banged worse than ever before with a pain even worse than one of his migraines. When he sat up, his stomach swirling as the bug continued to torment his insides, the room spun faster than a merry-go-round stuck on “spin fastest”. To stop himself from vomiting on the spot and painting the carpet in an unpleasant colour of “stomach acid” he closed his eyes. Jack could cope with most things in life but anything which spun seemed to instantly make him feel nauseous, and it wasn’t a feeling which tended to pass quickly. Once he felt sick from spinning, he’d feel it for a good few hours - no matter how still he stayed.

From behind him, still on the sofa, Chewie started to growl at him. It was a low pitched grumble from the back of her throat; the noise she made usually as a prelude to barking manically.

‘Please don’t…’ Jack feared the barking was coming next and with his head pounding the way it was already, he could really do without Chewie chiming in. Too late. Chewie started barking. ‘Please! Be quiet!’

Jack slowly stood up, trying his best to ignore how heavy his head felt and how hot his face was. Whatever the infection was, dwelling within, it was kicking his backside and whilst he had been brought up to ignore these things for the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours, he was already considering phoning the doctors just as soon as they opened.

Unsteady on his feet, he shuffled his way through to the bathroom. He needed the toilet anyway but was more interested in the painkillers he’d left on the sink top.

Jack called back to Chewie who was still making noise from the living room, ‘Please, stop barking!’ The only plus side was that she hadn’t followed him through so - although she was still making noise - it was a little less in his ear now. A little reprieve is better than no reprieve. Yet… It was still loud. Despite feeling bunged up in his throat and nose - his ears were not only seemingly unaffected but also seemed to be clearer than before too. The wax, once glued to his ear canals, must have somehow worked free and found their way to his nose and throat. If that was the case, it would explain the darker colouring of the rubbish he had been coughing up, he guessed.

10.

In the bathroom, Jack stood by the toilet and - working on a tired auto-pilot - cocked his leg before he started to urinate. It was only when the pitter patter of piss sprinkled his leg that he realised what he was doing. Quickly, he put his leg down and re-aimed himself to get the remainder of his morning waste into the actual bowl.

‘Idiot,’ he muttered to himself, frustrated that - with how he was feeling - he had given himself more cleaning up to do. He finished his business and pulled a towel from the railing which he then dropped to the floor. It was easier using that as a mop then getting on his hands and knees with warm soapy water and disinfectant. A towel to get the excess and then - later - when he was feeling better, he could clean it properly. In the meantime, if anyone happened to visit him and complain about a faint smell of urine, he could shift the blame onto the dog easily enough.

With the worst of the mess mopped up - having moved the towel around with his foot - Jack kicked the moist towel behind him. Again, to save bending down and picking it up whilst his head was banging, he would come back and pick it up later. He did think about someone coming around, using the toilet and then grabbing it for themselves whilst looking for something to dry their hands with but he figured he was safe from visitors. Most of his friends were from work and they all knew he was “dying” at the moment which made it highly unlikely that they’d be wishing to pay him a visit any time soon. With any luck, at least. Still, the chances of them coming around to visit, needing the bathroom, picking a towel up from the floor… Never going to happen.

Jack grabbed the tablets from the side and popped two into the palm of his hand despite not having run his hands under the sink tap. He was less interested in personal hygiene at this point and more pre-occupied in getting rid of how he was feeling. He ran the cold water tap with a twist of his spare hand and necked the two tablets, resting them on his tongue so that they were ready to wash away with a quick slurp of the running water.

With his balance all over the place, he accidentally head butted the wall as he leaned down to the sink.

‘Idiot.’

He re-positioned himself so as not to hit his head again and went to drink but - as though it had a mind of its own - his tongue stuck out of his mouth and he started to greedily lap at the cool waterfall. Alarmed that he seemed to have no control, he pulled his tongue back into his mouth and stood bolt upright.

‘The hell was that?’

And then - for the first time - he noticed his reflection.

Chewie joined in with Jack’s loud chorus as he howled in horror, disbelief and confusion at his new reflection. Jack now understood as to why she had been barking at him.

TODAY

11.

Becky looked at Jack in disbelief. That was it. That was his story. He had gone to bed feeling unwell and - when he woke - he looked like this. Of course she didn’t believe the tale. Even with him sitting opposite her, and seeing his face in person, it was a hard pill to swallow. Had it not been just him and her, and - of course - Chewie, she would have believed this to be some kind of hidden camera show. But then, maybe it was? Maybe it was a sick joke for his own amusement? Or maybe there were hidden cameras around the place to capture her reaction? These taps he might have then passed on to television producers for their program? Maybe. That was certainly more believable than what he was saying. And Jack knew this too.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

Becky didn’t answer him immediately. She just sat there with her mouth still slightly agape.

‘You just went to bed and you woke up like this?’ She added the painfully obvious, ‘This isn’t the normal kind of thing to happen to a person.’

‘And yet here we are.’

‘Here we are.’

‘I was ill at the time. Some kind of bug.’

‘I don’t know any bug that turns you into a pug!’

‘Pug-Bug. I’m guessing it’s new.’

‘It’s not possible.’

‘Please don’t say that because clearly it is! Something happened to make me like this!’

‘But I just don’t understand…’

‘Makes two of us and yet I have to live like this!’

Jack felt himself starting to get frustrated. Whether she believed him or not, he needed her help. But then she wasn’t exactly likely to assist if she didn’t believe him.

‘The only thing I can think is…’ He hesitated, unsure as to how to even say it. ‘Chewie licked me.’

At the exact moment he uttered the words, Chewie was busy licking Becky’s hand. Immediately Becky pulled it away.

Despite moving herself, Becky said, ‘Chewie has licked most people in the surgery… They haven’t turned into…’

Jack finished her sentence for her, ‘A freak?’

Becky didn’t argue with him for the simple reason, she couldn’t. He was a man with a pug’s face. How was that not freakish?

‘Maybe the tablets I’ve been taking, the infection, the crap I’ve been coughing up and swallowing back down… Maybe all of that combined with Chewie’s saliva when it went into my mouth… Maybe - somehow - that just did…’ He gestured to his face and finished the sentence, ‘… This.’ He continued, ‘Does it really matter how it happened?’[5]

‘I can’t fix this,’ Becky said.

It was true. Becky couldn’t fix it. She couldn’t give Jack his face back and undo whatever the hell had happened to him but that wasn’t why Jack had called her. He knew she couldn’t fix it. But she might be able to make him feel more comfortable. She had helped Chewie with her breathing issues and Jack was struggling in the same way she had been. He had a pug face now so surely it would be the same fix, just on a bigger scale?

‘Chewie used to reverse sneeze all of the time. She’d get excited and then have a bout of sneezing. On hot days she would struggle to breathe and would not be as active because she’d get out of breath so fast…’

Becky already knew where this was going.

Jack continued, ‘Since whatever happened happened, I’ve been the same way as she was, before that operation you did for her.’

‘I’m not qualified for this.’

Becky knew he was going to ask for the same operation Chewie had had and whilst she was comfortable to do it on small animals, such as Chewie, what he was asking… That was completely out of her comfort zone. Completely out of it.

‘You helped Chewie.’

‘Chewie is a pug!’

‘So’s my head.’

There was no arguing that. Becky was most definitely looking into the eyes of a big pug-head.

‘I can’t guarantee that everything will go as smoothly as it did with Chewie. Just because you might look like a pug on the outside, it doesn’t mean that everything will be the same if I cut you open.’

‘It will be the same principle though.’

‘You need a hospital. You need doctors and they need nurses to help. This isn’t something just one person can do!’

‘You’re saying doctors and nurses are better trained to deal with a pug than you? If that was the case why would people not take their pugs to the hospital? You are the best person for this and - you already know - I can’t go to a hospital. I step foot in one of those places and I won’t be allowed out again. We both know it. This has to happen with you and it has to happen here. If I die, I die. So what? Look at me. If I survive, you would have improved the quality of my life. You would have saved another animal. And - just like always - you’ll be paid well for it.’

Becky went to argue with him but stopped. It was clear his mind was made up. He wanted this and if it wasn’t her who helped, he would find someone else. Or, he would live as best as he could until his time came.

‘But what comes next? What comes after I help you out? What do you do then? You’re saying people can’t see you because of what they would do to you so… I fix you up. If I can! What comes after that?

Jack smiled.

Batman went away for his training. He came back a bad-ass. Superman disappeared to an ice-fortress to learn about himself. He came back with a new determination. Jack would have this operation. He would come back fitter than before and - when he did - he would get back to the streets and continue cleaning them up… Start with the small guys and work his way to the top.

‘Well?’ Becky pushed him for an answer.

‘This is just the start,’ Jack said. ‘This is my origin story. This is the part where you help me become a better Pug and - after that - you leave with money in your back pocket and my secret to keep to yourself. I - meanwhile - will get back to what I had initially set out to do…’

‘Which is?’

‘Cleaning the streets.’

Becky looked at him, stunned by his answer.

Jack asked, ‘So is this a new partnership? Will you help me?’

To Be Continued… Maybe….

[1] A reverse-sneeze is suspected to be caused by irritation or inflammation of the nasal, pharyngeal, or sinus passages. It may be a way for the dog to attempt to remove foreign particles such as dust, powder or other irritants or allergens from its upper airways. It is also seen after periods of over-excitement.

[2] No pug could ever be considered dangerous. They even look mentally retarded (especially if their tongues hang out which, thankfully for him, Jacks didn’t) or they look sad. They do not look dangerous. Furthermore, if you were to be cornered by one, you would - most likely - be licked to death. That is The Way Of The Pug.

[3] This is a fair point actually. People DO love pugs. So - with that in mind - surely they would love a massive human-head sized pug? I wouldn’t be scared by one of such a size but - that being said - I would be apprehensive if one that big sneezed on me because the little ones can cause a big enough spray as it is. It would be like a snotty shower.

[4] Pugs are notorious for their “licking”. You do not even have to entice them with Peanut Butter, should that be your thing. They’ll lick all day and all night if given half the chance whereas other dogs tend to just go straight in for the crotch-sniff or - worse - the head-butt.

[5] This is the thing: People spend so much time stressing about how something happened that they lose sight of what they’re meant to be doing. They’re supposed to be looking how to fix the consequences of what happened or ensuring it doesn’t happen again. The past cannot be changed. It has happened. It is over. Learn from it. Do not repeat your mistakes. Or, in the case of Jack, do not turn into another animal.