The dog invites me in with a lick of the lips and a professional smile which puts me at my ease. He offers me a blanket and a squeaky toy while I complete the usual forms: pedigree, age in human years, previous experience with children, sheep, and postmen. It’s important to stress that I’m not a dog, but we’re all equal now and there could well be a collar with my name on it and a retractable leash for grudging walks twice a day come rain or shine. Before I know it, my head’s thrust from a car window, with speeding air rubbering my mouth into an abstract gurn, my tongue trembling towards my flapping ears. I’m adept in the enology of piss on trees, my quivering nose attuned to the bouquet of oaky legs, and I’m proud to say I’m the Gustav Metzger of soft furnishings. I can balance a stack of biscuits on my nose until empires crumble. It’s important to stress that I am Dog and that I’d snap Her Maj as soon as anyone. Come on in. Have a blanket. Have a squeaky toy.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Rupert Loydell