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The Infantile Terror

The Infantile Terror

Ross Madison


I feel the strain being taken off my neck as the lead is unclipped from my collar. Immediately after this, she walks up and opens the front door for me. I bound happily into the hall and. wait a minute. What happened to my tug rope? It was lying right here at the bottom of the stairs before we went out for my walk, what..?


Oh, Christ, not him. He comes toddling towards me, this pale pink bald thing in a pair of poofy white underpants. Billy, they call him. I can’t help thinking that Damian would have been more appropriate. But oh, what the hell? Augh! Oh god, he’s got my tug rope in his mouth! That’s disgusting, it’s covered in baby mouth germs now.


Oh, good lord. He’s going to pet me. He hasn’t quite got the hang of petting yet. He sort of slaps me very roughly between my shoulder blades and rakes his fingers down my spine. I’ve just got to stand here and take it, though. Last time he started bringing that soft pudgy hand of his down onto me, I jerked away and told him to “bugger off”. Of course, he heard it as “Grr woof woof,” but that didn’t matter. His mum still hit me with a broom and refused to give me any supper.


Ow, I think as this slobbering pink terror whacks me, on the top of the head this time. Have mercy.


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