Next time I find myself in need of a new dog will somebody please nudge me in the ribs and remind me that no matter how cute, how snuffly nosed and waggy tailed it is: I Am Not To Choose Another Bull Terrier.
I know beauty is in the eye of the beholder - but I find that noble profile and four-square stance irresistible. They have a certain comic demeanour, appropriately dogged determination and are loyal and loving. But OMG they are they canine equivalents of those machines that the local council uses to clean the streets. They 'hoover' up everything in their paths, sweet/sour, meat, fish or fowl. In fact the fouler the better. Well rotted is good.
The vet told me that Bull Terriers have sensitive stomachs. I hid my bemused grin behind the fist which stifled my splutter of laughter. Hah! They wouldn't be half as sensitive if they didn't chow down on juice cartons, plastic wrap and cotton buds.......
Wilson, his gut rot and I left the vet's surgery armed with antibiotics and a range of proprietary foods guaranteed to cure him. I praised the gods of Veterinary Insurance who would (bless 'em) be footing the bill for the consultation, the sedation, the X Ray and investigation, the blood tests and all the other things it's useful to do a dog when it's knocked out and unable to bite.
I've been giving him his tablets once a day as prescribed. I've measured out small meals of the proprietary foods as instructed - a little spoonful of pappy meat here and a bit of kibble there. None of the beloved kitchen scraps have passed his lips. He's looking quite well now and I think we may have turned a corner.
But what's that? Oh look - there's a blackbird in the fruit cage. It's only a young one - hardly black at all yet......I'll open the door to let it out -
Oh no! Too late......with a mighty blundering crash Wilson has smashed though the netting and with deftness worthy of a cat has caught the bird. Within seconds only its tail feathers can be seen at his lips. Beak, bones, legs, claws and tail, all gone. What a treat. Eaten. I imagine it in his stomach still alive and singing like the Old Woman's Spider which 'Wriggled and jiggled and tickled inside her...'
Why do I bother?