A hilarious moment on Saturday night at a house party attended by loads of local musicians. One of the performers, Keith, known for performing comic songs on the banjo, got up to sing a number called “Dogging”, about a couple who enjoy outdoor sex. The lyrics are very amusing and the audience were chuckling anyway – then unbeknownst to Keith, who had his back to the door, the door swung gently open and the host’s elderly German Shepherd dog wandered in and started sniffing about. Great comic timing – as more and more of the audience spotted the dog the laughter got louder and louder.
Things got even funnier when the host’s Irish Wolfhound – a great shaggy grey giant of a beast – also chose that moment to potter in. Poor Keith, concentrating on the banjo, couldn’t understand why his song was being greeted with such hilarity – OK, so it got quite a giggle when he’d performed it before but was it that funny?
“We were dogging, we were dogging,” sang Keith to gales of laughter as the Alsatian pottered about the room looking for crumbs. “We were doing much more than just snogging!” he gamely continued, baffled by the snorts of laughter as the wolfhound made its way up the room under the table, having a good sniff at the guests’ legs as he passed by.
This was the second dog-related incident of the day: I’d got up on Saturday morning to find the cupboards were bare of cat food. Much indignation among the feline residents at not being able to chow down and get their breakfast, so, amidst much pathetic mewing, I nipped out to the local country store to get supplies.
I’m never at my most intellectual first thing in the morning so I stood for a while at the pet food section trying to work out whether 3 Whiskas packs for the price of 2 was cheaper per pouch than 25% off Felix. I’d just worked out that I was rubbish at arithmetic when a random woman appeared at my side and asked if I knew how to spell “Weimaraner”.
I did, as it happens. “Oh, I thought it was spelled with a V,” she said, “I wondered why I couldn’t find any books about them,” and trotted off happily, presumably to root about among the shop’s selection of books on Building Your First Chicken Coop, How to Breed Guinea Pigs andOrganic Small-holding for Beginners for something on Weimaraners, with a W.
Anyway, no sooner had I loaded up my basket with Whiskas than she was back. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a blue one have you?” she asked. Eh? I must have looked blank. “A blue Weimaraner,” she elucidated. Had my head been on a bit more firmly I might have been able to come up with a witty response along the lines of “No, I had a Brazilian last week”, but like I say I’m never at my sharpest at the crack of dawn so I just gaped half-wittedly. It turned out she was looking for a breeder of blue Weimaraners and presumably had thought there was half a chance of me being one, based on my superior dog-related spelling ability. Wouldn’t it be great if people always thought you were an expert in a subject if you were able to spell it? Imagine the fun you could have pretending to be an anaesthetist.