Neverending dog days

People Like Us

Ever since word has got around that we're in the market for a pup, our apartment has been turned into a kennel for every species of canine that has walked this earth.

"You're sure about that doberman," asks a neighbour, whose attempt to fob one on "cheap" has met with stern resistance from my side. "Either he keeps the doberman, or me," says my wife, offering, for a moment, a brief, enticing alternative. But madness prevails. "I'll keep the wife," I tell my neighbour.

Another friend fetches up at the door with not one but three pups. "Aren't they cute?" she says. "They're so sweet," my kids echo, "can we keep them all?" "By all means," says my friend, "they're yours," and disappears, leaving three leaking, hungry pups in her wake.

"Listen," I tell the kids, "all pups look cute, but these ones will grow up to be monsters." "We love monsters," my daughter says. "And I already have two of my own," I remind her, "but these pups must go." "But I have no place to keep them," my friend wails into the phone when I call her, "you'll have to find them some other homes."

So begins an exercise of hounding people we know, and some we don't. "What's the breed?" they want to know. I call my friend to check. "A little bit of retriever," she mumbles, "perhaps some mastiff, or terrier." "Are they street dogs?" I ask indignantly.

"How dare you," says my friend, "I feed the mother every day near my gate, and even pay a vet to check her regularly." They're mongrels," I say regretfully to hopeful owners. The days pass, and my apartment has begun to smell like a public facility. But the kids love them.

Fortunately, some people like mongrels, so by the time I'm at the end of my tether walking the three pups, scrubbing up after them, feeding them round the clock, and making up for their abandoned mum by letting them sleep with the kids in their beds, the three pups have found new homes. I let them go without regret and heave a sigh of relief.

Too soon it appears. A neighbourhood driver stops by with a pup. "It's a bulldog," he says. "And I'm Prince Charles," I tell him. "No, really," he says, "besides your son wants him." Since my son is away at tuition, the pup is left behind for the night.

My daughter's friend who drops by to check the new pup, says: "That's the little fellow whose mother delivered in the gutter outside the society." Do you know its owners?" I ask her. She looks at me oddly, "She lives on the street, no one owns her." It takes us two days to locate the driver and return the pup who, meanwhile, has done a good job of turning the apartment into a gutter.

My children decide they'll leave word with the pet shops in town about their requirement. "I have a dalmation going cheap," says one pet shop owner, "if you can give me thirty-k, I'll have him at your house this evening.

Of course, it's a cross with some other breed, but at that price, what else could you expect." "I want a pug," my son tells him. "We're flying in one tonight from Bangkok," the shop owner says, "would you like to bid for him?" "I'll be happy to provide a happy home for a pup," I tell him, "but I'm not buying one, thank you."

"Well, I may just have something for you," he says doubtfully, "but you'll understand, I'll still have to levy a service charge." I nod acceptance. "What's the breed?" my daughter asks excitedly. "For free," says the pet shop owner, "you're lucky to get a pi-dog."