by Paul Raworth Bennett
The cutest little Yorkie, “Jenny”, lives just lives down the street. When Bingo (that’s my own canine boss) and I walk past her digs, she’ll waddle on over (all two terrifying pounds of her) and softly burble with excitement while, with vibrating two-inch tail, she engages blasé old Bingo in the obligatory circle-sniff dance.
Just the other day Jenny returned, freshly clipped and coiffed, from the doggie spa. I can just picture her perched under a tiny little 1950s beehive hair dryer, festooned with ribbons, stretching out her tiny legs and admiring her freshly-clipped nails while breathlessly trading the latest gossip with a parlour full of poochettes.
The next time I hoist Jenny for a cuddle, I might just want to run away with her (just for a minute or two, maybe) while Bingo mutters “Come on Paul (when he’s annoyed with me, he calls me by my first name), it’s just Jenny, for cryin’ out loud… you’re always getting sidetracked!”