A Bad Person

Step aside, Hitler; say goodbye, Gengis Khan; au revoir, Pol Pot. There’s a new contender for the most evil person on the planet: me.

Today I needed to go shopping. I put Whisky’s toys and basket in the downstairs shower room. I had to carry him there; enticement didn’t work – not even the special milky treats that the manufacturer claims are irresistable to dogs. No sooner had I shut the door than the whimpering began, shortly followed by loud crying. It reminded me of nothing so much as when my sister and mother went shopping a few years ago leaving a two year old nephew subject to my tender ministrations. The moment his mother was out of sight he started bawling, something he kept up for the full three hours. He also developed a magical ability to both wet and fill his nappies every few minutes. I suspect I hold the world record for frequency of changing stinky, sodden nappies. Looking after my nephew was heart-wrenching: there was nothing I could do to distract him or ease his pain. And today I felt the same way about Whisky. He was frightened, confused and alone – a bad place for any puppy to be.

He was still crying when I got home an hour later.

Of course, he survived the experience. I gave him his lunch. We played a little. And now he’s sleeping on the sofa. Life for him is good again.

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