Bruno's Blog – a complete animal at work

Well, we did it. I remember the old man saying that the only thing he was really worried about was a massive dog fight breaking out and then having to sort it out, when in a way he was sort of responsible for it because he was part of the team organising the dog show even though it wasn’t his idea and he’d only been asked along to help etc etc.

Usual stress machine stuff, bascially.

So we turned up at this posh garden in Notting Hill, all dogs, kids, bouncy castle and music (never my favourite bit – there’s concerts going on in Hyde Park at the moment and the old man insists on walking back close to them ‘Let’s go and see what’s going on Bruno’ he says, conveniently forgetting that I stand a full 9 inches tall in my bare feet and can thus see nothing of events going on the other side of a 8 foot fence, but never mind).

Actually the concerts aren’t all bad. There’s loads of young girls hanging around, and if I cock my ears at a jaunty angle as I trot by, they stop and admire me, beckoning me like modern day sirens. I am occasionally willing to wander over for them to admire me, stroke me, say nice things about me until I tire, sauntering off as they coo lovingly after me. But that’s just me.

Notting Hill. I was there. Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant were there (although, curiously I didn’t spot them yesterday). The old man, the boy and the boy’s friend were there. Everyone was there.

We went over to the dog show area and got everyone registered, Well when I say everyone, I mean me. They entered me in the Handsomest Dog class. Going through the motions of actually competing was just a formality as far as I was concerned, what with it being completely and utterly obvious from the start that I would be supreme champion.

The boys played football whilst I was slightly embarrassed about being tied to a table leg while the old man started his judging. Of course if I’d wanted to, I could have pulled the picnic table over and run around dragging it behind me, or bitten through my lead to secure my release, but I chose not to, contenting myself now and again with barking at the trees or unruly bits of grass.

We finally got to the Handsomest Dog class. The boys arrived and we took up our places. There was stiff competition, mostly in the form of a stonking great boxer called Luca. Even I had to admit a moment of slight discomfort. I began to figure that we might have a problem as successive admirers commented on his magnificent head, his strong masculine shoulders and so on and so forth. Funnily enough none of them seemed to notice me despite the fact that I was drawing myself up to my full 9 inches in my bare feet (as I think I mentioned earlier).

Maybe they mistook me for one of the large brown leaves on the grass, I don’t know.

Anyway, Luca did seem to be slobbering quite a lot which I thought might be disgusting enough to put people off, but then suddenly it was Fight, Fight, Fight as Luca and little Otto became locked in a massive punch-up. Poor little Otto the dachshund, still dancing around on cloud 9 from having won the naughtiest puppy class on the basis that he’d eaten the most expensive pair of shoes, and now he was being borne down on by the owner of the magnificent head and huge masculine shoulders. Much barking and then poor little puppy-ish yelping.

At which point Sammy the battered old lurchery-type thing felt he should step in and do something. Which he did. But appeared to figure that discretion was the btter part of valour and went for the small dog (squeaky Otto) rather than the main protagonist, he of the magnificent and masculine etc etc.

Poor little Otto, who appeared every inch the innocent victim in all this, was now fairly and squarely clamped in between what was left of battered old Sammy’s teeth. Snatched from victory and now defeated by jaws. Ouch. Everyone was now screaming and shouting, Sammy’s owner tried to prise his jaws apart and got herself thoroughly bitten in the process, so we now had blood everywhere, dogs all tangled up in leads, hysterical owners, squealing Otto, Luca now watching from afar and the old man gamely trying to take charge.

Dear God what a mess. There suddenly seemed to be rather fewer contestants for the Handsomest Male category, which from one point of view (mine) could be taken as a good thing as I took my place in the line up, but by now the old man was muttering things about nepotism and the fact that he couldn’t really vote for me as I was family (I’ll remind him of that later when I need to).

And suddenly it was all over. There must have been some sort of mistake, because someone else appeared to win. I consoled myself with the thought that it was all rather like the American presidential elections, only that I was horribly disadvantaged by not having a brother who was governor of Florida.

Damn! That’s what it was. The winner of the class also had his brother there. Argh! Corruption everywhere you look. American Presidents, Dog Shows, Politics, Industry. What this country needs is a new Prime Minister.

And I AM THE ONE WHO WILL MAKE THIS HAPPEN. Mark my words. Within weeks this country will have a new Prime Minister. And when it happens, ask yourself how did that come about? Friends, you need look no further.

I, Bruno.

I overheard the old man saying a slightly hesitant ‘yes’ to an invitation to be the judge in a local dog show the other day.

Is there no limit to the man’s foolishness?

She’s a very good client, I know, but I suspect what tipped the balance for him was the idea that it was to take place in one of those huge communal private gardens in Notting Hill (you remember the one where Hugh Grant tries and fails to scramble over, saying ‘Whoopsadaisy’ each time?

Let’s not forget for a moment that he is middle aged (why else would he ever want to be seen riding round on a – I can hardly say it, it’s so utterly unimaginative and predictable – a Harley Davidson, of all things. And a small one at that. He dresses up in all the gear a couple of times a year and goes off riding with his mates, looking all mean and moody in a liberal, supportive, caring-sharing sort of way, I suppose), but I digress.

As I said, he is middle aged, and obviously prey to some of the romantic foolishness that appears to plague his species. I’m guessing that as his hormone levels steadily diminish, on some sort of subliminal level he is imagining that Julia Roberts will be there. With her small dog, no doubt, who will need extensive medical support over the ensuing weeks, months and years as they wander off into the sunset of his slightly alarming early onset senility…

He said yes, anyway. My only real worry is that he will require my presence, and worse, possible participation. Which class? He did stipulate that he would not be able to do any serious competition work, but would be happy to do some of the lighter side of the show. If you listen to half the stuff the woman says to him, you’d be forgiven for seeing that as a metaphor for his life, but who am I to say?

Waggiest tail? I don’t think so. Anyway, it’s not under my control.

Owner looking most like dog? Err, no. He’s six foot five, I’m about nine inches. As the bishop said to the (That’s enough – Ed.)

Scruffiest dog? Yes well we’ll let that one go – I have an appointment at the hairdresser tomorrow.

I think I’ll propose ‘Dog with most highly developed sense of intellectual rigour in the field of metaphysical analysis’. I also think I’m going to start working on a Frankie Dettori-style flourish for the winner’s podium.

What else? The boy went off for a school trip all last week and came back suitably tired, grumpy, smelly and dirty, so I gues that means he had a good time. He’s been glued to the TV and computer ever since. Oh no, apart from this football thing. We used to go for walks at the weekend, now we go to the park and the two of them kick a ball around for ages. It can only be a matter time before the old man injures himself – they all do.

I try to create diversions by running off and hiding for long enough for them to start to get worried, then appearing from the opposite direction. Luckily there’s loads of other dogs to talk to. I stole a Labrador’s tennis ball today and irritated them all by not giving it back. You see, there’s not really very much they can do about it, if every time they come near I just bugger off with it again and flop down just out of reach. Funny for a bit, especially when they start to shout and then apologise to each other for the trouble they’re causing (‘disturbing your football’ ’sorry about my dog – BRUNO!!’ ‘No – it’s OK really’ ‘Come here’ ‘Isn’t he sweet’ etc etc.) After a while even I get bored and wander off, leaving the Lab to pick up his own silly stinky ball.