So! the beatification of Boris Johnson, and stray dogs.
Did nothing all weekend. Felt it was my civic duty. In fact, when the local history of our times is written I reckon I could be something of a lock down legend.
A Stakhanovite of solitude… bit of an obscure reference perhaps, but he was the Russian superstar of boring back in the glory days of communism. I don’t approve of the politics but always loved the aesthetic.
So, today…
Actually scratch that. Am I the only one to notice that every third sentence on the news (probably everywhere else too) begins with, “So…”? It’s catching. I listened to the one o’clock news on Radio Four this lunchtime and one of the guests began every bloody sentence with, “So…” What is this curious and infuriating verbal tic about? I’m sure this will be the topic of many a socio-linguistic PhD to come. And once you notice it you’ll begin to hear it everywhere. Just you see.
I’m still listening, watching, reading every news item I can. I spend probably 7 hours a day checking the latest bulletin. It’s almost a full time job. But I’m taking less and less of it in and feel like I’m someone stood against a shady wall in some faraway city watching a parade pass by, lots of noise and spectacle, but I don’t understand the language, the ritual is incomprehensible, and the religion seems positively inhuman. I can’t stop watching but it’s horrifying, fascinating and repellent at the same time. And it’s bound to end in some gory act of blood sacrifice.
For fuck’s sake, Boris Johnson was resurrected on Easter Sunday, after being shut up in an hermetically sealed space, wrapped in a shroud and watched over by a couple of angels. I wouldn’t be surprised if the first interview he gave on coming back to life was with someone called Mary. Roll away the stone!
And according to the lunchtime news the experience is bound to have resulted in some kind of religious epiphany.
Not a joke, an actual interview on a prestigious BBC news programme.
I think we were meant to genuflect at that point. And thank the Lord.
I had to leave the house. There’s only so much blaspheming I can do before my blood pressure reaches terminal levels.
I took my usual daily derive around the side streets of LS12, crossing the graveyard, looping back along Tong Road, and winding home through the couple of pocket parks around the corner from my house. Both parks had clean paths and empty bins – local volunteers had been out over the weekend, it makes a big difference – and were utterly bereft of any living creatures except a mob of raucous black headed seagulls acting like extras from a horror movie remake, and a lone dog. It wasn’t a young dog, probably in his teens with a grey muzzle and rickety back legs, some kind of staffy/boxer cross by the look of it, and no sign of maltreatment. In fact he looked in good shape considering. Quick and intelligent. But he was on his own. And not a happy chap.
You don’t see many dogs without human companions these days, even around here. In all the time I’ve lived in Armley I’ve come across one stray, a gorgeous American Bull Terrier (I think, could be wrong) we later found out was called Tyson, though Clancy insisted on calling the poor mutt Twinkle or Sparkle or Topsy or some such completely incongruous name. He’d been turfed out of a car we think onto Hall Lane in busy Saturday afternoon traffic, back when we had traffic on the roads. We were out in the street for some reason and Clancy had seen the dog first, coming towards us from behind a parked bus; “Grab him!” she cried.
Tyson was as big as a baby bull with a set of jaws that could have snapped me in half, so I have to admit I hesitated. But the dog trotted over to us and seemed happy to say hello – he sat on my foot and slobbered on my hand and allowed me to eventually steer him into the yard without any trouble. He didn’t have a collar on so it was a matter of cajoling him and hoping for the best. We gave him some water and a bowl of dried cat food (we’d put the cats upstairs, behind 3 closed doors, Tyson could have swallowed one whole) and then a pouch of wet cat food, which he wolfed down. Clancy went to a neighbours and borrowed a lead and I took him for a bit of a walk, still thinking at the time that he was a local dog who’d probably escaped from his owners garden. Then we rang the dog warden.
It was really hard to hand the dog over. He’d settled right in, found a warm spot to sleep in, entertained us with a couple of charming tricks (he loved oat biscuits and would offer his paw if he heard me rattle the packet) and seemed really happy to be here. But still, cats.
He found a good home on a farm in Lancashire. An actual farm, it’s not one of those tales you tell kids, he went to a loving home. He’s not dead.
The dog I saw today though might not be so fortunate. He wasn’t so young, or sociable, or appealing. And he wouldn’t let me anywhere near him. I tried to coax him with a crisp (I had a bag of crisps in my pocket, perfectly normal) but he wasn’t having any. Perhaps he preferred cheese and onion? I don’t know what I’d have done with him even if I’d managed to catch his collar – don’t know if the dog warden is still working right now, and there’s no way I could provide food and shelter for a random stray bulldog cross… like I said, cats. He scarpered off in the direction of Kirkstall. Perhaps he’ll be luckier there. More space at least.
He’s the third stray dog I’ve noticed in the past couple of weeks. Hope this isn’t a trend. And I know it’s a bit soft to feel sentimental about a lonesome canine when so many people are alone and unhappy and not faring very well but there it is. I do worry about the owners too. Can’t be an easy thing to let a dog go. No point judging anyone. Life’s hard right now.