I am in pain. Two days ago, we recieved a visitor. We knew he was coming so we got into our routine of tying up the new-dog-Bass so that we can restrain him from the delirious joy of welcoming our guests with over devotion. The-now-dead-dog-Bobby gave us no such problems. I think he only once went ape shit barking (as they say). That was when we were watching TV one night and had forgotten to turn off our stove. A pan was on fire in our kitchen. He was a good boy!
Back to my story. In honour of our visitor’s arrival, I smartened up, putting on black linen trousers; size – too small. Mr Furlong had to help me do up the button at the waist.
At last, when the doorbell rang, we secured new-dog-Bass with his lead on the collar on his training mat in our hall. Or rather, Mr Furlong unknown to us, attached the lead to the ring that holds new-dog-Bass’s bronze name tag to the collar. Mr Furlong walked down the passage to open the door and new-dog-Bass simply ripped through his constraint, and followed him.
The barking was dreadful. The doorbell was loud. The guest was waiting.
Mr Furlong ran back to me waiting at the training mat delivering new-dog-Bass to me to “do something with”. So, in a panic, I grabbed the dog, the lead and the collar and bent over in my too tight black linen trousers.
There was a loud crack from my rib cage.
And that was it.
I said not a word whilst we entertained our visitor. But I couldn’t wait for him to go so I could change into my elasticated jersey pull up pants.
I know what I’ve done, I’ve cracked a rib, that’s what. I’m not going to the doctor because he’ll tell me the same thing. I know. Because I did it before, many years ago.
Dammit.
The Last Furlong 