So there I was, sitting in the weak sunshine in Roker Park, gracing a bench with my illustrious presence. Tara, the miniature Grizzly Bear was sitting next to me, giving me the eye and sort of saying under her teeth, "Go, I dare you. Try to grab my stick!"
She had a stick between her paws, mind, when I say stick, branch would have been a better description.
So I am sitting there, nice and comfy, polluting the air with my fag, and Tara decides to start growling.
"What's wrong with you? Moron," I asked, diplomatically.
Then along came some sort of mongrel dog followed by it's (I presume) owner. A nice enough female, grey in her hair but not too old and shapeless under a nice thick winter coat and of course jeans and those eskimo boot things everyone is wearing these days.
"Shut up," I told Tara and the woman got her dog on a leash and sauntered up.
"What a lovely dog!" says she.
At this point a gentleman would have repaid the compliment by being nice about her dog, unfortunately I am no gentleman.
"Oh," says I. "She's alright when she is quiet.
"Big, innit?" says she and I wondered if my fly was open.
"Not really," says I. "She's just got a lot of fur. Seven stone weakling under all that hair, daft as a brush, nothing to worry about. Of course Tara called me a liar by roaring at the other dog.
"Geddown!" I told her but the damage had been done, my new-found friend was already leaving the vicinity.
I watched her go.
"Oh well," said I to the mutt. "That's her convinced you should have a muzzle on then."
Oh yes, nothing quite like a quiet sunday morning, sitting on a park bench.