There's that old saying isn't there, that people come to look like their dogs. To be honest, I've always had a lot of time for it. I think it's because Andy, one of my friends at school, had centre-parted blonde hair and fringe that made him look like a cross between his old English sheepdog and all four members of Bucks Fizz.
Certainly, when we first got Bobby I hoped I might magically come to look as sleek and athletic as he was, that I'd be miraculously pulled back through time to the outrageous beauty of my college years (there should be a statue). Or, at least I hoped the opposite wouldn't happen, that he'd grow fat and slothful like me. And thankfully the latter hasn't occurred. Aged 8, he still looks fit and well.
But he does seem to have mirrored my behaviour or, as I prefer to have it, that of my father-in-law, aka Biscuitman, for he has become a right old grumpy git. If any dog wanders over to say hello to him, even one he likes, he first ignores them, then gives them a haughty sniff, then lifts his upper left lip in a disdainful sneer. (There was a girl in the front row of a first year English class in Bermondsey nigh on thirty years ago, who would treat me to that very same sneer whenever I looked at her, usually just before she threw a chair at me, or stabbed someone. It's actually taken me this long to forget her name, which is progress.)
I can't help but feel he's caught it from us, this grumpiness. In fact, we often pass Marley down the lane. Marley is a beautiful dog, also aged 8, but still full of love and life and enthusiasm. Whenever we see her, her equally lovely owner always says “Come along Marley, Bobby doesn't want to stop and play with you...” when she could just as easily be saying – in fact I think she is saying - “Come along Marley, Gary doesn't want to stop and chat with us...”
Certainly, when we first got Bobby I hoped I might magically come to look as sleek and athletic as he was, that I'd be miraculously pulled back through time to the outrageous beauty of my college years (there should be a statue). Or, at least I hoped the opposite wouldn't happen, that he'd grow fat and slothful like me. And thankfully the latter hasn't occurred. Aged 8, he still looks fit and well.
But he does seem to have mirrored my behaviour or, as I prefer to have it, that of my father-in-law, aka Biscuitman, for he has become a right old grumpy git. If any dog wanders over to say hello to him, even one he likes, he first ignores them, then gives them a haughty sniff, then lifts his upper left lip in a disdainful sneer. (There was a girl in the front row of a first year English class in Bermondsey nigh on thirty years ago, who would treat me to that very same sneer whenever I looked at her, usually just before she threw a chair at me, or stabbed someone. It's actually taken me this long to forget her name, which is progress.)
I can't help but feel he's caught it from us, this grumpiness. In fact, we often pass Marley down the lane. Marley is a beautiful dog, also aged 8, but still full of love and life and enthusiasm. Whenever we see her, her equally lovely owner always says “Come along Marley, Bobby doesn't want to stop and play with you...” when she could just as easily be saying – in fact I think she is saying - “Come along Marley, Gary doesn't want to stop and chat with us...”
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