Who's The Daddy: Top dog Walter reigns supreme in a cat-free kingdom
Ever since our grown-and-flown daughters grew up and flew, and their childhood pet cats died within a month of each other this year (hit by a car and cancer), our sighthound Walter has majestically risen to his current role of Official Top Dog.
He patrols our house like a cross between King Joffrey and Santa’s Little Helper, as opposed to what he actually is, a cross between a saluki and a whippet.
Ten next month (how did that happen?) he has the looks of a 1990s supermodel with the firecracker temperament to match. A short list of the latest things that light his blue touch paper are bees, men with beards wearing hats and dogs being walked past his house.
Although he’s comfortably my best friend in the whole world, he’s turned into a right grass in his old age. Once a week me and a couple of buddies with dogs take them on a mini pub crawl (being off the sauce for 14 weeks now means that, yes, I do judge pubs on the quality of their lime and soda) where they keep dog treats on the bar.
The thing is, when me and The Boss walk him past one of our regular haunts now, he trots over to the entrance to drag us in. “Alright, Love. Usual please. Two strips of beef jerky and a bowl of tap water. And whatever you’re having.”
Anyone who has owned a sighthound, especially if there’s some saluki in there, will tell you they can be a bit snooty and aloof. I can’t say Walter has missed our children who he grew up with, when they visit they get a lukewarm greeting at best and then the side-eye for the rest of their visit. And the only thing he misses about our cats is that there are no longer any of their food bowls to empty when he thinks that no one’s looking - about five minutes after we turned in for the night.
Anything else this week? Oh yeah, they say that history doesn’t repeat itself but it rhymes. Well nine years ago yours truly was relieved of an iPhone and €50 by one of Barcelona’s myriad pickpockets while on a family holiday with The Boss and Daughters #1 and #2.
Honestly, I don’t know why they don’t just cut out the middleman and install one of those boxes at Barcelona Airport - like the ones you see for the last of your currency for charity - where you can dump your smartphones and folding cash in Arrivals to save the thieving **** the bother.
Daughter #1 has just returned from a week there with The Boyfriend where they sipped slinky drinks on rooftop bars overlooking the city, and the young man was relieved of his phone by a pickpocket. The fact he got it back was down to pure dumb luck. The light-fingered scrote who stole it was nicked by Catalan coppers later that night, the officers found the phone on him, used it to call The Boyfriend’s dad, who rang Daughter #1 and they picked it up from the station.
Apart from that, it all passed off without serious incident.
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