The Hottest Ticket In Town

Host;                         Sultan (Saluki), our hero and Royal      
Host's Best Friend    Wellington (Bloodhound), melancholy, serious dribbler                         
                                    
Guests;                      Amigo (Chihuahua), nervous, allergic

                                  Essex-Boy (Bull Dog), muscle-bound, tattoo'd

                                  Aristo (Yellow Labrador), well-bred, natty dresser 
                                   Legs (Lurcher), fast, sharp, not bright

                                   Al Fresco (Jack Russell Terrier), vermin killer, digger
                                   Vladimir (Rhodesian Ridgeback), big-time villain

                                   Saskia (Afghan Hound), haughty, attractive

Sultan stood on the dais of his tented majlis and surveyed the lawn immediately below. Already his garden was beginning to fill with invited guests – all the world and his dog or, more accurately, all his world of dogs, were gathering for his annual bash.

Sultan considered it was the least he could do to celebrate the declining Winter and greet the coming Spring. The timing of the event had, as usual, been carefully scheduled to beat the impending humidity and searing heat of Summer. Whilst he was adapted to the climate, he was well aware that nearly all of his friends were not so bred, and the opportunity for such a get together later in the year would be minimal.

With an inward sigh, Sultan reclined regally on his carpet, front paws crossed. The party was scheduled to go long into the night and he had missed his customary afternoon nap getting ready and making last minute adjustments. He was satisfied with the arrangements; stylish not vulgar, colourful not garish, formal but welcoming.

A light breeze sailed through the majlis lifting Sultan’s ears, carrying all manner of perfumes and messages. 

‘I see Amigo’ Sultan declared, addressing his best friend Wellington who was sitting upright beside him on a patch of specially prepared turf.

Wellington directed his nose into the wind.

‘Antiseptic bath oil containing menthol with......let me just....’ Wellington licked his chops the better to detect the scent’s provenance, ‘ah, yes... a trace of garlic. He’s had yet another special potion prepared by his herbalist, I’ll wager. Sand no good for his skin, poor fellow.’

Wellington shook his head to blow the odours from his nose and showered Sultan in a cascade of spittle. Sultan wiped his face discreetly on a napkin. It would be insensitive to complain about Wellington’s behaviour – he was a Bloodhound when all said and done - but it was as well to be prepared; as, indeed, was Wellington who had a soft towel placed to his left for wiping down purposes.

‘He’s arrived with Aristo. Essence of camel with a trace of sandalwood.’

‘Mmmm.’ Sultan considered this information.

He had already spotted Aristo the Labrador. Dapper, well-bred with impeccable manners, Aristo was a recent arrival. It was common canine knowledge that he had yet to recover from the indignity of freight-travel.

One of his first remarks to Sultan was,

‘I was cwated, don’t you know, cwated!! So un-prepared for the expewience! Can you imagine?’

Sultan, who had never been more than a cock-stride from the desert in his life – nor, indeed, had any of his ancestors dating back millennia – could only imagine, and empathise. The one thing the two immediately had in common was dignity. Since their first meeting, Sultan had discovered they had many other things in common too and had become firm friends.

Wellington, on the other hand, found Aristo to be a bit....well.....chinless for his taste but understood this was often the case with inter-bred family lines and he didn’t hold that against him.

Aristo and Amigo, now standing immediately in front of both Sultan and Wellington, created an incongruous cameo. The Labrador was proudly sporting his best collar in green with a dangling gold medallion. Wellington, whose eyesight was as poor as Sultan’s was sharp, squinted at the gold disc in an attempt to read the words thereon.

‘Harrods’ murmured Sultan, as an aside. ‘It says ‘Harrods’.’

Wellington nodded and attempted, but failed, to raise an eyebrow – something he had never mastered as his skin was too heavy.

Amigo, meanwhile, appeared to be covered in what could only be described according to experience, as flea powder. A fine, white dusting coated the Chihuahua’s coat from tip of his nose to his tail.

‘Talcum powder’ Wellington muttered.

Sultan raised an eyebrow, successfully.

Thus the fine-boned gundog and the powdered Latino resembled two dandies from a previous era.

‘We are most pwoud and ‘onoured to be invited to your soiréeee, Sultan’ Aristo drawled, ‘most pwoud, indeed.’ 

‘Si, si’ squeaked Amigo, quivering as he spoke. ‘I was so hoping I’d be well enough to come. Only yesterday I didn’t think I would be. Broke out in leeesions – had to call for the dermatologist. Did I mention I’m allergic to sand? Sand?? I simply don’t know how I’m going to endure....’

His voice tailed off, strangled by the full body shakes.

‘We have plenty of grass here, Amigo. Suggest you keep to the lawn. The only sand is over by the conveniences.’ Sultan advised, indicating the direction of the potentially offensive facilities with a wave of his paw.

‘So good to see you, Aristo,’ he continued. ‘I’ve seen to it that your favourite meat is available – pheasant, well hung, cooked slowly in thick sauce.’

Aristo licked his lips.

‘Good show. Good show,’ he beamed, ‘most gwateful.’

During this conversation, Sultan had caught sight of a huddled group near the buffet table. He could see biscuits changing paws in exchange for items extracted from a small sack held firmly by Essex-Boy, the English Bulldog. As Aristo and Amigo wandered off, Sultan gently touched Wellington on the shoulder and nodded towards the group.

‘Now what are they up to?’ he wondered.

‘Can’t see from here’ Wellington replied, ‘but I can smell the troublesome triumvirate - those three spell 

trouble. Let’s hope the GSD’s can keep it under control.’

‘Oh, I was so hoping the gang wouldn’t be dealing this afternoon. I’ve only enough security for the gates – not enough of them to control this lot.’ Sultan sighed.

The ‘gang’, led by Essex-Boy, was notorious for illicit trade in stolen children’s toys. Essex-Boy was supported by Legs, a Lurcher, known unofficially as the ‘getaway’ and Al Fresco, a Jack Russell Terrier, infamous for his stealing and burying. The GSD’s, or German Shepherds, were really no match for this gang’s  protection racket.

Sultan and Wellington nodded to one another and made off in the direction of the banqueting table; they knew they had to head off any trouble before it began.

As they approached, Essex-Boy, tattoo’d completely in the  British Union Flag, quickly shoved the booty under the table where he thought it might be hidden by the draping table cloth.

‘Alright, mate,’ he addressed Sultan, ‘nice gaff you ‘ave ‘ere. Very nice, indeed. Ain’t clocked no swimming pool though. So what’s a gent like you doing wivvout a pool? Could do you a deal on that, no mistake. Walk-in, gold leaf tiles. You get the picture?’

Sultan smiled. Despite Essex-Boy’s reputation, Sultan had always rather warmed to him; with Essex-Boy what you saw was what you got.  Only a small-time hood, Essex-Boy was not in the league of Vladimir who was, to use the jargon, big-time and not to be crossed.

‘I think we might discuss swimming pools on another occasion.’ Sultan responded. ‘It’s not been a family tradition – swimming, that is - but nonetheless worthy of consideration,’ he admitted.

‘Just pick up the blower,’ Essex-Boy instructed, ’just pick up the blower and I’ll be round like a rat up a drainpipe.’

Sultan did not doubt this. Al Fresco fidgeted at the mention of rats.

‘I hope there’s no business going on today,’ said Sultan diplomatically. ‘There are ladies present and I wouldn’t want any trouble.’

Essex-Boy feigned surprise and, turning to his sidekicks, said,

‘We’re here to enjoy ourselves today, ain’t we boys?’, in response to which Legs and Al Fresco panted their agreement.

Right on cue Vladimir joined the group accompanied by his latest squeeze, Saskia. Legend had it that Vladimir ate bullets for breakfast and snapped the necks of cats before lunch. A handsome Rhodesian Ridgeback, he controlled the canine underworld with an iron jaw. The only reason the gang continued to trade was because Vladimir allowed it to.

‘So,’ he began, directing his comments at Sultan, ‘I see you have invited everyone today.’

Sultan merely nodded.  He disliked Vladimir but had too much breeding to leave him off the guest list.

Wellington, who had been listening to the proceedings in silence, felt his nose welling up and sensed the inevitable was coming. The tickle grew and grew, causing him to inhale in short, sharp breaths with no exhales at all. Lungs full, he closed his eyes, opened his mouth, flung back his head until his ears turned inside out and, like a stone from a catapult, released the pressure in one long whoooosh.

The whole group, with the exception of Sultan who, Praise Be, was standing alongside, was showered with projectile spit, the force of which blew Al Fresco under the buffet table. Even Legs wasn’t fast enough to evade the eruption and stood, bemused (an emotion not alien to him), with saliva dripping from his prodigious eyebrows. Essex-Boy glanced at his bodypaint, and was dismayed  to catch it disintegrating into a goo-ey mess before his very eyes.  

‘Leave it out, what’s that all about!?’ screamed Essex-Boy, as he dragged a drenched Al Fresco, al fresco.

Saskia, who had spent the whole morning having her hair straightened,  saw her long fur now hanging in sticky tendrils and, much worse, curling. She started whining in a high-pitched, sing-song fashion. It was not melodic. Vladimir told her to be quiet whilst preparing to roll on the lawn to rid himself of the offending spit.

Wellington stood calmly with skeins of mucous hanging from his jowls, blinking away the water from his eyes.

‘Many apologies,’ he howled, ’many apologies. Simply unavoidable. No idea what caused that......’

As his eyes cleared, he saw only too clearly what had been the source of that. Sitting between his front legs was little Amigo, cowering with fright and resembling a flour fight in a bakery. All the powder which Amigo had so carefully applied not an hour ago, had irritated the delicate lining of the Bloodhound nose,  causing the sneeze. Amigo had been transformed into a dog fritter - coated in a runny batter which was dripping on to the lawn.

Sultan, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes, glanced beyond the dishevelled pack. On the other side of the table, smiling through a swathe of pheasant casserole gravy with which he had been showered in the fallout, stood Aristo, swooning as if in paradise.

© 2013 All Rights Reserved

 

                                                        

Wading Through Sand

         

THE CAST:

         Sultan (Saluki), our hero, Royal (of course)

         DivaDog (Toy Poodle), spends her days perfecting her breed attributes      

         Sergeant Major Beagle (Beagle Hound), loud, a military-dog          

                                   

It was going to be one of those desert days when the sun would never break through the clouds of sand picked up by the swirling wind. Sultan didn’t mind such days as he had hairy ears and long eyelashes which stopped the dust from getting anywhere important.

As he trotted along sniffing the scrub and noting the messages left by earlier visitors, he wondered whether he might encounter Sergeant Major Beagle – a somewhat portly hound, who smelt rather ‘high’, and who had the habit of shouting orders like a machine gun being discharged. Sultan concentrated on a particularly dry piece of desert grass and concluded that Sergeant Major Beagle was definitely in the area, estimating that he’d passed that way only a few minutes ago.

Sultan lifted his nose into the wind and inhaled slowly, being careful not to take deep breaths to avoid getting his nostrils full of sand. Nothing conclusive, he decided, and walked on.

No sooner had he rounded the next corner than he saw DivaDog mincing towards him. 

‘Well-hello-there’ crooned the lady, fluttering her lashes, a habit Sultan had previously noticed and which had nothing to do with the prevailing weather and everything to do with flirtation.

Sultan, by nature detached and disinterested, became more so in her company, so as to give no encouragement to her male-eating tendencies.

‘Good morning, DivaDog’ he replied, bowing slightly, allowing a cursory sweep of his regal nose across her curly muzzle.

It was rumoured that her breed name was LA Lady (a la Los Angeles)  – Sultan suspected that the source of the rumour was the Poodle herself, so he’d chosen in the past to let this piece of information pass unacknowledged; a sort of refusal to become her poodle, as it were.  Certainly he considered her Hollywood-aspirational , if only because of the way she dressed and yapped. And she pretentiously called her collar her ‘bling-ring’ - a somewhat flashy piece of kit - diamante hearts on pink leather.

‘I’ve-just-seen-Sergeant-Major-Beagle’ she yapped, all one sentence.

Sultan winced as the pitch always offended his ears, making him want to howl which he had, so far, managed to resist.

‘Yes’, he replied, ‘I’ve picked up he’s around. I’m surprised you’re out today in this weather.’

‘Well,-have-to-see-my-therapist-then-going-to-have-a-pedicure.-Have-added-the-poodle-parlour-to-the-list-of-to-do’s-this-sand-ruins-my-coiffeur’.

DivaDog came to an abrupt halt as she delicately rubbed her left eye with her front paw.

‘This-weather -makes-me-frown,’ she continued, ‘ so-aaageing...’ she trilled.

Sultan attempted to look sympathetic. Of his many expressions – he calculated that he’d reached twenty which were accomplished – ‘sympathy’ was still a work-in-progress. Still, he mused, DivaDog was unlikely to notice this amateur-ish attempt as she was so self-absorbed he wondered that she needed eyes looking outward at all.

‘How is Sergeant Major Beagle?’ Sultan enquired, diplomatically moving on.

‘Who-knows, who-knows,’ shrilled DivaDog, ‘he-soooo-frightens-me-I-crossed-the-road-and-waved-from-a-distance.-Even-in-this-sandstorm-I-could-hear-him-barking-instructions.-Something-about-turning-around-and-walking-backwards-so-the-sand-wouldn’t-sting-the-face.’

Just on cue, through the gloom and in line with DivaDog’s pom-pom tail, Sultan caught sight of Sergeant Major Beagle advancing, backwards, in their direction. He momentarily weighed up whether to mention this to DivaDog, which meant that their meeting would be brought to an abrupt end, or whether to allow Sergeant Major Beagle to arrive, unannounced, which meant that he could have some sport; not least that Sergeant Major Beagle was on target to reverse right into DivaDog’s fine rump.

Deciding to let Fate take its course, Sultan, not nick-named ‘SightHound’ for nothing, trained his gaze on Sergeant Major Beagle’s ample bottom and waited for the mayhem.

DivaDog, meanwhile, sensing that she’d lost Sultan’s attention – unreliable at the best of times – delicately turned to see what he was looking at. The timing could not have been worse, or better, depending upon your viewpoint – and on the scale of ring-side seats, Sultan’s couldn’t have been better! Just as DivaDog lined up to enjoy the view which Sultan was taking in, Sergeant Major Beagle, gaining speed in reverse from a slight downward incline, careered full tilt into DivaDog, taking her salon-painted toes right out from under her. Sergeant Major Beagle came to a complete stop sitting on DivaDog’s head.

‘Good Heavens, Man!’ he barked, looking over his shoulder at Sultan. ‘This walking backwards lark needs some fine-tuning, methinks. Can never be sure that you’re going to see obstacles, eh what? Still, at least it was a soft landing – can be sure of that in this perishing sand! Was just telling DivaDog to walk backwards – not sure she’ll master it like I have on those girlie pins......still, no use selling it to you, Sultan, my boy, as you’re bred for the desert anyway, eh?’

Sultan, ever the gentleman and stifling the urge to howl with laughter, moved forward to assist Sergeant Major Beagle back on his feet and rescue DivaDog at the same time.

Instantaneously, the air was filled with more than sand. Barking and yapping rose above the whoosh of the wind and Sultan would swear, when recounting the incident later, that he even caught sight of what DivaDog paid so much money for at the Canine Dentist!

Mortified, DivaDog was calling Sergeant Major Beagle’s pedigree into question as 'no gentleman would treat a lady with such disrespect'. Sergeant Major Beagle,  ever on a short fuse, responded to the effect that, as there was no lady present she needn’t be so precious.

Sultan busied himself with calming DivaDog’s ruffled coat, no mean task as he found it difficult to decide whether her fur was crumpled because of the experience, or scrunched deliberately!

Sergeant Major Beagle’s outburst finished as suddenly as it had started. He was a dog on a mission; this manoeuvre obviously needed more practice and attention, and there was no time to be dithering here when operations had to be finalised. So with a vigorous must-get-back-to-business shake, he lined himself up and continued on his way, backwards.

Sultan waved airily as Sergeant Major Beagle disappeared into the enveloping gloom and, after making sure DivaDog was fit to face her day of beauty treatments, took his leave in the opposite direction, going forwards.


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