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.

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