Chapter TWO

Dog versus Brother.



Some people get up on a Monday morning, and the first thing they do is look out of the window and check the weather. That’s what the BBC is for. Check the night before. Dopey. Anyway. They then decide whether or not to go to work. Others have predetermined the night before, having checked the weather, that work is going to be short by at least one employee. Those are the clever ones who have their excuses ready early. Particularly at Christmas and New Year.



Excuses are always a good idea to have on stand-by, all year round. Especially if your mode of transport is a 1987 Austin Metro, that only starts when it’s dry, and the Sun is approaching its zenith. Oh, and your brother borrowed it last night, and forgot where he left it, the drunken lout. Other excuses are available for a fee. Brothers, are optional, but for no charge at all.



Apart from the occasional excuse, why do we need brothers in the first place? Does your boss even know if you have a brother or not? Wouldn’t a dog be a better idea to have around the place? Anyhow, I blame the parents. If I’d wanted a brother, I’d have told them. I don’t ever remember going up to my parents and saying, “Okay, it’s time I had a brother, all my toys are broken, I need someone to blame.” I could have just as easily blamed a dog. Which we already had.



To be fair to my long suffering parents, at the time of my own brother’s arrival, I didn’t know how much work was involved in getting him. (My friend Mike, in the good ole U. S of Merca, tells me; “it’s only work if it’s more than 15 minutes”. Hells Bells. Fifteen Minutes? That’s a whole years worth. Americans. Always going that bit better (or in this case fifteen bits better.) No one thought to tell me how much work there was involved looking after him once he arrived either. Phew!



I am told my brother was a much bigger baby than me, and judging by his size now, that must be true. I can only imagine the pain and agony involved for that poor stork having to carry him all that way? But then I am not a stork, and I don’t know how much pain a stork can handle. Quite a fair amount, I reckon, looking at my brother. A dog would’ve been a lot less effort to transport too. A lot less painful for Mr Stork there.



It is said, Men and pain do not mix. This, I believe. Women on the other hand, really can handle pain. A LOT!!! Some can even inflict it at will. This I know from first hand experience. I have been married to one for twenty five years. Maybe we should have them trained up, to bring the babies. This would remove the need for the stork to be inflicted with the pain of bearing a child.



Now I can see that some of you will be thinking, why does he believe that the stork brought his brother? Well I was there. It was a home delivery. A bit like the Pizza. There was no Mum and Dad disappearing for days on end, then just turning up with a baby. None of that. They were upstairs. There was a lot of silence, and then a lot of screaming noises, obviously the stork couldn’t find the right window to go to at first. That explains the swear words as well. “This is just silly and naïve”. I hear you say. (Damn those voices in my head.) Ha ha ha. I laugh at your ignorance. For those of you who don’t believe in “The Stork”, just look up Santa Clause on the internet, and you will find loads of stuff you probably didn’t know about him. He also has a brother called Fred. This is also one of those rare facts that you pick up in life. Besides which, I’ve seen the movie, so it must be true. Now since I have proved the existence of Santa, I have therefore proved the existence of the Stork, the Tooth Fairy, and for that matter, the Easter Bunny. Don’t try to tell me otherwise. I won’t be listening to your lies!



But enough of this nonsense, and back to brothers. What are they for? Apart from being a bloody good excuse, for when something happens and you need someone to blame? For example when you let one out, and it’s a really bad one, who do you point the finger at? Well, you see that’s were the dog comes in. I shall now prove it. When there is a strange smell in the room, the dog will just get up and walk away to another part of the house. How much more proof can you need. It’s guilty, so must take itself away, shame faced, to a corner called, the “basket”. So that’s one for the dog, zero for the brother.



“My brother ate my homework.” is nowhere near as plausible as, “The dog ate my homework, sir” is it? Two-nil.



Okay. You don’t normally have to take a brother for a walk. One back for the brother, then. That would be no fun anyway. He isn’t likely to fetch a stick for you. No matter what threats you make. Even if he did, he would carry it in his hand. Where as a dog would carry it in its mouth. This, is much more comical to watch, as it drags a three foot long tree, along the floor, shaking its head from side to side, as it goes, because it’s twice the size of its little body. (The stick. Not the head.) Three-one.



Would your brother chase after a bouncy rubber ball? I doubt it. He would wait till it stopped bouncing, then casually and with no humour at all, pick it up, and meander back at a slovenly, “I’m bored, can we go home now?” pace. Not your little poochie friend. He would try to catch it in mid bounce, twelve feet up in the air, and miss, with every bounce. Until it got to eight inches. See what I mean. A lot funnier to watch than a brother. Four-one. I don’t really need to keep score from here, because Poochie is gonna be the winner, by a bigger margin than a Tory candidate in Surrey.



Dogs are also easier to house train. By the time it’s four months old, it has stopped crapping behind the washing machine, and stands by the door making strange pleading “let me out” noises. Brothers, on the other hand, wear nappies till they are at least two, maybe even two and a half. When they go poop, they sit there with a weird expression on there face, and are become surrounded by an aroma that even the stoutest of hooters (that’s a nose, not a pair of boobies) can stand. They remain like this until “Mummy” notices and comes to sort it out. Normally with comments like “Who’s got a smelly bum then! Coochie coo”. Notice this was not a question, but an exclamation. She already knew it wasn’t the dog.



And doesn’t brotherly pooh smell so much more worserer than your own? Okay dogggie do do’s smell rather bad too. But after house training, they don’t do it while sitting three feet away from you, pulling an extraordinary face. No. They sit by the door waiting to be let out. Then it’s not going to be your problem, until you have to go and clear it up. You can leave that a while, can’t you? Okay I grant you, dogs do suffer from flatulence. Quite a lot too. And they can be rather foul, can’t they! But then, they take the blame for that and move away to the “basket” .



Now that I am on the subject of dogs and pooh, (did you see how I managed to do that, clever eh!) A tip: For dog owners everywhere. A puplick information announcement if you like. Take some fragrant nappy sacks with you when out walking with your Fido. It’s so much more people friendly than your local supermarket carrier bag. And there are no holes either. So no leakage. Therefore, no dog pooh on your hands when you get to the pub. It also masks the stench, while the bag resides in your pocket, prior to a trip to the Dog Bin.



Another excellent reason to have a dog! He needs to go for a walk. Is it your fault he likes to go past a place that sells ale and other intoxicating liquors? What finer and nobler reason can your good self have, than to ease the burden on your good lady, after a hard days shop?



“It’s okay dear; I’ll take Pongo for his walk.” Sounds a lot betterer than, “Right love. I’m off out to get pissed with our kid. Don’t wait up.” The dog won’t be grassing you up and telling her you went to the pub. She’ll be able to work that one out all by herself when you eventually get back. Also doggie won’t be mentioning the fact you spent the last hour and a half trying to chat up the barmaid. Your significant other already knows what you’re like. She expects nothing less. She also knows the barmaid from her shopping trips, and knows you have more chance of getting off with His Holyness the Pope.



It is unlikely that your brother would grass you up either. But why take the chance of a little revenge being metered out in your general direction. After all the years of blame, and abuse you have heaped upon him.



And finally. Your dog, being the bestest friend you have, or have ever had, in the whole wide world, EVER, will always be available when you want a pint or six.



Your brother, on the other hand may have other, less brotherly commitments. He may be having a quiet moment to himself in the smallest room in the house without the aid of a nappy. He may even, have found a dog of his own. How selfish is that!



I rest my case “Your Honour”.



Dog versus Brother.



No contest.





























































(No dogs or brothers were hurt in the making of this chapter. Apart from the brother.)