Day 388: I Buy Some Squeaking Dog Toys

"I like the cows best; they have titties." I am standing outside with the owners of the petshop round the corner. The sun is out, and we are discussing all the animals in their range of squeaky animal toys. I have chosen a rat and a rabbit for my parents' dogs; they think I may have made a bad choice. "OK for the cow titties, but what about the chicken? He has crossing eyes!".

Time passes. We finally agree that the rat and rabbit are a sensible choice, and one not likely to disorientate MonkeyMother, who hallucinates if she takes too much absinthe. "Would you like a glass of rosywine while I am wrapping your dog-gifts?", asks the man with no hair. His boyfriend hands him the scissors without being asked. (It is like my parents, except two men not a man and a lady, and they are both better dressed than my father.)

We drink our rosywine and they wrap the presents and tell me about their favourite dog customer. "He is a really a big dog! A garbage can!".

"Garbage can? Does he eat a lot?", I ask, eyeing the dog chocs.

"No, it is not that, but it is what we call them here, the big mixy-mix dogs when they are not one type of dog, but lots things all in one thing: a garbage can." We agree that this is a much better expression than "mongrel".

We talk a bit more and I drink my rosywine and eat a nut. They ask me what I am doing after I have been down to the canal to see the parade go by on the boats, and I tell them I am going to the park (which I do, and next to us there are some tiny Spaniards doing tightrope walking, and a Japanese friend of mine mistakes the word "pathologist" for "I have a poo in my pants").

They think this is a good idea, and then the one with the scissors says, "let me tell you, if you have some time after the friends in the park, you must not go to the cinema over there, for we are too frightened to go to it!"

I ask them why, and they laugh and laugh, and tell me to go and look for myself, which I do.