The Problem With Oscar

May 4, 2010

Writing every day is proving helpful so I am going to carry on doing it. What do you mean stop? Why? Why read it if you just want it to stop? How perverse. I bet your sex life is really weird. “I’m only doing this with you because it really shouldn’t be happening.” Anyway screw you. I like the practice.

I live in fear of two things at the moment (three, if you count my landlady reading this blog) one is the ever-growing inevitability of a Tory government. Something which inspires in me a revulsion entirely seperate from politics. An instinctive reaction, like your hand rapidly drawing away from a hot hob, or fancying Pixie Lott, something hard-wired. I can’t pretend to have a grand knowledge of the finer points of Tory policy, I know they’ll cut spending on public services, but apart from that my only argument is look at Cameron’s face. He looks like Casper the Friendly ghost’s twat of a cousin. But then again, Gordon Brown looks like a man made from the parts of other men and I keep expecting Nick Clegg to try and sell me a time share via the TV debates. Politics is shit.

Fear number two is Oscar. Every day I wander past a front garden on the road where I am staying. This front garden is the kingdom of Oscar. Oscar is like the angriest pillow you have ever come across. A little white fluffy cloud of hate. Mutilated plastic toys strew the decking of his domain like some sort of novelty Ypres. Cuddly bears with their mangled faces seem to plead, “Keep on walking, for the love of God, keep on walking.” Oscar is a yapper. He yaps feverishly at anything that moves; crows, trees, the sky, you. I have started to take this personally and am on the brink of doing something quite nasty to Oscar if he doesn’t pipe down. He sees me nearly every day, and yet despite knowing that I have made the same journey every day and not once displayed any unruly or unpredictable behaviour, he yaps his tits off at me as if I were about to steal into his house and kill his owners. Ironically, the more he does this, the closer he is to inspiring some sudden psychotic episode in me whereby I grab him by the mouth and use him to deck the windshield of his owner’s vehicle. As I atomised the glass with his little ragged body I would laugh and laugh and laugh myself hoarse, beating him into a glass and dog mush in the rhythm of his own yap-yap-yap. That felt amazing by the way, writing that. I normally like dogs. I love some of them. Rarely do I want to kill them. This is all Oscar’s fault.

Oscar’s owner is a lady that stands in the doorway observing his behaviour and merely repeats his name.

“Oscar,” she says with mild surprise and admonishment, as if she were to add, “I can’t believe you’re behaving this way. After winning Crufts and everything.”

Oscar is a bad dog. He has never won Crufts and he never will. He is a little psycho. I fear him and respect him. I find him cute and I want him to die. Any politician with a ‘Kill Oscar’ policy gets my vote.

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