Another of Morris the Bull Terrier's stories

Terry Doe

I've probably posted this before, but a friend has just phoned me, all sorts of distraught, after his bully had done EXACTLY what Morris did in this little adventure. My friend wasn't over-impressed that I kept laughing at his trauma. It's his first bully - he'll learn. 

CANINE ABLE
(A BIBLICAL EPIC)
And the Lord spake unto Terry, saying, “Oi, Tel-Boy! (for they were on first-name terms) Throughout thy life ye shall never have it easy, nor shall ye win the lottery nor profiteth from any ancient relatives popping their clogs and leaving ye a right tidy dollop of cash. Neither shall ye be free of hassles from double glazing vendors or tele-sales gits who shall phone on Friday evenings to announce that ‘our representatives are in your area and would like to offer you a free consultation’. And I don’t have to justify any of this, for I am the Almighty God who created the heaven and the earth - including the tricky bits like the Grand Canyon and Milton Keynes - and you are but a lowly scribe who owns a dog that dear old St. Francis himself would surely have strangled with his bare hands.” And lo, it came to pass that every time Terry droppeth his toast, verily it landeth buttered side down, usually after smearing the crutch of his best trousers with Marmite.

So that explains the ‘why me Lord?’ when stuff always happens to me. That’s why my dog is a delinquent and that’s why my three children will probably go on to de-stabilise a government or two. Well at least it isn’t my fault.

I had a serious ‘why me?’ day only last week. First, some scumbag in a skip lorry thought my car would look better with a crease down one side, and duly donated one free of charge - free of any charge to him at least, seeing as the driver took his job literally and skipped-off sharpish.
Then the sofa expired. After three years solid service as a trampoline, coin bank and hider of carpet stains, the left arm fell off when our eldest stood on it to get a sticky dart off the ceiling. There’s handy. I’m nearly two-grand down and it’s not even lunchtime.

As the main distributor for disasters in the Doe household, Morris thought it was time he got in on the act, and after rubbing both of his brain cells together he came up with a masterstroke. Morris disconnected the freezer. That’s the big freezer that lives in the shed. The very freezer that Herself had newly de-frosted and stocked to the gunwales with all manner of expensive nutrition, most of it being designer grub from Marks and Sparks.

We didn’t discover Morris’s contribution to the ‘why me’ day until the next morning, when junior Doe skipped down to the shed to pluck a raft of frozen waffles for his breakfast treat. Except the waffles weren’t frozen at all. The waffles were all limp and drippy - as was I after Herself had finished screaming.

Morris was bang to rights on this one. He had prised the freezer from its specially built alcove to get at a feather duster Herself uses to drive away spiders. The feather duster is kept handy down the side of the freezer and Herself wields it like Zorro’s sword to parry and thrust her way toward another successful burger-gathering trip. Morris has longed to mangle the feather duster for years and his chance came when someone (probably God) left the shed door open. Bulldozing aside the freezer, which when full and frosty only weighs as much as a Ford Mondeo, Morris dislodged the plug and started a major meltdown.

Incriminating evidence found right behind the displaced freezer, included the slobbery remains of a plastic handle, with the odd purple feather still clinging pathetically to it. The emergence of bits of purple plume in Morris’s poo confirmed what we already knew, and the Good Lord had done me up yet again. But neither he, nor Morris had finished with me yet.

Herself had stormed off to get some shopping therapy, leaving me to scrape out the dead freezer’s bowels and dispose of the contents. Never a wasteful person, I cooked up a heap of defrosted un-re-freezables and once the kids were groaning under the weight of bar-b-qued sausages, fish fingers and Cornettos, I gave the rest to Morris. He had himself a pile of stewing steak, garnished with three prawn vol-au-vents and still found room for most of a stolen Wall’s Vienetta.

By the time the female volcano had gone sufficiently dormant to return to the fold, all was normal in the Doe sitting room - well apart from the one-armed sofa. Just as the sneer had finally faded from Herself’s lips, in waddles Morris and pukes up a fine mound of feathery steak all over Herself’s handbag. Nice one, God.

I wonder if Buddha beats up his subjects like this? Maybe I could give that nice Harry Krishna a call. Perhaps it’s time to start sacrificing animals? I bet Herself has a suggestion for that one.

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