Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) (23 page)

And here I am! Writing all about bloody Winklehoven!

The dog has won.

Pity me.

If I seem a little overboard with my Chihuahua prejudice, and you're not behind all this Winklehoven hate, allow me to regale a story to you that will firmly put you in my camp, and assure you that we are in fact dealing with a creature spat from the very depths of the underworld.

It is Saturday morning. One of the really good ones you get now and again in August. The air is calm, the sun is shining,
the
temperature is five degrees above the average.

It is 8.45am and I am lying in bed, dozing lightly, and contemplating a day of doing not very much in particular. I might give the old car a nice wash in the gentle summer sun this morning. Maybe a trip to the local garden centre is in order for later in the afternoon - and maybe, just maybe - there's potential for a Chinese takeaway around seven o'clock, if Laura thinks my waistline will take it, while we all watch Doctor Who and I try not to think about pedalos.

All in all, it sounds like a fabulous Saturday in the Newman household.

'The dog needs a walk,' Laura mumbles from beside me.

Damn!

For a brief, shining moment I'd forgotten that Winklehoven was now part of our lives. In my doze, my brain had gratefully removed the shivering bell end from existence.

I groan out loud. Then Laura says something even worse, if that were possible. 'It's your turn to do the walk, remember? We agreed you would if I did the answers to that questionnaire Woman's Own sent us.'

I groan again. She's right. I detest completing the email questionnaires we often get from journalists. Not because they ask anything annoying, but just because I've done so many of them, and the questions are always pretty much the same. If I have to write another paragraph about how it felt to get a publishing deal, I might have to commit messy suicide.

Last night then, I agreed with Laura that she would write the email, and I would take Winklehoven for its morning trot around the leafier sections of our immediate suburban area. This would mark the first time that I would be walking the dog on my own, as getting Poppy out of bed before 9am on a Saturday is roughly akin to trying to remove a King Cobra from its basket.

Last night the idea of a nice sunny walk sounded preferable to being hunched over a keyboard, writing about how it felt to write a best seller for the umpteenth time.

What a fucking idiot I truly am.

'You want to swap jobs?' I gamble, hoping that Laura would enjoy the prospect of a sunny walk just as much as I stupidly thought I would twelve hours ago.

'Not a chance,' she replies. 'I'm warm, comfy and don't intend to get dressed until at least midday. Get your arse out of bed and go make sure Winky doesn't crap in the kitchen again.'

I sigh. She's an awful, cruel woman sometimes. But she also makes a good point. If I don't get up and take the twat for a walk now, I will inevitably be stepping in its warm faeces at some point during the day - probably as I'm walking through the kitchen holding my plate of chicken chow
mein
and sweet and sour pork balls.

I reluctantly get out of bed, throw on my dressing gown and make my way downstairs. I open the kitchen door to be greeted with a growl coming from Winklehoven's cage. When it's Poppy or Laura, the dog sits up expectantly and wags its tail. With me, it's always the growl.

'Morning rat,' I say as I pass it to put the kettle on, which gets me another growl. The sodding thing can stay in its cage until I've had a bowl of cereal and my morning shit. Then I might just be in a good enough
mood
to take it out.

An idea occurs as I'm munching my way through my All Bran. Instead of just taking Winklebastard around the local streets, I'll jump in the car and march the little sod around the walking track at Langtree Lakes - all three miles of it. With any luck, the longer walk will tire it out more, and I can get some peace and quiet later to sit and have a nice read.

Genius!

With this thought in mind, I finish my cereal, have the aforementioned bowel movement, and get dressed.

By the time I hear Poppy and Laura stirring upstairs, I am slipping on my trainers by the front door. The dog is sat watching me with its new lead and collar on. These cost an arm and a leg, given that they are branded - rather inexplicably - with the Hello Kitty logo. Surely a Hello Doggy equivalent would be a better idea, but sadly no such thing exists. The only solace I can take is that I doubt Winklebastard is any happier about my daughter's choice of bright pink cat-branded dog walking accessory than I am.

'I'm off! I'll be back in about an hour!' I shout upstairs. 'C'mon
twatface
, let's go,' I tell the dog, and yank it out through the doorway into the bright morning sunlight.

If there's one saving grace of Chihuahuas, it's that they're too small to be much of a bother when it comes to transport. A decent sized dog needs to be stuck in the back of the car, usually accompanied by several blankets, toys and a couple of air fresheners. With Winklebastard, I just have to wrap its lead around the seatbelt clasp a few times, and it can sit safely in the passenger seat next to me.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I'd like nothing more than to 'accidentally' have to brake hard on a roundabout and send the dog into the foot well headfirst, but returning home with its corpse in a brown paper bag wouldn't go down too well, now would it?

The drive to the Lakes only takes about ten minutes, giving Winklehoven ample time to bark at the passing cars, and for me to develop a tension headache above one eye because of the noise. Once we're out of the car though, the headache starts to clear again, thanks to the park's wonderful clean air and tranquil atmosphere. Not even
Winklehoven's
inherent
Winklehovenness
can wipe the dumb grin off my face as I walk down the sun dappled pathway. If only the UK had this kind of weather all year round, it would be the most magnificent country on Earth, and I would never want to leave.

I'm fine and dandy until we start to come across other dog walkers. It's one thing to walk a twelve inch long Chihuahua on a pink Hello Kitty lead when you're on your own and not in sight of another human being, it's quite another when other people start to see you coming.

It's not the women. They're generally fine. They find dogs like Winklebastard quite cute most of the time, and are able to look past how ridiculous I look walking it.

The men, on the other hand, are completely different.

I am judged at every turn.

They see me coming towards them, and each and every one has to suppress a mirthful grin.

Look! Here comes a man who must have had his testicles removed on the day of his wedding!
they
all think.
See how he holds limply on to the lead of the tiny rat creature. I bet my ten-year-old could beat him in an arm wrestle blindfolded. Why, this man's penis must be like the surface of the Moon - hard to see with the naked eye.

For my part, I tend to return their unspoken condemnation with a look of anguished resignation.

Yes, I know how wretched I look,
my expression says.
See how I gaze upon your proper dog with seething jealousy, and try to hurry past you as quickly as I can, before the emasculation takes my legs out from under me.

Not only do I have the judging of my masculinity to deal with, I also have to watch out for any signs from the other dog that it's about to eat Winklebastard. Anything larger than a Springer Spaniel sends shivers down my spine. Dogs get hungry when out on walks, and I'm sure most of them wouldn't be above a little light inter-species cannibalism if the opportunity presented itself. You couldn't get much meat off those tiny little bones, but it might keep you going until your lunchtime bowl of kibble, if nothing else.

On this particular morning I have been in luck. Thus far, I've only had my masculinity questioned non verbally once, and the dog he had with him may have been a large Labrador, but it looked on its last legs, and probably couldn't have managed much more than a light suck of Winklehoven's head.

The only other dog walker I can see in my vicinity is a brown haired woman in a black t-shirt and blue jeans, coming towards me with a Border
Terrier
. Luckily, it's a small one, so there shouldn't be any cannibalistic tendencies in evidence, and she looks like a pleasant kind of person, one who wouldn't judge me for walking such an effeminate dog. Not out loud at least.

Usually, I find the prospect of communication with a complete stranger to be exquisitely awkward. If you're out on a nice walk by yourself, and you see someone coming the other way, you have a hard decision to make. On the one hand, do you greet the fellow walker with a cheery smile and a heartfelt good morning? Or do you scurry by and make no acknowledgement of their presence, just in case they’re a raving lunatic, who likes to tear the ears off people who speak to them in public?

Mind you, the idea of being eaten alive by a mentalist is a breeze compared to the absolute worst thing that can happen when you wish someone a good day.

They could ignore you completely.

Aaaarggh
!
Think of the shame! The cold, cold British shame! To be rebuffed by a total stranger when attempting to be polite in Great Britain is like being slapped in the face and spat upon in any other civilised country.

Happily, all of these horrid considerations go out the window once both parties have a dog. There seems to be some kind of solidarity between dog owners that breaks down the social walls, and allows for some bright chit chat in the middle of the path, while the animals get to know each other better.

Also, it's a bit difficult to retain any British aloofness when your dogs suffer from no such awkwardness. While you're still getting used to the idea of having a conversation with somebody you've never met before, they're already sniffing each other's behinds and arguing over who gets to play with the stick.

I've decided, in my lack of infinite wisdom, that this is the primary reason why so many people in this country have a dog. It's not so much that we're a nation of dog lovers because they're cute and friendly, it's because they allow
us
to be
more friendly
to one another, without all the inherent stress.

As if to prove my point, the woman with the Border
Terrier
gets within ten feet of me and issues a cheery hello.

'Morning!' I say back with enthusiasm.

'Isn't that a gorgeous little dog!' she says, as Winklehoven trots over on the end of its retractable Hello Kitty lead to say hello to the small Border, which is off the lead and looking very happy about it. I say
small
, it still towers over Winklebastard - and looks quite amazed by the whole experience. There can't be many occasions in a small Border
Terrier's
life that this occurs.

'I like your Border,' I reply, loudly enough for Winklebastard's bat ears to pick up on. 'What's her name?' I'm guessing the sex of the dog due to its size.

Correctly, it transpires. 'Bluebell. Yours?'

Shit.
I was having such a nice time.

'Winklehoven,' I mutter in a low tone. 'This is Winklehoven. Winklehoven the Chihuahua.' The desolation in my voice is palpable.

'Oh, that's
an
...
interesting
name for such a small dog.'

'Yes, it is, isn't it?'

The woman delves into a pocket and produces a large treat, which she passes down to Bluebell. I have neglected to bring treats with me for Winklehoven, because, as I think we've firmly established by now, I can't stand the cunt.