Monday, 30 November 2009

Speed-dating (lurcher style)

So, yesterday Hetty and I sashayed off to meet Norman the Whippet, Hetty's potential suitor and soul-mate. I thought he sounded like the ideal pooch for me. He had just been rescued by the RSPCA from a house with 25 other dogs (from Great Danes down to whippets). He had spent his life knee deep in shit in a 2-up 2-down midden. I guessed my house would seem like a Dettol-sponsored palace by comparison. He certainly wouldn't object to a few teacups left unwashed, or a few pairs of knickers left on the bathroom floor.

Things were looking good also in terms of his temperament. Words like 'calm' and 'gentle' were bandied about. I had seen pictures of 2 other whippets rescued from the house and they were absolutely beautiful: delicate and dainty and the colour of Butterscotch Angel Delight. Although I hadn't actually seen a picture of Norman, I just knew he was going to be adorable.

Yesterday the local rehoming centre was having its Christmas Fayre. The room was packed full of dogs and owners when we arrived. In the corner I saw the most divine looking whippet in a jaunty red jacket. I made a bee-line for it. Hetty snuggled up to it straight away, and gave it a maternal lick. Looking good. Only, this wasn't Norman. It was another of his 'house-mates', Poppy. Still, I figured they were obviously a good-looking family.

Then the door opened. I could just make out a whippety shaped creature heading my way. Only, something was severely wrong with this pooch. It had the graceful, petite curves of a whippet with the ugly, angry face of a pit-bull. If you could possibly imagine Marilyn Monroe's body with Sylvester Stallone's brutish head then you will get the general impression. I was PRAYING that this would not be Norman. Sadly, it was.

His current foster owners proudly marched him over to me and started cooing about how handsome he was, how clever, how gentle. He looked anything but gentle to me. To be frank, I didn't like the sly and lustful way he looking at Hetty. I could tell he was undressing her with his lecherous mince-pies (she was wearing her fleecy winter coat). And then, wouldn't you know it. In the middle of a festive and jolly RSPCA fundraiser, amongst the carol singing children and rattling collection tins, the randy, ill-mannered brute attempted canine rape. He had a wicked glint in his eye, that cur. Obviously the neutering had not taken affect.

So, it was not to be. I made my excuses and said that I didn't think he was 'the one.' Thankfully his carnal misdemeanor gave me the perfect excuse. Christ on a bike! Finding 'the one' for me has proved impossible, but I did think that finding a companion for Hetty would be a little easier. I was wrong.

I did take my camera to the date. I didn't take any pictures though. Believe me, there is not enough vaseline in the whole of Boots the Chemists to soften the focus on that heinous hound.

Before we left the rescue centre Hetty was reunited with gorgeous Cyril. Poor mite still hasn't found a home. I did wonder if that was fate. But then, I don't believe in fate. Not for lonely teachers. Not for lovelorn lurchers.

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