"Good morning Mrs Campbell," he calls to her, "Can't stop. On a bit of a mission today."
I dare not look round to see what Mrs Campbell is doing, but my acute hearing, picks up what sounds like a high pitched snigger.
He calls it power walking, I call it spoiling a good walk. I'm the kind of dog that likes to take my time on a walk, sniff out where my canine friends have been. Make sure that there are no upstarts trying to take over my territory.
He has no regard at all for these important things once he has got a bee in his bonnet. Not that he wears a bonnet you understand. That's just a figure of speech.
Mind you, sometimes he wears a woolly hat with a bobble on top. Which looks like a bonnet. Whichever, his woolly hat really does him no favours whatsoever. To be honest he looks stupid wearing it, and I pretend I'm not with him when he does. Luckily though, he only wears it in the colder months of the year. Other times he wears his trilby hat, which he thinks makes him look like Frank Sinatra. I worry about his delusions sometimes.
Happily for me, the power walking only lasted for a couple of hundred yards, before he was almost completely exhausted, and complaining about his aches and pains, or to use his exact words, "the huh excruciating huh pains in my huh legs and huh bum."
After a few minutes sit down on the grass verge, he was recovered enough to continue the walk at a more comfortable pace.
|This is me having a jolly good laugh at John's antics.|
He could hardly get it home fast enough. It was on the bedroom wall within minutes, and he spent a happy hour or so admiring himself in it. I think I am correct in saying that he was very happy with the image he was seeing.
I could hear him talking quietly to himself, "Oh yes John, you've still got it," and, "Hallo you handsome beast," and, "Watch out ladies, I'm looking good," that sort of thing.
The problems began the next morning when he got out of bed. His first thought was to admire himself in his new mirror. This was a big mistake. The thing is you see, he sleeps naked. What the mirror revealed was not a pretty sight. He's been kidding himself for years that he still has the physique he had in his twenties. The full length mirror bluntly, and without mercy, informed him that he is actually, dare I say it, a bit of a lard arse.
Oh, dear me, it was funny, watching him standing there, trying to pull his stomach in, and twisting himself around in an effort to see his backside in a more favourable light, actually attempting some buttock clenching. Hilarious for me to watch in a grotesque kind of way.
"Bloody mirror," I heard him say angrily, "Cheap foreign bloody glass. It's distorted, that's what's wrong. Bloody distorted."
He has put the mirror in the shed now, glass side to the wall. I don't think he could withstand the shock of confronting his true self again.
Fortunately I think he has given up the idea of power walking for good. He has a new idea on what to do about his fat. He is going to cover it all up with a pair of pyjamas, and avoid full length mirrors at all costs.
Personally, I think he should also cut down on burgers. But that is never going to happen.
Bye for now, and lots of love from Sadie.
(His loyal, (well almost) German Shepherd)
P.S. Please don't tell him I told you about all this. I prefer him in his deluded state.