A Dog's Life

I see him in the park, walking his dog. Well, it's more like hobbling really – probably a war-wound from the pub battlefield he frequents. He doesn't iron his clothes and despite the fact the once-black t-shirts he wears are now all a light shade of grey, I don't think he washes them too often either. The cloud of smell that follows him around tells me he doesn't have a particularly great relationship with soap, but he has a much stronger one with supermarket brand scotch. The strain his belly places on the waistband of the dirty-coloured shorts he always wears, whatever the weather, acts as his badge of honour for services to the Nag's Head. He appears to not have had a good night's sleep in forever, his eyes “like pissholes in the snow” as his father would have said. His father had been a heavy drinker too – in fact it was something of a family tradition. He always looks like it's been three days since he last shaved – he's neither bearded nor clean-shaven and I don't think 'designer stubble' is still a thing.

Despite seemingly being down on his luck, he always smiles and greets me. “Now then,” he slurs, spit spraying the front of his t-shirt. I think his overweight labrador wishes he would walk him further. He looks at me with sad, pleading, wanting-a-biscuit eyes.

The man looks at his watch with wanting-a-drink eyes and his super-computer alco-brain instantly informs him how long each of the town's pubs have left until closing time.

He hobbles away, dragging his dog to the nearest pub. The labrador has a spring in his step as he recognises where they are heading.

The Cobbler's, thinks the dog. They've got the best crisps.