“Bloody Immigrant Dogs Coming Over Here Eating Our Dog Food”

FreddyboobooIt’s a typical English afternoon. Typical in that its cold, grey, was pissing down but with a teasing promise of blue skies in the distance. The blue skies are always somewhere else, just visible. It’s like the weather is sticking the finger and saying ‘it’s always sunny somewhere else, anywhere you’re not’. Miserable fucking English bastard weather.

Why are the English obsessed with weather? Because we get all weather all at once in the space of an hour. The weather is reflected in the population at times as well. Sour faced, bitter racists whose resentment that the British Empire had the audacity to fall simmers and bubbles below their beige raincoats and smacked arse faces. I can say this, I’m English and I can see myself in that description at times. As a proud Yorkshire woman don’t get me started on Lancastrians. There’ll be no Lancashire cheese in this house, Cheshire is pushing it.

Why am I down on my fellow country people? Probably because I returned from Antigua last week, after a two month trip.  I arrived home with a companion, a little street dog named Fred who had subtly squeezed his way into my life during my time on the other island. Now I understand not everyone has a passion for dogs. That’s fair enough. My rumbling fury is aimed directly at the doughy faced old harpy from our Women’s Institute Committee who criticised Fred’s new life in the UK and ultimately managed to display her right wing anti-immigration stance by commenting, “aren’t there dogs in the UK who need rescuing before we import other country’s problems?”

No I didn’t throw my glass of pub vinegar pinot grigio over her clown painted face; a makeup she thinks makes her look desirable to other octogenarians and she’s probably been applying the same wattle and daub since the 1940s, the last time she got a shag and that would’ve been during a blackout.  I sat and seethed, the fury must’ve been obvious as I was fired warning glances from a close friend at the same meeting.  I calmly explained the whole mission behind ‘Dogs and Cats of Antigua’; a wonderful caring group of women who see a problem with street dogs and wish to proactively do something about it through a neutering and rehoming program. I’ve got to give the old biddy some credit for persistence when she countered with, “Well I hope you’ve had rabies shot”.   Antigua has been declared rabies free by the way. I should’ve said, “Well best you don’t go there and run the risk of re-introducing the disease, you rabid old bitch”. But I didn’t, because as with all biting retorts, they only come to me after a bottle of wine and 24 hours of seething obsessive internal dialogue.

What better way to relieve the pressure than to type the shit out of my laptop keyboard, leave the venom on the page.

The overwhelming emotion left after the wine, the rage and incredulity of this village elder’s ignorance is one of pity. I pity her lack of compassion and as I’m watching my little Fred hiccupping in his sleep, I pity the joy she so obviously cannot find in life.

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