For Sale: Foffa Single Speed Custom-built bicycle

I had to walk a friend of my girlfriend's dog. Like her child, the whippet in question is a total deviant. Behavioural issues don't begin to describe, but she was in a tough spot so the Mrs had offered to take the lesser evil of looking after the dog rather than aforementioned child.

Somehow, I ended up getting mugged off with doing the walking, and the first outing (through one of the most cosmipolitan arrondissements of Glasgow no less) despite a very long walk, it decided to spend the entire time sniffing around and not shitting. Until, of course, 2 mins from home and crossing a busy street, whereupon it squatted itself down and assumed the optimal Bisto truncheon making position, smack bang in the fucking middle of the road.

Now, I'm a civil gent and disapprove of people who don't pick up their dog shit, let alone leave it in the middle of a busy throughfare, so hasten to add that I had a baggie with me for this eventuality, but being preoccupied with not getting ran over, I opted to yank the lead to try and get the little fucker onto the kerb to lay the aforementioned fecal speedbump.

What actually happened is that the deviant canine resolved to remain in the prone position whilst being dragged the whole way across the street, and, to the utter shock of a Wee Old Lady crossing in the other sense, left a smear of bum treacle in a perfect vector so fine that it could have adorned a platter on Masterchef.

Somewhat bemused about the situation all I could do was look at the traumatised Wee Old Lady and shrug, for unless some passing samaritan could lend me a very flexible palette knife and stop the traffic for half an hour, the outlay of this canine's sphincter was staying put as if it was the specially commissioned finish line for some kind of jobby-themed Canon Ball Run, so I quickly turned heel and swanned off as nonchalantly as I could, dog sniffing any available piss as if nothing had happened.

As if this wasn't enough, the next day, I very kindly dragged my hungover and abused self into the cold and damp to take the antisocial canine another wander to loosen its bowels. Again, it prevaricated as much as possible and was loathe to pass up the opportunity of sampling the fine array of stale piss Glasgow's streets have to offer, but losing patience I thought fuckit and made for home.

Clearly sensitive to my fragile physical state the little bastard set about hoovering up any and all remnants of the Saturday night revels that had been awash on the pavements the night before: stale pizza, chicken bones, whatever it saw it noshed as I would try and yank the little fucker off. Momentarily distracted by the evil pounding of my brain, I turned around to be presented with the unholy spectacle of the dog deftly snatching off the top third of a good curl of mouldering turd. A sight that perhaps because of my torrid physical state and psychological angst, has remained etched on my soul ever since.

Now, mouldy shits with white fuzz growing out of them are things that I don't like to see at the best of times, but to see something actually eat one is something that in my condition my brain was unable to compute, and the resulting data loss manifested in a convulsive retching and an arc of sick projecting itself across the pavement and down the wall next to a trendy cafe, the patron of which I happened to be familiar with and was standing horrified in the window. I gazed at him blankly as he visibly balked, unsure as to what the appropriate response was, then shook my head disconsolately and sadly wandered on, unable to even look at the dog and determined that no more dog walking would be landed at my door.

The end.