As a child, Whiskey, the Hitler look-a-like cat was the love of my life. He was mean, moody and malicious. I admired him. Like all tyrants, Whiskey needed subjects who he could rule under his cruel regime. The perfect candidate for that was our docile Boxer dog, Benny.
Benny was a plain dog, mostly Boxer dog but with a little bit of Labrador thrown into the mix. He was a meek dog, sheepish and cowed and very obedient and almost always did as he was told. He was white and brown with spotty ears and a stump of a docked tail. His worst feature was his gonads and like all Boxer dogs he had a protruding pink scrotal sack. His testicles were always on show. Whiskey used these as a means of keeping Benny under control. One step out of line and Whiskey would swipe his claws across the poor dog’s most vulnerable and exposed parts.
The one problem with Benny was that he was a little bit of a sex addict. My dad would often say: “That dog is a bloody pervert.” and he was right. Benny was pansexual. Any hole was a goal. As a teenager I learnt to never let the dog see you naked as the moment he clapped eyes on naked flesh he’d suddenly pop his lipstick, start to drool and sport the most hideous erection which would send me screaming “Eurgh!” back into the safety of my room.
Benny was the equivalent of a mild mannered accountant who has a secret life. By day he was a mild mannered pooch, by night he was a humptastic killer. He loved to kill rats and rabbits and attempted to destroy the odd hedgehog but came away bleeding. Letting him off the lead was a lottery. He was generally good unless he saw something worth humping or killing and then all hell let loose.
I remember taking him for a walk on the local park aged 14. Benny was trotting along doing the things that make dogs happy (sniffing things and urinating on them). He spotted an elderly black Labrador strolling along and he was off.
I carried on walking, probably obsessing about my latest permanent wave or some older boy at school when I heard a terrible commotion. Looking round I spotted what the problem was. Benny was bumming the Labrador with gusto, his face contorted into paroxysms of ecstasy. Funnily enough, the sturdy old lady walking the Labrador was less than amused by this anal demonstration and was slapping Benny ineffectually on the rump to try to dislodge him. I think this just encouraged him more. He was determined.
“Is this your dog?” She shouted frantically, red faced.
I was mortified. Shame washed over me and I blanched but I knew exactly what to do. I slipped the dog’s lead discreetly into my jacket pocket, shouted “Sorry, never seen him before” and walked home.
Benny returned home half an hour later. If a dog could have smiled he would have done. Me and Whiskey gave him one our collective looks of disdain.