Last night I went out for a drink with my friend Dave and, in the last pub we went to, we met a lovely young black Labrador Retriever called Bramble. I think her owner said she was nine months old. Her owner was noticeably a lot posher than the pub's usual clientele. He told us that Bramble was a "gun dog". "Gun dog" sounded like "gap year". You could tell that Bramble was his first dog: she was completely well behaved but the owner and his partner seemed slightly on edge, as if they thought she was going to start humping the bar flies' legs or ordering really expensive drinks. Dave and I said hello to Bramble and let her smell our trousers; we both own dogs and Bramble was checking them out.
Dave and I went outside so we could smoke, although I am trying to quit. I had been fighting the urge to have a cigarette for most of the evening but by this point had crumbled and lit up. The cigarettes made my head spin and I didn't feel capable of going to the bar to order more beer. Dave went to buy drinks on my behalf as Bramble and her owner came outside.
The owner was trying to get a bit of training in whilst letting Bramble have a toilet break. He had her lead out. I could tell he was struggling and decided to try to help.
"Tell her she's beautiful," I said to the owner, "she'll respond well to that. And when you're walking her and she's on a short lead, say, 'Heel', say 'Heel' and she'll soon associate the word with walking quite close to you." The owner looked confused. Bramble looked away.
So lying in bed this morning, I thought, if I'm telling someone to tell their dog it's beautiful, then I should tell my girlfriend that she is. Miraculously, my phone rang. It was my girlfriend, Shannon. "You look beautiful today," I told her.
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