Roger Meyers – “Your honour, you take away our right to steal ideas, where are they gonna come from? Her?”
Marge Simpson: “Uh, hmm…how about ‘Ghost Mutt?”
I love dogs. When I see someone with some hefty, dumb-looking hound at their heel I feel the same broody pangs that I imagine those ladies that can’t have kids and pilfer a baby feel. That’s not to say I’m in the demented frame-of-mind to womb-raid a puppy from a heavily pregnant bitch, but yes, I am broody for dog ownership. Not for reasons of security, or a need for company, but simply because they amuse me so much in all their leap-around, slobbery glory, from the rat-faced faintly effeminate Chihuahua, a brilliant zip file of a beast, to the St. Bernard, with its deceptively dignified look pushing owners towards giving it an old man name rather than something daft. Apart from Cujo. But with a peculiar name like that, he was destined to turn out bad, whether a bat bit him or not. Wouldn’t have happened with an old man name.