Life's a complicated bitch

You feed her, take her for walks, give her all the love you can. Then she starts choosing which parks she wants to go to and suddenly can’t listen to Matmos anymore. When you ask her what’s wrong, she just kind of whimpers quietly, suggesting she has a deeply seated problem with her father figure, a mongrel from Washington. Perhaps she was abused. I do hope not.

Before you know it, she’s making you answer the telephone and smoking cigarettes in the living room, wearing your glasses and delicately snaffling from your hip flask.

You decide some tough love is necessary, but how can you deny her that Pedigree snack just because she’s being a bit aloof? I know that the Godard box set she watched earlier may have drained her somewhat but look at those puppy eyes! I mean, she’s eight, but you know what I mean.

Things can’t go on like this!

I couldn’t adopt her. But she’s way too complicated to be a dog!

I get enough of this kind of hassle from everyone else I know.

And that’s how life is.