Thursday, 26 June 2014


pig face, whorrified brother, pig dog, delilah,
Poor Delilah languishes in the hallway 
to show me just how deeply she misses 
my brother, but more importantly, I've just noticed 
that you can see her reflection in my floors.
They're not as dirty as I thought!

No, she's not ill. She's not resting. And she's certainly not dying. (Not with that ridiculously expensive all-protein dog food I've got her on; honestly, that hound eats better than I do.) No, what Pig Face is doing in this picture is pouting. Which I had not realized until this moment that pigs can even do. 

See, my brother had just left, and although Pig Face greeted his arrival with her usual trifecta of hospitable growling, snarling and circling in a threatening manner that doesn't even fool kittens, my brother has this weird dog whisperer thing going on and within moments, she was resting her big empty noggin in his lap and gazing up at him adoringly. As if she'd known him for years.

Those of you who follow along regularly know we're having some pretty serious health issues in our family, including but not limited to this one. Hence the visit from my brother. We're both trying to muddle through it and despite our nine-year age difference (I'm the older one, but thanks for wondering) we've decided we're the best outlet for each other's nervous chatter. Whereas when we were kids our chatter consisted solely of me badgering the poor kid relentlessly and occasionally pretending I had turned into a robot and only he could bring me back ... IF he pressed the right button on my garish multi-buttoned shirt. He never did and I came this close to fake-dying about 14 times. If I were him, I'd have let me. 

A visit from my brother is always interesting because he's a genius. He's eccentric and artistic and his mind works in ways mine the average person's doesn't. Thus a conversation that begins with me talking about work or shoes or the carbs I am depriving myself in the inane hope that will somehow improve me winds up being about Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, or Harry Chandler and the history of the Los Angeles Times or even, and I kid you not, the history of Alice Cooper's car. I wind up feeling retarded and awed and enlightened all at the same time. Not unlike when I reach the halfway point of a bottle of Grey Goose and haven't keeled over yet. 

Anyway, the moral of the story is that we had a lovely visit during which Pig Face all but crawled into his lap and called him "Papa," and when he left she immediately and dramatically went into mope mode and not even the promise of greasy home-baked beef shanks or a good swift kick in the pig arse would budge her. 
I may well have to resort to the "find the correct button or your owner dies" game. No one can say she didn't push me to it.