Puppy RIP


Picture this – and it may not be a stretch – a grim, sleety, office-bound Monday. But hurrah for fractured domestic arrangements! One of this week’s colleagues shares with his ex-girlfriend custody of their utterly charming doggie, Ruby. Dogcare arrangements being what they are, Ruby was scheduled to spend a day with us, snoozing in a room full of enchanted humans. Oops! I called her Rosie by mistake, in honour of my dad’s little woofmaker, but Ruby – presumably hedging against possible future biscuit provision – tactfully ignored my faux pas and wagged politely at my overtures. Every office should have a dog, I sighed, watching the sudden smiles on colleagues’ faces as soft, fluffy Ruby mooched over for a speculative sniffabout.

Then, horror! Real horror! News came filtering through from the mothership: one office had a doggie no more. Apparently Alan, the adorable dachshund puppy from Tatler, had got trapped in the revolving doors of the main building. He and his walker had been safely disgorged onto the pavement when the puppy, on a lead, made a sudden bolt back to the hall with tragically poor timing. Despite the arrival of two, or praps three, fire engines with cutting equipment, Alan expired in fairly short order. Even more horribly, it was a very tender-hearted chum of mine who was stuck in the door with about 25% of Alan, while the other 75% wriggled outside. After an hour of fruitless unscrewings – and with Alan long gone – the firemen gave up and passed in a tarpaulin, told chum Charlie to cover himself, close his eyes tightly and wait for the glass to be sledgehammered into shatters all around him.

The cherry on this shitcake, said Charlie, was that he had been returning from a run, which meant that throughout this life-changingly horrid 60 minutes, and in front of a mixed bag of firemen and beautiful women, he was stuck in a glass box, sweating hard and wearing tights.


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