How I read the mind of a sausage dog

I’m jogging in the park. The leaves have had their moment of glorious colour and now litter the path. The sky is clear and there is a pre-Christmas atmosphere. 

People in hats and scarves are running through piles of leaves with toddlers and dogs, but not – I hope – through the leaves where I’ve just seen a rottweiler squatting. For a moment I think of letting the owners (sitting at a picnic table out of eye shot) know that their rottweiler has just planted a pile of shite into the leaves. Then I noticed that they have two staffies and a further rottweiler with them, so I apply doggy-owner-stereotyping of the worst type and decide to say nothing. If someone steps in the poo at least it will signify good luck, and hopefully no toxicariasis will ensue and no swear words will reach the ears of small children.

Anyway, I’m doing well with my jog. A little breathless as I sprint up a hill, a sausage dog emerges from the bushes and runs down a slope just in front of me. For a second we are at eye level. “My,” I think. “That sausage dog is rather heavy. It’s a bit like a tube for posting posters weighing down on inch long legs – panting and struggling to move swiftly.”

I have recently covered my greys with a wash that said ‘chestnut brown’ on the box but has sent my hair sausage dog red. For a second the dog’s glassy eye catches mine and I freeze. “My,” it’s thinking, “That woman looks heavy on her legs, like a cushion when the cover’s been shrunk in the dryer and it looks mis-shapen and over-stuffed. Looked at it puffing up the hill”.

Oh dear god. I have read the thoughts of a sausage dog. I continue my jog thinking what about my diet options. The thoughts of a dog spurring me on…

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