We Need To Talk About ...Emmie

Recognising that London is an increasingly hazardous Gotham and Gomorrah (see previous post), the city's councils keep its parks locked through the hours of darkness in an effort to keep safe its citizenry from bush-lurking n'er do wells.

This makes absolute sense and is the right thing to do. The only problem is that pooch and I can't get into the Green first thing in the morning for our daily eye-opener. Well, she can squeeze through the tightly bound multi-locked gate, but I can't. So we instead scratch around and attend to pees and poos on a piece of waste ground adjacent to the out-of-reach mini park.

Naturally, this isn't very exciting for either of us, but we make do. Though Emmie has taken to pawing at the park fence and yelping pleas for access. And clearly, as the mornings have got lighter and she's been able to case the railings, think, sniff, plot, pee and plan, a change has come over her.

This morning with my back turned the pooch shimmied through a gap in the fence and with spike-topped wrought iron fence between us, ran off into the Green and refused to acknowledge my whistle to heel.

It's 6:20 a.m., so 'calling' a dog must be done very quietly and with due regard for slumbering neighbours. Only, the more she ignored me -- occasionally gazing my way in distain, with clock ticking and my bath and coffee chilling at home -- the more she wound me up. (Ever tried shouting in a whisper? Grrr.)

Anyway, some 20 minutes pass and I'm about ready to join London's gang-banging teens and commit evil, evil deeds when dog saunters out, sans care in world and looking very pleased with herself.

Ever seem The Omen? ..The knowing look of malevolence in the eyes of the outwardly innocent face of the boy Damien..? That's the dog today. She knows what she's doing and she's enjoying being bad.

She's changed. I'm afraid to go home alone now and am uncertain as what I'll find.

My old pet -- riddled as she was of late with middle-class doggie angst (it's true, really) -- has undergone a transformation and is now host to an unwelcome messenger of Satan. A demon from Hell. Will she start projectile vomiting? Am I to find, though fur, the words 'help me' etched on her skin as I tickle her tummy? Will she begin levitation? Will she start resembling Linda Blair?

It's off to church with us this weekend and an overdue bath for the disobedient dog -- this time with a wee sprinkling of holy water just to be on the safe side.