Mr Scruff

One rainy day, a few weeks back, whilst sitting on the verandah, we noticed a tiny dog trotting behind a sheep and her lambs. It appeared to be under the misapprehension that the raggedy shit-tailed creature ahead was its mother/guardian. We were laughing about the silly little sod, when it turned and came bounding over in a distinctively unsteady fashion which we’ve come to identify as its own. Despite (or more likely because) her being a flea-ridden, mangy, runtish little specimen, we fell in love with the scruffy little thing. I started calling her Mr Scruff long before we identified that those tics on her belly were actually teats and her ‘willy’, a strange and still unidentified growth. No prizes owed for veterinary skills certainly but I’m hoping for a slice of karma for saving this diminutive doggy from assured extinction. After washing with shampoo and feeding her tasty scraps like teriyaki jerky and curried yam mash, she appears to be gaining in vim and vigour. When she arrived, she was afraid of her own (curly upstanding) tail, and was constantly trying to back away from herself and the scary shadows this unknown assailant would throw. Now she’s biting fingers, chasing chickens and we’re currently training her to bark at children. The ever empathetic I wants her to sleep inside at nights but I’m resisting due to the realization that this is merely the first stage in my eventual usurpation.