The humble sausage dog, or amiable dachshund, is not a cuddly frankfurter of joy; nor is it a harmless oblong of shits and giggles. In fact, it’s an indirect perpetrator of attempted murder. That’s right, a sausage dog was responsible for me almost getting turned into roadkill by a lorry.
Etiquette is required when it comes to ‘I’m riding a bicycle and want to bring my sausage dog along with me’, in my opinion. Picture the scene: sprightly brunette cycles around the corner as I approach it on my lunchtime jog; I smile politely and squeeze onto the road to let her pass. Once I turn the corner (and she is at least 10 yards away), what I initially assume to be an obese rat leaps up at me. The natural and manly reaction, which I obviously took, was to scream like a three year old girl and jump into the road, whereby I was tooted by an angry Phil Mitchell lookalike in a Transit van. As I collected myself, and checked to see if I still possessed a set of testes after being such a wuss, I stared down to meet the eyes of my nemesis; cold, bleak and pompous. The type of glare which Piers Morgan gives himself when he’s staring into the mirror, wanking furiously.
What is the sausage dog etiquette? Surely it has to be on a lead, otherwise this act of narrowly avoided manslaughter will occur on countless occasions again; and I have no desire to press charges on a creature so perilously shaped like a chipolata.
*rant* x
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