Sonny wants biscuits

Thankfully each week there is a diversion for me out to a homestead in Finglas in connection with practice for the musical outfit I’m in called Elevens. The different parts of say getting the lift out with Mark and Martin which can turn into a shouting laughing match are a good start to the midweek nights, but once we arrive in Tonys house “The Barrett residency” the customary tea and biscuits organized, business is discussed, the family, miraculously with Beth the boss, Eva and Sibhe ( I could have spelt this wrongly ) Shane our mascot mentor and Tony himself well used to the proceedings, are unceremoniously disrupted from their TV watching by a band of ‘Chunkies’ who think they can change the musical world, they are soon enough engaged, all battling to tell stories as we praise our days with words of what’s on and what’s next. It’s something I strangely love and look forward to but there’s something else. There’s something wrong.There’s this unbelievably awful smell!

Just as I’m tucking into my digestives, slowly without a whisper Sonny the dog a dirty so and so of a Terrier has crept up beside me and with the faintest of a whimper is staring at the plate of biscuits laid out on the table like Richard Burton first laid eyes on Taylor – If this dog could only speak the words, if this poor unfortunate Terrier could possibly contain himself it might be less frustrating for him – but sweet mother of Jasus does this dog stink, I’ve never experienced anything like it – seemingly no amout of love and attention, soap or water can stop this dog from smelling the way he does, Tony says as soon as he’s washed he’s back out into the back garden “rolling around in the shit again” poor Fergie his companion lady friend dog must really love him so to put up with this state of affairs, I salute Sonny our security who waits patiently outside the shed door some nights till we’re finished, he’s only doing what he was born to do and that’s be a terrier, but like any dog as long as he knows there’s biscuits, he’ll keep on hunting for that holy grail of dog food treats, and be blissfully ignorant of his own unsurmountable funky business.

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