Before I got a dog, the most disgusting thing I ever witnessed in my whole, entire life was my mother molesting a chicken. I was eight years old. Mum was preparing a roast. In a devastating mental leap, a precocious synapse realised the connection between Old Mac Donald’s hens cluck-clucking here and there and everywhere, and Kentucky fried drumsticks, spicy nuggets, crispy Buffalo wings, and braised beaks. My mother compounded the trauma by plunging her hand up the chicken’s chuff to extract the giblets.
It bears repeating: my parents have much to answer for.
Since then, I have witnessed many revolting, heinous things. You name it, I’ve seen it: pulsating boils, diverse expressions of body fluids, flesh eating gerbils. Perhaps because I’ve become jaded and cynical, nothing has ever rivalled my mother pressing a chicken carcass into service as a hand puppet.
I am sorry to report that, cute, furry and downright cuddly as my puppy is, Jed makes me feel like barfing more than anything in this universe. To clarify: yes, that includes most forms of intestinal bacteria.
I will end this blog post right here, in deference to those with delicate sensibilities.
Trust me on this.