This Alsatian would wander through the streets eating the corpses of expired heroin addicts in the city of Dublin.
He was a Northside Alsation and used to knock the fuck out of Southside Retrievers should they ever cross the navy cauldron a.k.a The River Liffey on the sniff for some poodle snatch or what have you
He’d walk around out of his head, ingesting weird fungi at the base of a field in Finglas and go swimming around the back of Tolka and sometimes even sneak in and watch a Boh’s game in Dalymount.
He was a retired special forces dog and since his owner had taken his own life he was adrift, forlorn, and addicted to eating the corpses of the overdosed.
His sex life was rapacious and he’d ravage the arses out of the little Brazilian terriers down on North Lotts Road and in for a skinful of porter from the sluice pipes out the back of the boozer to refresh
Yea, he was a right little dog alright!
He one day had the temerity to begin walking upright, on two legs that is. He brazenly walked into Arnott’s and bought himself a pair of brogues, a suit and a bowler hat and rented a book from the central library on grammar, syntax, enunciation, pronunciation, spelling, tenses and a compendium of Irish History just prior to the First World War.
He looked the part, took up smoking and would frequent the Westbury Hotel, consume Tom Collins’s and fraternize with other humanized dogs (both bitches and hounds). He took a job as a political adviser to the Democratic Part of Canines, where a Bull Mastif called Rupert was heading a coalition between the canine population of Southern Ireland and the impenetrably long list of Gulls that commandeered the melancholy shores of this island. Puffins were employed as electioneers.
He purchased a house in Monkstown and ceased consuming heroin, he married a pelican and they currently live in Monkstown, happily and with a Cheetah butler and endless rations of figs, pineapples, cambozola and myrrh.