The Errant Appendage

Oh my dearest and most esteemed reader! I hope I find you in good spirits and health. For the last few days I have been sat at my mahogany writing bureau, still trying to come up with my continuing and cunningly cunning plan to reunite Nelson with Lady Hester. I feel it is my duty as a good pal and also, I can’t afford the amount of Sherry he is getting through. Alas as the more time goes by it seems that this is getting less likely to happen.

He was still labouring under the weight of misery following his romantic break up and it really was a sad sight to see. He came over for drinks and a game of dominoes the other evening and I could barely get a smile out of him. He is, as you might imagine, in a state of delicacy and so I was treating him gently and with great houndly concern. This is why the current situation that had popped up, seemed all the more difficult to try and resolve. 

At a certain stage in life, a friendship becomes such, that you are faced with the reality that you might have to tell a good pal something that is sensitive, risking their eternal embarrassment and your own awkwardness in having to do so. 

We had already discussed the buttock toupee debacle in my last diary entry, delicate enough I think you will agree. I had now discovered another foible of Nelson’s that I had to address as a matter of great urgency, as I had no wish to so see him arrested or headlining the local news again. (I do believe some clips are still flying about the Interweb, of when he became inadvertently tangled up in the Toblerone protest march and ended up paw cuffed to a bollard.)

This issue has become more noticeable as Nelson has begun to trundle down the path of middle agedom. Thankfully, as a female of the canine variety, I fold up nice and neatly, and am not concerned with such perils.

How can I explain? Well, have you ever seen those toys for children, when you push one end in, the other then pops out to the great delight of the onlooking child? Well, Nelson is getting a bit like that. I first noticed it one lunchtime whilst we were enjoying a cup of Earl Grey in our local garden centre after a bracing walk together. I myself am a bit of a slave to a nice moist Battenberg, whereas Nelson prefers a nicely textured slice of carrot cake. Having secured our vittles, we found a suitable shaded table and settled ourselves down, and that it when I spotted it. Every time Nelson sat down now…well…his private appendage popped out.

This is not something that one feels is a common occurrence in a garden centre, and this assertion was born out when our mutual friend Margot popped over to say hello to us, took one look at Nelson, and bid a hasty retreat behind the hardy perennials. He seemed completely unaware of this, and was happily sprawled back in his wicker chair, indulging in some vigorous crumb hoovering. 

I maintained a desperate and almost fanatical eye contact and tried to convey my horror to Nelson through the medium of a horrified stare. This did not work as he was too busy scarfing down the remains of his cake. Finally, I had to point with my paw at the offending article. To my surprise, when he looked down and found it peering back at him, he shrugged and said, “Oh, yes, it does that sometimes,” and carried on slurping his tea. It began to dawn on me a little of the trauma that Lady H might have endured through their relationship. No wonder she was aways rushing over to see Camilla for gin and sympathy. I felt that a talk was needed, and I decided that Hector was just the chap for the job. 

I felt unqualified to advise on this sort of a thing, and it had come to my attention that Hector was a man who might know what to say. As an aside, I believe that my human acquaintances have been faced with a similar horrifying situation on holiday when a gentleman’s swimming shorts rode up and the essential netting did not entirely encase the contents. Sadly in this case, Nelson is not one for wearing trousers, preferring a long argyll sweater if the temperature really drops.

Now I have nominated Hector as the ideal man to help out, I would like to add a disclaimer (he made me) that to my knowledge, Hector has never suffered from an undercarriage malfunction, although his jodhpurs once split during his riding heyday as he swung his lithesome legs over Bowman, his rather wide steed, revealing scarlet underpants. (Hectors, not the horse). No, some things had to be discussed man to mutt. 

Later that evening I tackled Hector and asked him if he could assist me in re-educating Nelson as to the proper time and places to relax and air one’s wares. He reluctantly agreed after I invited Nelson in after our walk and made him sit opposite Hector. This seemed to galvanise him into action. Not wanting to hear any of this conversation, I had suggested they went out for a meal at our favourite little Italian restaurant, Tom’s, as they had very long table cloths so Hector would not be distracted from his mission.

As I watched them setting off together, I settled back with a battered Agatha Christie paperback and a very large sherry, It had been quite a trying day for a Spindlehound.

In concern for your viewing comfort, I have added a blue rectangular modesty cover. You are very welcome.

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