So this happened.
Sashaying through Fulham, catching my reflection in passing shop windows and congratulating myself on the perky yet carefree way I was holding my tail, I heard an ominous rumble. I immediately looked at Her in disgust. This was exactly the sort of noise She normally made after eating Tofurky and I had seen Her stuffing Her flushed, overexcited face with it the night before.
Oh dear I thought and gave Her a dirty look so She knew She was a Bad Girl.
Just a few jaunty steps on, right outside the most divinely chichi of furniture stores, I heard the rumble again.
Oh dear indeed.
With the hideous realisation that the noise was coming from my own delicate insides I tried to fling myself into the road. Rather go under the wheels of oncoming traffic (being Fulham, it probably would have been a Land Rover and my end would have been painful but wonderfully stylish) than toilet in front of somewhere that sold scatter cushions for £200.
Sadly I was on the lead and only succeeded in giving myself whiplash. (I am considering suing Her for this and rinsing Her for everything She’s got… which consists of mostly Argos furniture and a worryingly large collection of too-tight trousers.)
Thus I was forced to perform on the pavement and sit beside it as She rummaged through Her pockets for an appropriate bag. When She was done picking up my pile of shame She marched me up and down the street looking for a bin. Unable to find one She popped it (to my absolute horror) casually in Her pocket and continued on as if She hadn’t just committed the most godawful crime against man/ dog/ sanity/ hygiene/ Fulham.
Still aghast at Her behaviour and muttering ‘bad girl bad girl’ under my delicately perfumed breath I was dragged into Her favourite coffee shop, Tinto. As She ordered and waited for the caffeine fix that would hopefully take Her brain off standby, I was so mortified that someone might smell the horror in her pocket that I didn’t even notice everyone’s favourite underpant stretcher David Gandy strolling in.
Takeaway cup squashed in hand and coffee already dribbled down Her chin, She turned on Her strangely large feet and walked smack into him. Him being lovely and fabulous and obvs my true soul mate apologised profusely and then bent down to pet me. In those precious few seconds I tried to communicate to him (through rolling on my back and gazing up mournfully) that he should adopt me and I should live with him and really I was much prettier than Mollie whatsherface anyway.
And then.
Then I realised that by bending down to pet me he had been brought face/ nose height with The Pocket of Shame. I flipped myself over and threw myself at the door, dragging Her after me into the street. We ran all the way home – me spurred on by horror and Her exclaiming ‘Good puppy! Isn’t this fun!’ as She gaily sloshed coffee down Her ill advised top.
Mentally and physically scarred by this incident I have not been able to go to the toilet since without suffering panic-inducing flashbacks and have a crick in my neck from the whiplash (although this does make me constantly look slightly down and to the right in a delightful Princess Diana-ish way and I think I might adopt it as a permanent feature.)
The only real good to come of this incident is that, as I ran out of the coffee shop, him of the brooding pants got to see just perky my tail was. Mollie Saturdays had better watch out...