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Top five London dogs

Nathan James Page

 

 

 

1. The 'hard' dog

Pity poor Bollock. As a puppy he was a good-natured creature. Now he’s a nervous wreck thanks to the relentless harassment, chain-yanking and aspirational aggression of his owner, self-proclaimed ‘naughty boy’ Jammo (né Jeremy). As he bares his fangs and bashes his head on reflective surfaces, Bollock has a vision. It’s of a pub garden in which there is a kids’ trampoline and a lot of policemen. He knows this vision is not a good one. Will Jammo save Bollock from himself ? Will he fucking fuck.

2. The lifestyle dog

Little Jack’s owner, Big Jack, wanted a dog to go with his image. A ‘British’ dog. Little Jack is a... Jack Russell. Big Jack talks about Little Jack in archaic terms of endearment: ‘He’s a right rascal!’ ‘He’s a proper little roustabout.’ Little Jack trots along behind Big Jack’s quilted Barbour Liddesdale, circulation-impeding Asos jeans and Tod’s Gommino loafers. His master is on his phone: ‘Yes mate, just taking His Lordship down the Feathers, let him check out some bitchezzzz!’ Little Jack is ashamed.

Nathan James Page

 

3. The family dog

Clare Balding lollops across Roehampton Common. Hello Clare! Come on Clare! Who’s a good boy, yes you are! For Clare is a boy, christened after a hungover Sunday-morning visit to ‘that farm near Guildford where Mummy got Bunty’, followed by a drunken Sunday-afternoon barbecue, during which futures analyst Hamish’s oldest mate Gavin won a bet and got to name the new pet. Hamish still thinks it’s ‘bloody funny’. But every time his wife, florist Pippa, hears the retriever’s stupid name, she realises that she’s married to a total prick.

4. The hipster dog

Ivan the dachshund is concerned. As he totters along Columbia Road on his abbreviated legs – the result of decades of genetic tampering – he sees fewer and fewer of his ilk. There used to be hundreds. Now it’s all Abyssinian goat hounds, or something. Ivan worries that his owner Tessa will trade him in for a more on-trend dog. But surely someone with a responsible job like Associate Head of Creative Client Retention wouldn’t be that shallow?

Nathan James Page

 

5. The handbag dog

Miss Mascarpone’s tiny head pokes out of a woven Bottega Veneta. She’s fuming. In her mind she is a powerful, high-bred queen, gazing across miles of veldt, regally quivering. In reality, she gets lugged up and down the same 200 yards of Kensington Church Street every lunchtime by some pointless blonde daytime funambulist. It pains her to do so, but one day she plans to befoul the site of her shameful confinement, Bobby Sands-style. She will shit the bag.

By Chris Waywell, who is really more of a cat person (hello Artie!), in case you couldn’t tell.

Illustrations: Nathan James Page

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