Flash: Let Sleeping Dogs

I love watching my dog dream. His eyelids flicker, his legs twitch and he does volleys of high-pitch woofs in his sleep.

* * *

I sit at a table, napkin around my neck. I lap a little at my bowl of 2010 Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a good year. Then she comes in, puts my plate down, removes the metal cloche and bows.

‘I do not want dry dog food, Mummy, especially not the diet kind. I want roast beef, parsnips and Yorkshire puddings. No Mummy, this will not do.’

I grab the plate in my jaws and throw it across the restaurant. Other diners are pelted with tiny bone-shaped biscuits.

‘If you cannot feed me appropriately Mummy, I see only one solution.’ I jump onto the table, knocking cutlery to the ground and in one gulp swallow her up. Now there will be no more nonsense about diets and dry food.

* * *

My dog gives a big satisfied snore and licks his lips. It must be a good dream.