A wee man wi a wee dug

February 2011

There’s a wee man wi’ a wee dug that walks doon our street. He’s an arrogant, swaggerin’ bloke wi yon rat at his feet.

He’s aye got a smart comment, cannae just pass the time of day. Oh aye, he thinks he’s awfi’ funny in a “I’m sae clever” sort of way.

His trousers are a bit too tight, his heid’s of the larger size. It might accommodate that brain o’ his but it gi’se him piggy eyes.

He willnae say “Cauld day the day”, he has to quote a line or two... fae a book or a poem he’s read just to prove he knows more than you do.

And that bloody dog keep yapping, every time you pass. Ah cannae prove it but I’m sure it’s that mutt that fouls the grass.

The other day the wee man says, “You know they’re changing our bin days around? It’s a rubbish plan and I've told them so; they’re now swapping the blue with the brown.

Did you see my letter in the paper? It was hilarious, the editor told me so. The readers think I’m witty, I could have been a writer you know.”

I said I hadnae seen it but I was sure it was awfi well received. And I’d re-arrange my bin manoeuvres after the local paper had been retrieved.

“They offered me my own column”, he said as proud as punch. “My wit and insight is just what they need, the editor told me over lunch.”

“A column you say?”, I sincerely enquired. “And some extra money, something we all need”. “Oh no,” he responded, “I’ll do it for nothing - just for my fans, not for greed.”

I hope I looked suitably impressed but there was nothing else to say. Except, “Well I’d better get going” and turned to walk away.

“Castigat ridendo mores” was his parting shot, in a high-falutin twang. “Jings, what’s that you’re saying?” I asked. “Is that Latin or am I wrang?”

 “Laughing corrects morals,” he kindly translated. “Everyone loves my writing, you would too.” “Well, you’ve made me smile right now,” I admitted. “Cos your dug’s just peed on your shoe.”

At that he and the rat strutted aff and as I looked at his back, I thought his big bum in his too small breeks looked like twa mair dugs fighting in a sack.

His column only ran for a few short weeks. Didnae correct morals and didnae make you laugh. There were complaints fae mechanics, housewives, cat lovers, twa ministers, an a’ the Woolworth staff.

I still see him some mornings, but instead of one dug he’s now got twa. We had words about dog foulin’, now we dinnae talk at a'.