| |
|
Unfortunatly one of the things that the guy said was that he trained dogs for a living and that that is the way to do it.
Sadly, and especially if he's in the business of turning relatively harmless animals into teh slavering killing machines, he probably wasn't making that up.
I suppose the ideal approach would have been a bit hippy-ish -
'Mate, why are you kicking one of God's beautiful creatures round a train station platform? Aren't things, for you personally, already hard-edged enough?'
'Fuck off you poncey twat, it's what I do for a living.'
'I see. But couldn't you do something else? You've paid, what, £500 for the dog, and I suppose once you've turned it into a monster you'll be able to sell the beast for four times that, but it's going to take you months. You'll brutalise not just the rottweiler, but your poor self also, so, let's face it, as a line of work it's not especially lucrative, is it?'
'What?'
'And I don't suppose you'll enjoy it very much, will you?'
'Yeah ... no ... I don't know why I have to hurt them, the dogs. I'd like to take them for walks in the park, really, feed them Bonios and watch Eastenders with them curled up on the sofa next to me ... but I can't ...'
'Did Dad used to hit you, when you were small?'
'No ... Well, not much ... he had my best interests at heart, my father ... How did you know about that?'
Floods of tears possibly wouldn't have ensued, necessarily, but I like to think they might have done.
On the other hand, you'd need to be ingested of an 'E', and/or suicidal to attempt that sort of approach. |
|
|
