Hair of the dog

Dave the Hat noticed the dog as he approached. It was sniffing
through a bag of rotting chicken carcasses. Dave the Hat knew the
chickens were incinerater bound. He had spent an eventful nine days
working at Prince's Meat factory before becoming vegetarian and
unemployed in that order. It hadn't been the blood, the offal, or the
strings of gristle peeled from the broom bristles after the floors were
swept which were added to the sausage mix. It had nearly been a man
called Shawn Nethers who had shown Dave the Hat a black plastic sack
with the words " Anything inedible or too unsanitary to add to food
products we put in here. " Dave the Hat had peered into the bag. It had
been empty. Nethers had laughed, put a hand on Dave's shoulder and
wiped phantom tears from his eyes with the other.
It had nearly been Shawn Nethers, but it wasn't. It was the day the
chicken had spoken to him.
The chickens were attatched by the legs to an overhead conveyor belt
which would shuufle with the progress of a simpleton to where Dave the
Hat waited with a sharpened nine inch blade. An incision, a deft arc of
the wrist, a taut resistance as blade met chicken flesh and all that
was left was the colonels secret receipe. On his first day as Poultry
Produce Assistant Dave the Hat executed ninety six birds with his eyes
closed. Seven he had missed entirely, had left thirty nine with slight
scratches and had shorn one beak clean off. On his second day his aim
had improved, on the third his conscience eased the pressure and by the
fourth he discovered it was nearly midday before he'd decapitated one
hundred and forty chickens. On the fifth he opened his eyes.
Wednesday crept around and lingered, as it tends to, in the middle of
the week. Dave the Hat was indulging a fantasy about a compensation
claim to Prince's meats for repetitive strain injury when a commotion
on the belt interrupted him. He worked alone in a small room seperated
at either end by thick strips of plastic curtain which can only be
found in hospitals, butchers and sex shops. They reminded Dave the Hat
of rubbery tagliatelle and he enjoyed the way they swooshed as he
walked through them. The last thing he wanted, or expected was a rowdy
chicken causing a commotion on the belt, but the nature of Dave the
Hat's life was such that he often found he recieved the things he
wanted least. Much of his time, therefore, was occupied by training his
brain to not want say, a million pounds or eternal sunny weather. The
chicken was the largest he had ever seen, with a round breast and
supple wings which flapped and twisted against the restraints in
frustration. Dave the Hat sighed and pulled a lever, bringing the
clanking machienery to a halt, and grabbed the chicken by the throat
ignoring the patter of muscular wings against his forearms. The chicken
opened its beak, twisted its neck, battered its wings and rolled its
eyes in thier sockets..
" Go on then ya bastard, go on! "
Dave the Hat blinked.
" Here! Come on, right here. "
It thrust out a scrawny neck and winked at Dave the Hat.
" Bet you'd love to cut that wouldn't you ? I'm waiting gobshite, I'm
waiting. "
He realeased his grip on the bird, at which point it pistoned its head
forwards, jabbing the air with its beak.
" Big man ey ? " it shrieked " Big man with that knife of yours ? Bet
its a real contest for you slitting the throats of trussed up poultry,
I'll bet. "
Dave the Hat felt his jaw slacken and reminded himself to
breathe.
" I'll peck your fucking eyes out pal, " it wheezed.
" Look. Chicken "
" Oh 'chicken' is it ? ' Chicken ' ey ? We're all just 'chickens' to
you pal, so get on with your job "
In as far as it is possible for a bird to sneer this is exactly what
the chicken did.
" Are you, " Dave the Hat swallowed " Not a chicken ? "
" Oh yeah I'm a chicken alright. I'm the chicken that'll have your
ankles gouged off mate. "
" I mean do you have a name ? "
" Whos asking ? "
" I am. "
" My name, " the chicken heaved its breast with pride. " Is Moriarty.
"
"As in Sherlock Holmes ? "
" The very same. "
" Read much Sherlock Holmes in the coop do we ? "
". That, ". Moriarty whispered " would be telling. "
With that Dave the Hat stripped off his latex gloves and handed in his
notice.
It would be nice to add at this point that the chicken was adopted by a
rosy cheeked farmer and his wife and lived out her days sleeping on
straw soft as angel's hair, grazing on fine corn and raising many
delightful chicks. It would be nice to say that but not true.

Now the dog raised its head at Dave the Hat's appraoch. It looked like
the kind of dog which had won Crufts, let the success go to its head,
developed a taste for the high life and burnt out on re-entry. It
manouvered its outward turned paws so that while they all faced
opposing directions, its head at least was looking forwards.
" That dog looks pretty stupid, " Dave the Hat thought " not educated
like Lassie or streetwise like the Littlest Hobo. Perhaps I'll be
alright. "
The dog had lost interest in the contents of the bag and began trotting
towards Dave the Hat, tail slicing the air briskly as if to say ' Just
man's best friend having a sniff and a piss, nothing to alarm you here.
' yet Dave the Hat felt his senses prickle as if a colony of bats had
begun to flutter around his head. He turned on his heel and began to
walk quickly in the opposite direction.
The dog quickened its pace.
Dave the Hat broke into a sweat.
The dog trotted amicably beside him.
Dave the Hat wished he was someone else.
" Mind if I join you ?"
Dave the Hat sank his head into his coat, until it felt as though his
jaw was welded onto his collarbone.
" You couldn't slow down a bit could you ? Just that my hind legs a bit
gammy. "
Dave the Hat risked a sideways glance at the dog.
" Walk much around the meat factory do you ? "
" Shortcut. " muttered Dave the Hat.
" Not much of a shortcut if you're heading back the way you came. " the
dog mentioned affably.
Dave the Hat had to conceed that this was true, but declined to admit
it. Instead, the only sound was of his jeans meeting briskly, as if
each leg was telling the other to 'shush'
" Where you headed of to then ? "
" Pub. " this was a lie - he had been idling to the supermarket but
under these circumstances he ached for a drink.
" Mind if I join you ? Only I don't often get the chance to sit in
pubs. "
" I'll bet. "
" You wondering why I'm talking to you ? "
" Not why dog, how. "

The Frapsteiner wasn't the kind of pub you went to if you wanted a cosy
nook to huddle into with a pint of the barman's finest. It was the kind
of pub you went to if you wanted a lobotomy. Not one to be detered at
the prospect of having his face removed by a slack jawed local Dave the
Hat rounded the corner and found himself outside it.
" This it is it ? For the sake of appearances I'll lick my balls.
"
Dave the Hat ignored the fierce pang of jealousy as the dog dove
headfirst between its splayed legs and instead said
" Do you have a name, dog ? "
" Nope, " said the dog " I do not and neither should you. Identity is
the barometer against which society measures status. You wouldn't have
a barcode on your head would you ? Why does your species feel the need
to label everything ? "
There was a pause as Dave the Hat took this in.
" I reckon I'll call you Gavin. "
Gavin, nee dog, eyed him with a suspicious squint.
" I can see " he said very slowly and delibrately " that you and I are
not going to be on the same intellectual wavelength. Am I right ?
"
But the space before him was empty. Dave the Hat had disappeared into
the pub.

In accordance with narrative tradition the landlord of the Frapsteiner
was gruff, bald, married to a woman named Shirley and wiping glasses.
He eyed Dave the Hat with an expression he usually reserved for gypsies
which involved lowering his eyelids until only a crescant of white
could be seen and sucking air through his cheeks giving the effect of a
backwards whistle. He wiped another steaming glass to a desirable shine
and shook his head.
" No dogs. " he said, aparently to his feet.
Dave the Hat smiled weakly and shuffled his shoulders into an awkward
shrug.
" You heard the man Gavin, no dogs. Its the rules "
There was a loaded pause during which Dave the Hat avoided Gavin's
pathetic gaze by expolring the interior of the Frapsteiner, and was
terrified. Anything that could be broken had been broken at least
several times. The tables were dented and scarred while most of the
chairs looked as though they needed a good sit down themselves. A piece
of tarpaulin flapped over a hole in the far wall like a lady shyly
lifting her hem giving Dave the Hat occasional glimpses of the car park
beyond..
" What breed do you call that ? " the landlord held up a glass to
inspect it.
" Mongrel " Dave the Hat said quickly " Don't worry, he's going.
"
The landlord lent an arm which would have given Popeye cause for alarm
over the bar.
" I'm a dog man, you see. Its the wife who won't have them. "
" Ah. " said Dave the Hat and rolled his eyes as if to indicate the
complexities of women. He really wanted a drink.
" Says they look at her funny, gives her the creeps. Some twat told her
she was a cat in a previous life and now we're overun with the bloody
things. They're not cheap, cats. If you don't get them knackered before
you know it you've got kittens and then where are you ? Down at the
docks with a bag and and some bricks. " the landlord laughed brashly
and gave Dave the Hat a look that suggested he should join in. He did
but without any obvious glee.
" Dogs. " the landlord said wistfully. Dave the Hat hovered with an
entire queue of facial expressions and incidental laughs should the
landlord continue. But he went back to wiping the glasses.
" Tell you what. " he said thoughtfully, " While the wife's upstairs he
can stay. Just make sure he keeps quiet. One woof and she'll be down
here with her claws out, and that isn't a pretty sight. "
For a moment Dave the Hat fumbled for the right facial expression
before deciding on a a cross between conspirital and smug.
" Appreciate that. " Said Dave the Hat without sincerity. " What lagers
do you have ? " he thumbed through his change.
" Frapsteiner. "
" Right. Anything else ? "
The landlord shook his head.
" Wheres that from ? Sounds Danish. "
" Make it here. Out the back. "
" Right. So that's it then, nothing else. "
" No. "
" Is that legal ? "
" No. "
" No bottles ? "
" Yes. Bottles of Frapsteiner. "
" Any cider ? "
" No. "
" Vodka ? "
" No."
" Monkey juice ? "
" No. Frapsteiner, do you want it or not ? "