Ritual humiliation

by NobblySan

It is normal practice over Christmas,  chez Nobbly,  for MrsN to humiliate the dogs by dressing them up in all manner of foolish and demeaning clothes, before taking photographs of them.

This serves several purposes:

  1. It lets the dogs know who’s boss
  2. It keeps MrsN happy
  3. It keeps me on my toes, pondering what would happen if we didn’t have any dogs

After last year’s photo shoot, the dogs contacted their union rep, and acting on advice received, slipped me a tenner to hide the clothes.

MrsN, unable to find the cheery little Father Christmas outfits and daft hats this Christmas, promptly went out and bought some more of the damn things in a natty little tartan design.

Unfortunately, she bought ones that were way too small for our dogs, and so she sought alternative fashion models for the photo shoot.

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The chosen models (straight off the cat walk) were none too chuffed with proceedings, and after due consideration one of their number took refuge up a nearby tree in order to avoid being subjected to the same treatment as his two friends.

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The dogs, understandably, were most amused by this turn of events, and approached me later to express their gratitude.

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I explained that it was a job well done, but what with the fall in the pound following Brexit, such stuff in future would cost them twenty quid.

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8 Comments to “Ritual humiliation”

    • Yes, I thought that, too.

      As for MrsN going out to buy the outfits – well, I’m not falling for that one. It’s more likely she had a rummage through Nobbly’s wardrobe !

      Liked by 1 person

    • To be fair, the photos of The Soods (ginger) and Ben (fat / black and white) in the daft gear were taken a couple of weeks ago, but the one of Charles up the Christmas tree is years old. The one of the dogs cadging stuff from me in the kitchen was taken a few months ago.

      Like

      • Dammit, Nobbly, up until now I have believed every word you have posted on MH.

        Now, I feel so . . so . . . (what’s the word ?) . . . HUMILIATED !

        Like

        • More fool you, sunshine – I’m a right lying bastard, I am.

          A thorough wrong ‘un.

          In fact, I’m that dodgy, I’m thinking of taking up a career in politics.

          Hell – if Boris Johnson can do it . . .

          Like

          • Stop it – you’re making me want to post my poem about Boris, wot I wrote after the Brexit result.

            Like

              • Oh, all right then!

                It’s called Ritual Humiliation . . .

                Everyone knows who I am, my name is Johnson, Boris
                I went to Balliol, at Oxford, where I studied Horace
                You must understand, it’s The Classics
                When aspiring to aristocratics

                The Bully Club I had to join – you have to show those proles
                The wealthy get no punishment – we recognise our roles
                Prison’s for poor people, sonny
                Not us, who are rolling in money!

                I soon got into media, and wrote for Tory rags
                With many gaffes along the way, and blustering and blags
                I was never one to check data
                But was chosen to head The Spectator

                I stood as Tory candidate, to get rid of Red Ken
                For Mayor of The Metropolis, to make it great again
                It was my best job by a mile
                For boosting my public profile

                I stayed on at The Torygraph, so I could get my pay
                As being the mayor of London yields just one-forty-k
                And, bearing in mind I’m not thrifty
                I needed that extra two-fifty

                My second term was nearly up, and thoughts of my next job
                It had to be the top one – I’d get rid of that knob!
                Selected for a safe seat
                Elected, stage one was complete

                I get an offer every day, my PA always checks it
                And then one day I got a call, to lead the drive for Brexit
                And although I didn’t agree
                It would mean big exposure for me!

                Then, come the day, the wrong resultmy God, what had I done?
                Those sceptics who had voted ‘leave’ had got us on the run!
                But here comes the cloud’s silver lining –
                The Bloated-Faced-Git was resigning!

                Like

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