Thread: too long for quick jokes....

Another little gem from Giles Coren of the Times:
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According to a story in The Times this week, some of the whacko Californian diet and lifestyle fads that have captivated hypochondriac layabouts in this country over the last few years have finally filtered down to the canine community.
An increasing number of owners, it seems, are removing all grains from their dog’s dinners in pursuit of the preposterous gluten-free life with which so many humans are obsessed, then pushing on to a high-veg, low-carb diet built around kale, blueberries, spinach, seaweed and even quinoa.

(Can a dog even pronounce “quinoa” correctly? Can you?)

This is the millennial “clean eating” con gone barking bloody mad. To say nothing of coconut oil massages, dog-focused holistic therapies that restore “energy” . . . and, well, it’s all got me wondering what on earth happened to the old dogs. The murderous, slobbering death hounds of my youth. What happened to Call of the Wild, to White Fang and Cerberus, and the fearless Rebel out of Champion the Wonder Horse?
Brexit, I guess. Brexit and Trump and The Guardian and Emma Watson and Gwyneth Paltrow. For what we are looking at here, I am afraid, is nothing more nor less than the first generation of snowflake dogs.

An urban park in autumn. Mist, leaves, squirrels. Two young dogs sit talking at a remove from their owners. One of them is squatting over a puddle.
“You probably think I’m doing a wee,” says one.
“I wasn’t presuming to make a judgment,” says the other.
“Well I’m not,” says the first.
“I am steaming my froo-froo with rainwater to promote pudendal health.”
“Well, you knock yourself out.”
“I read about it on Goop when I was hunting for a vitamin supplement that will help me to get over this terrible listlessness I’ve been feeling ever since the referendum.”

“SQUIRREL!” shouts the other dog suddenly, leaping up, pointing, panting.
“And?” says the snowflake dog.
“It’s a freaking squirrel! Let’s get it!”
“I don’t eat red meat any more. I find that a chargrilled aubergine, peeled and mashed with tahini, makes for a more than adequate “mock-squirrel”. And if you drizzle a little linseed oil over the top, for the correct balance of Omega three and six fatty acids, combined with a regular programme of cardiovascular . . .”

“Nobody’s going to eat it, you clown. We’re just going to scare the bejesus out of it, like always.”
“That squirrel has as much right to enjoy this park as the rest of us.”
“You what?”
“Some of my best friends are squirrels.”
“No they’re not.”
“True, but I wish they were. Then people could see how open-minded and progressive I am. I’d even be cool with it if my daughter went out with a squirrel. In fact, I’d like to go out with a squirrel myself. I’m hoping to meet one at yoga.”

One of the humans whistles loudly and shouts, “Rex!”. Neither dog moves.
“You off then?” says the old dog.
“No,” says snowflake dog. “I don’t approve of gender-determinant names. I refuse to be sexually pigeon-holed. How do they know I’m a boy?”
“From your massive dangly knackers and horrid, red, stubby penis?”
“That’s just biology. Gender is a social construct.”
“What if they called you Regina?”
“No good. They need to recognise my right not to be defined at all. For my gender, like my sexuality, is subjective and fluid.”
“You’re a genderqueer dog?”
“Yes.”
“Woof!”
“How dare you?”
“I just said, ‘woof’.”
“Which is a traditional expression of patriarchal lust and disrespect.”
“I’m a dog. ‘Woof!’ is just what I say.”
“Find some other way to say it.”
“Another way to say ‘woof’?”
“This is my safe space.”
“It’s a park.”

“It’s a relic of empire, is what it is. These were hunting grounds that were owned by a king, not democratically elected, where dogs were worked, unpaid, in dreadful conditions, and to the great harm and impoverishment of other animals. It’s an elitist symbol which needs to be torn down and . . .”

One of the humans throws a stick. The dogs regard it. They do not move.
“You not going after it, then?”

“You heard what I said: this whole park is a colonial throwback. I come here to poo and stretch my legs but I assert my right not to be governed by outmoded rules and conventions which are quite out of touch with modern thinking.”

“He’s actually shouting ‘fetch, Rex’ now. What are you going to do about that?

“I am going to record it on my snoutcam is what I am going to do. And use it as evidence of bullying in the workplace. We millennials will not be pushed around.”

“Millennial? You’re only four.”

“Yes, but in dog years that’s 28, which means I was born in 1989; slap on the demographic.”

“But you weren’t, you were born in 2013.”

“Don’t you dare impose your phallocentric numerical system on my right to be who I am.”

“I’m going to get that stick.”
“I’m going to get a tattoo. Of a weepy face emoji.”

“See you around.”
“I hate Donald Trump.”

The older dog trots off to pick up the stick and delivers it to the humans. The younger dog gets on a bicycle and heads off for a coffee and a squiz at The New Statesman before his reiki class.