Lain a few feet from me on the lounge floor is one of Coco’s soft dog toys which, gauging by the girth of the snout, I’m guessing is an alligator, not a crocodile. I suppose, checking the underbelly label of this item maybe able to confirm this assumption, but I’m not bored or intrigued enough to have a gander.
Footnote – When I say gander I’m referring to looking at the label, not any half-witted desire of mine to procure a male goose, who are overly aggressive and raucous creatures.
Coco, the lab/retriever cross, seems unable to shed any light on whether the toy, purchased by her mum last week, is an alligator or crocodile. Whether commanded “Bring me your alligator, Cokes!” or “Bring me your crocodile, Cokes!” my little furry buddy seems utterly indifferent at obeying GJ Strachan….. When I say indifferent, I of course mean, is completely unmoved at all towards responding.
That being said, old furry face’s refusal to act upon my command may not be a consequence of being unaware of the toys crocodilian genus. She may not respond as I’m using the moniker Cokes as opposed to her actual name. Cocohontas maybe irked by the nickname Cokes, or indeed my newly creating pseudonym of Cocohontas.
My habitual want of bequeathing nicknames maybe, like someone with troublesome haemorrhoids, not sit right with my pooch pal. Perhaps something I need to address. After all, in a bid to negate appearing a drug dealer, I’ve already had to desist shouting “Coke!’ when endeavouring to check her behaviour during saunters.
For what it’s worth my use of a nickname which irks her appears not to be the reason behind my adorable lab chum responding to yours truly. A conclusion reached when she didn’t respond to the very recent requests to “Bring me your alligator, Coco!” or “Bring me your crocodile, Coco!” either.
According to an old lament, you should “Never smile at a crocodile. No, you can’t get friendly with a crocodile. Don’t be taken in by his welcome grin. He’s imagining how well you’d fit within his skin.” An advocacy which seems to me a prudent approach when confronted by either croc or alligator….. Unless, of course, it’s a soft toy version of the reptile, which holds infinitely less jeopardy.
As I write, Coco is sleeping on the sofa following the exertions of eating her body weight in breakfast. She bears the pitiful look of mistreated pooches on RSPCA TV commercials, just in her case adorning a fat suit.
A look which, if the canine constabulary came calling at chez Strachan’s door, one look at my chunky buddy would doubtless lead to yours truly being slapped with a ‘Stop Feeding Her So Much, You Moron’ order.
As she snores, with tongue popping in an out like a Red Bull infused adder, I envisage old Cokey’s dreams involve consuming 48 McDonald Big Mac meals at once. A Mac bang if you will. I’d guess she’d even eat the gherkins, the greedy little mare. Although in her defence, fishing them out with paws would possibly be a challenge too far for Cokington.
Anyhow, in the grand scheme of things, whether the soft toy sitting at my feet is a alligator or croc isn’t really important. However, my literary riff regarding this crocodilian conundrum has at least afforded me the opportunity to pen over 500 words, on a day when I was really struggling for a narrative topic.
Consequently, I like to bid thank you Ally Alligator or Christopher Crocodile, whatever you are…… Actually, I’ve just stood the soft toy up and it’s neither…… It’s a bloody dinosaur!!