A splatter of mud hits Treacle on the snout, followed by another, sailing above overhead.


 Onto the pressed white shirt of Sixlegs.


Wot in butt-lickin’ hell?

As two small muddy fourlegs scramble up from the pooping pipe hole and trot towards him, crossing the High Street and dangerously dodging roundlegs.

Hi ho Treacle, snifz yuz Treacle! yaps Smudge, who lives with hindlegs in a right proper house den.

Yo, blind doggy, snifz yuz adds Mouse, a daft streetlegs who tags along with any fourlegs wotz out walkies.

I’m not blind yer butt-lickin’ muttwit, that’s him Treacle starts for the thousandth time wotz behind, lyk


The roundlegs catches Mouse and sucks him underneath, brakes squealing, Jemmapackmate screaming, fourlegs barking.  Mouse tumbling over and over beneath the roundlegs and spitting out behind.

I’m okay, I’m okay Mouse squeals, staggering in the road, snapped legs attempting to carry him towards Treacle.


Mouse sinks onto his snout. 

I’m okay, real-


Mouse! Smudge racing up behind him.

“mouse,oh,mouse!” Jemmapackmate is scritching “mommy,mommy,where’smymommy!”

“Treacle?what’sthistodo?” Sixlegs also scritching.

“oh,mouse,oh,mouse!” Jemmapackmate continues scritching.

Oh, Mouse is all Smudge can whimpe–


The road works stop.

Silence. And a muddy lifeless streetlegs lies in Westley Piddle High Street.

Treacle snifz the spirit of Mouse rising up from a broken body, stretching, shaking earflaps, before racing off on an endless chasing dream – without a backwards glance.

Goodbye yu daft little streetlegs Treacle growls softly before casting him completely from mind and standing foursquare to do his duty, wotz steering Sixlegs safe and straight towards number two pub wot a butt-lickin’ waste…

Oi, yuz can’t just walk away Smudge barks behind him.

I have me duty, muttwit.  So do yu.  Get that puppy hindlegs home to her mom

Wot abouts Mouse?

Wot abouts him?

Fourlegs across Westley Piddle, always sniffy to trouble, start jawing –  

Wotz happening?

Who’s copped it?


Purply-snifz, init

He’s trotted on…

All jawing except Gunther, the Standard Schnauzer, who’s got better things to do. 

..und das ist a 1985 BMW 318i roundlegs

A short sharp spritzen on that.

und das ist a Merc C-class 180 roundlegs


Japanese scheisse

No spritzen.

French scheisse

No spritzen.

and ya! und das ist a Ford Mustang roundlegs

The curly grey fourlegs cocks one and spritzens against the hub-cap of the sleeping roundlegs.

“zat’snotnice,” fräuleinmate scritches, jerking Gunther’s lead, pulling him away. Gunther immediately pulls back, trotting along sniffing at every sleeping roundlegs along the street. 

Das ist a Range Rover Velar roundlegs

Appreciative spritzen.

und das ist a-


Oi! Gunther barks in indignation look where yuz trotting, Treacle, yu blind mut– erh! shutting his chops, coz Treacle actually is a blind muttwit. 

I knows where I’m trotting growls Treacle not me wotz blind, izit?

Ya, ya snorts Gunther unconvinced. 

Sixleg’s got a three to one on a Doncaster longlegs at ten thirty Treacle gives Gunther some stony eyeballs.

howareyou,MisterZing? Ya! Lovelydoggy,zisTreacle” fräuleinmate is already scritching at Sixlegs.

Gunther changes the subject, coz it ain’t fair to criticise blind muttwits wot a daft streetlegs to get run over, ya?

Weren’t him, thems roadworks wotz squished him

 “steplivelyTreacle,we’llmissthehorsy” Sixlegs shakes Treacle’s frame.

Gunther follows thems with his snout, expecting Treacle to drop Sixlegs into the nearest hole. Wotz expected of a blind fourlegs, corss.

Sods law, The Greyhound is stuck the wrong side of the roadworks wot means the half pint is out.  Straight to the bookies, then with plenty of squirting time left over to catch the ten thirty. Wotever that is.  Ladbrokes is a packed den with hindlegs sniffing of fags and beer. High pitched scritching from all those boxes on the walls making Treacle’s earflaps flap. He knows Ladbrokes is where sniffy hindlegs always pack together and scritch over racing longlegs.  He’s not sure why, though. Ladbrokes never snifz of longlegs, racing or not.

Treacle steers Sixlegs to a counter.

“yesmate?” hindlegs behind the counter scritches. 



He’s blind, innit

Hindlegs behind the counter eyeballs Treacle “sorrymate,didn’tseetheblinddog”


While Sixlegs wobbles about on the spot waiting for the ten thirty, Treacle considers the golden learnings regarding roundlegs. Don’t get squished by ’ems.  Or get squished by not learning about ’ems.

Thems butt-lickin’ road works is wot did it

Smudge was right beforenows

Daft hindlegs for digging that pooping pipe


Sixlegs is hopping about on his footpaws jerking Treacle’s frame, red-sniffing all excited.


Easy, boss


Sixlegs jerks Treacle’s frame violently. Lost again.

Home, Boss?

Sixlegs allows Treacle to lead him out of Ladbrokes away from all the noise and nonsense.

“uselessbugga” Sixlegs scritches again.




Treacle winces at the pain.  Violent vibrations are making bones ache, teeth itch and earflaps flutter.  Hindlegs must enjoy it, tho. After all, it’s thems useless muttwits wotz digging up all the holes. 

Flashing across his vision is Mouse tumbling in a broken splatter of mu– 


Oh poop, let’s go ask Duncan wot he thinks

But nows nosh time and orange-sniffy thoughts of that tin of Pedigree duck and chicken livers is all Treacle can think about between the earflaps.

Who cares wot Duncan thinks licking his chops in anticipation, plodding and pulling towards home.

 “slowdownyerlittlebugga” Sixlegs scritches.

Wot the butt-lickin’..?  he eyeballs aghast at hindlegs in their ridiculously bright clothfurs placing flashing lights and signs across Treacle’s path.  Black arrows pointing Treacle to trot along in one direction only – the completely wrong direction. 

Wot about Sixlegs? And wot about my butt-lickin’ Pedigree duck and chickens livers?


Snout twitching every which way, Treacle snifz for a place where Sixlegs can cross.  Those yellow-sniffy traffic lights on the High Street are gone. Gone! Replaced by a big butt-lickin’ hole for the pooping pipe.

Wot to do–


Growling roundlegs are usually found sleeping all along the High Street, but not today. Not a sausage. Roundlegs replaced by road works. Unable to spritzenon anything until he reaches Herdwick pooping park, Gunther double spritzens up the first tree he snifz cocking his leg high enough to almost fall over.  Flaplegs eyeball him from the limbs above.

Flap down ze here and eyeball lyk that he growls, leg still cocked.

Gunther follows up the spritzen with a poop, fräuleinmate scooping it up in her plastic bag to carry home and throw in the sniffy bin.  Gunther reckons it’s dog-damn easier to poop straight into the plastic bag but fräuleinmate never offers him the chance.

Fräuleinmate’s walkies almost over, Gunther leads her back out of Herdwick pooping park and onto Nelson Avenue where he is chuffed to find a line of sleeping roundlegs all nicely aligned for a bit of leg cocking.  He heads straight for the nearest one.

Und das ist a Skoda Yeti roundlegs

Not worth a spritzen.  He trots on, checking out each roundlegs in turn.  They mostly snifz of wet tarmac and the green-sniffy earth from thems fields over the Thameslick.  Fluff from a purply-sniffy roadkill is stuck in the treads of a Nissan SUV.

Jap scheisse, corss

And some roundlegs snifz of other fours who have beaten him to the mark, but Gunther knows thems muttwits don’t have enough common sense to spritzen on German brands.  They just spritzen over everywhere, even themselves.

Giblets, snifz yuz and don’t spritzen just anywhere Gunther suddenly snaps at a Brindle Boxer wandering along in front, mindlessly cocking a leg every which way.

Snifz yuz, too, and it’s a free world, mate Giblets snaps back, lunging at the Standard Schnauzer so fast that his hindlegs companion barely has time to check the attack. 

Wotz wrong with all yuz muttwits, ya? Gunther snifz at Giblet’s spritzen, recognising the spicy orange-snifz of Fongs Restaurant bins ‘round back.

Only sniffing for thems six teets – erh, snifz any?

Moving on das ist a Landover, ya, British or maybe German or maybe Indian, anyways and ouf! Here comes another great mind

as GitOrff!, the scruffy Border Terrier, trots into view.

Snifz yu, wotz up Gunty? GitOrff! trots over and they bump snoutz.

Ya, snifz yuz

Yor earflaps clocked Mouse?

..they did Gunther’s patience bucket for muttwits today is pretty near full.

And – and even Halfleg is put out wot with all that thudthudthud noise and–

I’m busy sniffing roundlegs, mein hund 

Sure mate GitOrrf! wags his toilet brush tail poor old Mouse, erh?

Gunther really can’t be bothered to open his chops and reply.

And – and did yu knows KFC is cut-off by the pooping pipe and probably gonna get noshed?

Look, I’m a busy with– VOTZ???

Gunther pulls up short, all round eyeballs.

Bad news? Nein, world changing bad news.


Shocked, he spritzens involuntarily.

Colonel Saunders’s very own, mate

 “Gunther,scruffydog” fräuleinmate scritches, hauling Gunther away from GitOrrf! “fleas!”

Bacon butties are today’s specials at Greggs GitOrrf! continues to make up for the bad news ain’t no road works out front to stop yu grabbin’ems and noshing’ems

Dazed, Gunther trots on, forgetting GitOrrf!, Greggs and bacon specials.

Road works are surely a good thing but not when they’re gonna nosh Westley Piddle’s KFC.


Time to put his paw down. 

“comealong,Gunther’ fräuleinmate tugs him towards home.

Nein!  Ve must save KFC! using all his wiry strength to drag fräuleinmate in a sniffly urgent new direction.

6 thoughts on “TREACLE – PART 2

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: