I was discussing with Alfie the other day the relative merits of being a two-leg or a four-leg.

Alfie opened up by saying that he envied me because I could choose what and when to eat. He, on the other hand was fed dog biscuits every meal.  “Biscuits!  Fucking biscuits! Every fucking meal!  Fucking biscuits!”

“Granted” I said, “But your times your own.  You spend it eating or sleeping – not a bad life, whereas I owed my soul to the Company store.  I too have my Master and have to slave for wages 8 hours a day”.

I also pointed out that Alfie was able to lick his parts Heineken couldn’t reach whereas, sadly, I couldn’t.  Alfie explained though that the pleasure wasn’t quite the same since he’d had his nadgers chopped off.  “Would you swop?” he asked.

“Hmmm”, I thought.  “Good point”.

Alfie also thought two-legs held the advantage because I could get a dog for Christmas whereas the dog had to put up with his two-legs for life.

“That’s true” I said.  “But a two-legs gets relegated down the family pack as soon as it brings in a four-legs.

Interesting though it was the discussion ended inconclusively, not least because Alfie could never be a two-legs and I could never be a four.

We adjourned as Alfie sloped off to sniff at his food dish muttering, “Fucking biscuits!”


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