Patches

We are all long familiar with Trotter and his peculiarities.

When he barks at you when you're eating pizza you give him the crust.

When someone needs to leave the house you feed him cheese.

Friends and family enter the house holding their bags above their heads.

All the cushions need to be on the bench to stop him humping them.

We smile at him fondly when he repeately wanders around the table, time and time again, in a happy yet distracted fashion.

We shout at him loudly when he barks at Thelma and wave his bowl over his head if we need to make him drop something.

So when Trotter suddenly started to calmy lick my leg earlier, slightly below the knee, I didn't think it unusual. As he continued to lick my leg I was suddenly over come with a deep and abiding love the poor, derranged, little man.

It wasn't until I was in the bath that I realised the little bastard had licked off all my fake tan. I look like one of those people with a wierd pigmentation problem. I had better not let him lick my arms or my other leg because I might end up looking like Michael Jackson, but with a nose.