Last Saturday my best friend Rizza went on a journey. While I was cowering from a police helicopter, he was out on the town rizzing it up (that's a new word I made up).
It started when his owner won big at the bookies and, in celebration, got so drunk that he passed out upon his return home. Rizza found him lying unconscious in the hall, door ajar with the keys still in the lock, a bulging wallet dropped on the floor beside him. Rizza was in shock. He didn't know what to do. He'd never seen so much money before. For a moment he was torn: revive his master or fulfill a life-long ambition of getting his end away at a lap dog dancing club in Glasgow. What should he do? He looked at his master, then at the wallet. There was no choice. "Diamond-Dogs, here I come."
Picking up the wallet in his mouth, he made his way to the bus stop at the foot of the road. A short queue of scantily dressed Foxbarians in high heels (and little else) were wiggling their bums up the stairs of a single decker, claiming child fares, despite carrying quarter bottles of vodka in their tiny handbags, beside their fake IDs. Rizza bounced up the steps unnoticed as the girls argued with the driver, who wanted them to pay full fare.
Rizza was quite excited. It showed, so the girls sat further back on the bus. He had a window seat, but was unable to see out due to the condensation. He nosed an eyehole and watched with one eye as the world sped by. Rizza isn't as well travelled as me so quickly found himself in unknown territory. If he failed to spot the 'Diamond-Dogs' logo anywhere he'd have to use his nose to sniff out the doggy knocking shop. "Shouldn't be all that difficult", he thought, "all those bitches in heat".
A drunk man sat down beside him, fingerless gloves clutching a can of strong lager, which poked out of a brown paper bag. "Nice doggy," he slurred.
Rizza growled and turned to face him. The man's eyes widened. A hand stretched slowly towards Rizza's mouth, drawn to the prize despite the surrounding danger. Rizza bared his teeth and repeated the growl. However Rizza knew he had a problem. He would have to drop the wallet to bite the man. At the same moment, the man was thinking if he took the wallet the dog would bite him. The stand off continued for many stops as both parties pondered the stalemate. If it hadn't been for the distraction of the Foxbar tarts making their way to the front of the bus, Rizza would have been stuck. With the drunk's head turned, Rizza jumped on his lap, catching him on the genitals with both front paws then rear paws and bounced off to follow his new best buddies from the bus. The winded drunk dropped his can, splattering his shoes, and cursed. "Serves him right," thought Rizza, "With those kind of thoughts he deserves to be on a Sex Offenders' Register."
Brandishing their fake IDs, the girls hustled past two bouncers into a noisy pub leaving Rizza on his own. He looked around. No sign of 'Diamond-Dogs'. He sniffed for trails along to an alleyway then headed along it, attracted by the interesting mix of smells: human urine, rat poo and the kitchens of a couple of takeaway restaurants. His meanderings continued for a couple of hours with no joy. He should have had a better plan. A few concerned revellers pointed at him as he wandered the back streets but no one offered him directions to the club of his dreams.
He never did find it. Suddenly a loop of cord appeared around his neck, quickly tightening before he could realise and react. A dog warden had him in his dog grabber. Rizza found himself guided towards a van, then lifted into a cage at the back using Kevlar-reinforced gloves. A short drive later, he was in a concrete room with one glass wall and a bowl of water for company.
As Rizza had never been chipped this could have been the end of our friendship. Fortunately Rizza still had the wallet and thus ID. And inside there were sufficient funds to pay the fine hefted upon his owner for allowing his dog to roam free.
Rizza apologised to me. I was a bit bemused by this because he hadn't done anything to me. Then I thought maybe it was because, with Guido dying, he didn't want me to be left 'best-friendless'. Then Rizza explained that the whole police helicopter incident had been his fault. When his owner awoke and found his wallet gone, his head aching, he'd naturally assumed he'd been mugged and phoned the police. Hence the search party.