My dog is more popular than me

I have a dog. He is called Spud. He is two-years-old and he has legs which measure 22cm. Which is disappointing as I’d hoped they’d be longer so he could run further.

Despite his shortness of leg – he is more popular than me. This is starting to upset me.

I’m not sure why he seems to have acquired his own fan club.

I am full of witty banter and can hold my own as a mediocre raconteur. Spud contributes little, in my opinion, yet he is loved by many.

Why?

Why is he more popular than me?

When my mum rings me her first question is never to ask how I am or what I’m doing in the world. Her first question is: “How’s my little potato?” (That’s her affectionate name for him. She doesn’t have an affectionate name for me).

If I ignore her and tell her something frightfully exciting that’s going on in my world she quickly circumnavigates the conversation and brings it back to Spud – her little potato.

“I went to see the new Tarantino movie, it was a film that you could enjoy on so many levels,” I offer as an interesting and informative critique.

“What about Spud?” she asks, with zero interest in my analysis.

“What about him?”

“Well, what did he do during the Tarantino movie?”

“He stayed at home and slept.”

“And do you think that’s a nice life for a dog of his age – so young and locked at home while you swan off to the cinema all the time?”

“What?”

“You need to take him somewhere special after leaving him like that.”

Spud looks up from his bed of decadence. He looks smug.

This kind of conversation is starting to become standard. No one has any interest in me – it’s all about Spud.

I walk into the pub to see my friends.

“Spud!” someone whoops from the bar.

“Would you like a biscuit Spud, there you go,” they say ruffling his fur and cooing all over him.

Landlady arrives at bar: “Hello Spud, how are you, have you had a lovely day, I’ve saved you something from lunch, would you like a lovely plate of Scotch roast beef?”

“Please could I have a pint of Kronenberg?” I ask politely while Spud greets his pub crew.

“Hold on, you’ll have to wait I’m just going to warm up Spud’s plate of beef,” the landlady responds.

Arghhhhhhhh. What is going on?!

I have appraisals at work. My boss goes through all my targets and checks I’m on track.

Then, she gets to the important matters. “And how’s little Spud?”

“Yeah, he’s fine.”

“He looked a bit tired on your Instagram post the other day, is he alright?” she says tilting her head slightly in concern.

“He’s absolutely fine,” I reply slightly bemused.

“Well, make sure he’s not overdoing it, won’t you?” she says caringly.

What about me? I could be overdoing it and no-one would even notice!

Overdoing it, Spud? Pah! Spud is the laziest dog you’ve ever met. Sometimes we’re out walking and he decides he’s had enough and I have to carry him home.

My phone just beeped – ooh who loves me? I quickly open up WhatsApp.

Message reads: Is Spud coming to tennis?

Are you bloody joking me, I think? What is happening?!

Before I can respond with the right level of incredulity another message pops up.

It reads: I hope he is, because I’m bringing my dog and he really wants to meet Spud.

What the holy bloody shnizzle is happening?

Spud barks. It’s the postman. Spud barks, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to overdo it.

A package with my mum’s handwriting. Result – a treat for me. I rip it open.

Recycled postcard inside (it’s an odd habit she has!) reads: To my darling velvet ears, I thought you might like this. Your loving Grandma. Clearly it is not for me.

That’s it. I might as well give up now. Except I’ve got things to do. I need to take Velvet Ears to tennis to see his pals.