Coutta’s Cut: Shut your wife in the boot

Due to receiving a couple of complaints about the content of my allotted 500 words in this illustrious publication, this month I’m going to write about something completely different.

You will not see me criticising Jacinda and her incompetent government, no matter what absolute cockups they will most certainly come up with. Nor will you see me having a go at the police commissioner for his unworkable policy of policing by consent, even though most of his staff want to deal with crime in a way that works. I’m not even going to mention the All Blacks or their under-fire coach and not just because they gave the Yarpies a bit of a towel up on the weekend but because, according to some readers, there is no place for this sort of thing in The Fishing Paper & Hunting News. Having said that, I reserve the right to comment on the government’s incompetence, the police commissioner or the All Blacks in the future.

This month I’m going to talk about something well worth having, totally loyal but, in the end, responsible for a fair amount of grief. What I’ve just described is man’s best friend, a dog but in this case a gun dog. At this point, I’m going to settle the age-old argument, what is more loyal, a man’s dog or a man’s wife? It’s easy actually and is settled by a simple scientific experiment. Get your wife and your dog and shut them both in your car boot. After about 15 minutes open the boot and see which one is pleased to see you. Argument settled.

I’m at the point none of us look forward to, where my faithful mate is rapidly coming to the end of her hunting and retrieving days. She still does it well but, by the end of the day, it bloody near makes me cry to see the discomfort she’s suffering. I’d seriously considered retiring with her but Lynne the Ruthless didn’t think that was a good idea. I think the days I’d be at home pissing her off from May till August were more to the point than the enjoyment I get from my duck and pheasant hunting.

Now I know as a 68-years old I could be getting slightly senile (slightly? says the Ruthless) and bearing that in mind, I decided to take on one last dog. I’ve been bloody lucky with my last two: one a pure-bred labrador and one with a few other breeds thrown in. Neither of them costed me much either.

So here I am at the time of writing, a week into owning a 10-week-old black labrador bitch, who is just starting to answer to the name of Whoopi and cost me more than a few cars I’ve owned.

As well as going a bit senile, my memory is obviously suffering as well. I’m bloody sure my last two dogs weren’t as much work or didn’t wake me so early in the morning. Having said that, she comes when she’s called—mostly—and is already showing the signs that she might end up a half-decent dog. Just to clarify matters, I was joking about locking your wife in the boot. I wouldn’t try it if I were you.

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