The little dog next door is yap yapping. He yaps in blocks of two. Yap Yap (pause…..) Yap Yap (pause). YAP YAP….YAPYAP. We think he’s called Omelet, because that’s what it sounds like when the owners shout at him to be quiet. He’s probably not though.
He’s a Yorkshire Terrier. I am a dog person (who quite likes cats) and a Yorkshireman and proud of it, but why oh why have we been lumbered with that scratty little thing as our county dog? The afore named canine is not one of my favourite examples of the genus.
God’s own county. For such a fine and noble county, the dog that bears her name, should be something far more majestic, and/or heroic. A strong and handsome faithful friend. Perhaps something of game hunting stock, a pointer, a gun dog, a retriever, a sight hound even – not runty little yappy thing bread to catch rats in a rag shop with a 70s hairdo and a Nepolian complex. He barks (or bark-barks, should I say) pretty much non stop (apart from his little pause between his typical woof coupling) when ever they are out. I’m tempted to leave them a note, or a CD with the audio of their little Omelet lovingly recorded.
He’s not really that annoying… but he is a bit. Fairly typical for a Yorkshire Terrier.
Oh – he’s gone quiet now. They must be back home.