Death by Flea Bag

Those of you who have read the comments following my Paddington post will already be familiar with Flea Bag, the perennially constipated dog I first encountered when on holiday aged 12.

In the very womb of midnight, whence grotesque prodigies of the mind are spawned and terrorise the pyjamaed, I arose like the fabled Russ Abbott for a covert glass of lemonade. Scarcely had I sat up when I sensed two tiny jaundiced eyes squinting at me and through me in the darkness. A growling, grunting sound, such as might be emitted by Anna Kournikova if she were to give birth to a full grown bear, accosted my ears. It was Flea Bag. Somehow, he had made his away across the Mediterranean and located my humble northern home. Perhaps he had arrived stowed inside a businessman’s egg salad sandwich. Perhaps he had hitched a lift atop a narwhal’s tusk. Whatever the explanation, he had arrived and he was constipated. 

Or so I thought. It seems that Flea Bag had a very special reason for visiting me in the dead of midnight: he was about to do his first shit in fifteen years and, naturally perhaps, wanted to share it with the bony, wistful English youth who had taken pity on him all of those years ago. When the long-anticipated movement arrived, the very earth shook as if in the grip of a seismological cataclysm. Megatons of dogshit spilt out into the suburban night, covering half a county and blocking out the sun. I was smothered to death.

Flea Bag cried for his old friend, the one human who had taken pity on him. He buried his frayed mongrel snout beneath two melancholy paws and mourned, low and deep. He had expected to feel relief but instead learned an immutable fact about the universe: from the cradle to the grave there can be no release from the cycle of pain and suffering; from the woeful merry-go-round of constipation and guilt there can be no escape.

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6 Responses to “Death by Flea Bag”

  1. oldrope Says:

    Flee!!!! that would have been my advice

  2. jlebaptiste Says:

    There can be no escape.

  3. spicyeggnog Says:

    Wow! You actually ate shit and died.

  4. jlebaptiste Says:

    In your shit-eating dreams, private.

  5. pariahrustbucket Says:

    Classic.

    The seismological cataclysm is reminiscent of Collins’ ‘Ode to Liberty’, which depicts the geographical separation of England from France (‘A wide wild storm ev’n Nature’s self confounding’). Perhaps Collins thought the French were full of shit. Lots of things in the eighteenth century were full of shit, I find.

  6. jlebaptiste Says:

    Why thank you. ‘A wide wild storm ev’n Nature’s self confounding’ sounds like the work of Flea Bag. Historically speaking he’s a bit like Wally of Where’s Wally fame – if you close enough into a particular epoch you can be sure to find a trembling, constipated hound.

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