The dog, Bonneville, wasn’t overly keen – on the old connubial bliss, I mean. She didn’t go a bundle on long lines of randy males, tongues out and nethers alert (shall we say?), queuing up half way down the road for her seasonal favours. In fact, cowering and whimpering, she gave the impression that she would much prefer it if the whole sex-crazed pack would just bugger-off, vanish without trace, and leave her alone.
Unfortunately, the olfactory evidence of her state of readiness was undeniable – and I was expecting local wolves, foxes and passing Beasts of Bodmin to join the line at any moment.
It was already proving damned embarrassing: The poor farm workers couldn’t move an inch without tripping over a horde of horny hounds, and I could clearly see one of them surreptitiously oiling his gun (though whether he intended to shoot us, the dog, the Blue-balled beggars or himself was hard to work out).
Something had to be done – and fast. We did briefly consider buying a large can of the canine equivalent of Stud Delay – and letting them have it right up the proverbials – but common sense made us see that, by the time we got to the end of the line, the front few would have rediscovered their maimed mojo and gone into Gang Bang Mode.
So, we invested in a vanishing property for the dog herself: Anti Mate, I believe it was called, and we had to spray it liberally on the affected area.
What we were aiming for was twofold: The vanishing of the scent which so aroused the by-now-Guinness-Book-of-Records-sized-Pack – and, the speedy vanishing of the sex-crazed swains themselves, under the wheels of the 10.23 Machynlleth to Aberystwyth Express (which, naturally, took hours!), if that’s what it took!
We sprayed like demons. The stuff smelled repulsive. God knows what it had in it – but I swear I caught more than a passing note of sheep-dip, festering badger and chicken forgotten in the oven for two weeks. Even the dog looked a tad taken aback!
By God it worked, though: It cleared that farmyard (and adjacent road) quicker than sprout-induced flatulence in a bar – and the whole putative leg-over brigade had vanished almost before we could screw the top back on.
Blesséd relief, I can tell you!