Don’t use the ‘D’ word.
They’re fireworks. Never know who might be listening.
I don’t know what you’re banging on about anyway. So your mutt scoffed a few of them and ran around in circles for a couple of hours. Yeah, I know he barked a bit while he was doing it. Howled then, whatever you want to call it, I heard it. Everyone in Kentish Town must have heard it. He’s fine now, isn’t he? Just needed to sleep it off.
Look, what do you want me to say? I’m the one who had to explain to Peckham Ralph why his fireworks were all over the road when his runner came for them. Trust me, I’d much rather be dealing with your stoned mongrel.
No, that’s not how I got the scratches. Peckham Ralph doesn’t go in for scratching. If he does something to your face, he’ll use a hammer.
So when I got back from calming Ralph down, old Mrs Palmer was in a right tizzy because her cat was tripping on what your dog had left. Silly beast managed to climb up her roof tiles – no, I haven’t a clue how – and sobered up when it started to rain. Then it decided it couldn’t climb down wet tiles so it was up there yowling and she was down here panicking until I got a ladder. And yeah, the scratches.
Now if you’ve quite finished, I have a trip to make. I’m not sure Peckham Ralph was entirely satisfied with my telling him my neighbour’s dog ate his fireworks. No, I didn’t tell him which neighbour, but you might want to keep the dog out of sight for a few days. He’ll probably send someone round to have a look. Me, I’m off to the seaside for a few weeks and I’m not telling you which one.
Just feed that damn dog.