To Move With the Foot

Now, said Pliny the next morning. Tell me your dog stories.

Here goes, I said. The first one is about me when I was studying at university and still living at home. At that time our family had a West Highland Terrier called Sam. I never thought of Sam as having much to do with me though.

Why not? asked Pliny.

I was regarded by my family as someone who didn't like dogs. I always maintained that I was indifferent. It is not the same thing.

True, said Pliny. Go on.

I used to come home after a long day at uni, and enter the house through the kitchen door. If I was unlucky Sam would come running towards me and jump up, scratching at my legs. I suppose he just wanted a pat. But in those days I used to wear stockings, and I didn't want Sam to tear holes in them, so I used to just move him aside, with my foot.

You kicked him! said Pliny.

No! That's exactly what my family used to say if they saw me doing it. Stop kicking Sam, they would say. I'm not kicking him, I would protest, I'm just moving him with my foot. But they were never convinced. Ha ha! they would laugh. Just moving him with your foot!

It all depends on the amount of force you used, said Pliny.

I used a great deal of force, I replied. He was very persistent. Sometimes I would lift him bodily in the air and deposit him some distance away. But the action was performed very slowly. I probably didn't hurt him at all.

Well, said Pliny, if he continued to do it, I suppose you didn't. Was that the story that you thought showed you in a bad light? Cheer up, it wasn't so bad.

No it's the next one, I said gloomily.