Dogs (or) Why I Have Stabby-Stabby-Murder-Face, but No-One Available to Stab

In general, I have nothing against dogs. They can be pleasantly entertaining in some circumstances, and I'm sure they serve some discernible purpose. Well kind of, anyway.

I only bring this up because I'm currently looking after a dog while some family friends are on holiday. I hate this dog.

It's big and smelly and it jumps on me (something which I don't tolerate from animals which weigh more than about 7 kg and will thus leave a bruise) and it is possibly the least intelligent animal I have ever had the misfortune to meet.

It's four years old and STILL chases its tail. It barks ALL THE TIME. And worst of all, it slobbers. I tolerate drool from babies because I know they aren't harbouring any pathogens from masticating on raw meat and that mysterious clod of something it ate at the park on its walk, but I don't tolerate it from dogs for the reasons set out above.

"So why did you agree to do it in the first place?" I hear you ask.

The answer is that I didn't. The day before she left to take Deb to Perth for gymnastics, we had one of our (incredibly frequent) 'oh and by the way, I've said you're going to [insert verb] for [insert name] for [insert length of time]' conversations.

So now, I'm stuck looking after an idiot animal until saturday. I am unimpressed.

Also, did I mention that it scratches?