DOG'S BREAKFASTS

Last week was a strange old week on several fronts. Firstly, I managed to bugger up a translation test for a potential client, the second time this has happened recently. As soon as I see the word “test”, my brain seems to freeze and I lose all discernment. I commence mentally hemming and hawing about what to change and what to leave in, often ending up with a text full of awkward phrases that look like one of my English students wrote them. Actually, that is a gross exaggeration, but there’s a sniff of truth to it.

It’s significant that my two main clients never asked me to do a test - they just started sending me projects straight off the bat, and I’ve never looked back. Place the word “test” in the mix and I become a gibbering bell end. I’d therefore ask anybody who wants me to translate anything never to mention the “t” word, lest my fevered brain goes all Chernobyl on me again.

In other developments, after six years of largely peaceful coexistence with the town’s hundreds-strong mendicant community, my mutt Moby finally came up against some quality opposition last Tuesday and came out of it with his pride, and luckily only his pride, somewhat battered.

By the time I saw his assailant, it was already too late. A large grey hound (note the space), he had that look in his eye characteristic of a drunken Millwall supporter on his way to Upton Park – indeed, I’m sure he can probably howl along to No One Likes Us – We Don't Care, and answers to the name Bushwacker. My first instinct was to turn round and run away shrieking for help, but the area was crowded and I can do without some kind of homage to my valour in battle being posted on YouTube by some baseball-capped iPhone user.

Despite having identified 203 vagrant canines on my customary daily route, this specimen I had never come across before. After some tense sniffing, things began to kick off in spectacular fashion. I tried vainly to drag Moby away, but before I knew it he was upside down with jaws firmly clamped around his neck, squealing just like I’d been planning to. I had visions of him losing a chunk of his neck such was the distress he was in, but then one of those bizarre moments that only happen in Brazil occurred.

A large 4x4 drew up and a portly fellow leapt out, and after a split second analysis, he wordlessly stole up on Moby’s attacker from behind and caught him by the tail. I was hopping around unhelpfully at this point, aiming half-hearted kicks at the brute, keen in doing so not to lose a limb below the knee. Then, with a look as surprised as mine, the dangerous dog let go of Moby’s throat and I was able to drag him out of harm’s way.

Or so I thought. Being a little too English, I stopped to thank the Good Samaritan, which only gave the enemy time to regroup, and before I knew it Moby was in his sights once again. On the advice of one of the quite substantial group that had gathered by dint of the commotion (we must have been at least 20-handed by then), I released Moby’s lead and encouraged him to run like buggery, but the fool looked dolefully at me, before launching into a braying scream the likes of which I’ve never heard before from any living creature as fangs clenched once again around a chunk of his rump. Three or four of us tried to release him once again, only for 4x4 man to calmly stroll over, take his position on the tail again, and coax the beast into submission as gracefully as before.

This time, I snapped Moby’s lead back on and headed for a side street before things turned ugly again.

“You know what I did?” the have-a-go hero confided as he hopped back into his vehicle, appearing genuinely thrilled with his improvisation. “I scrunched his pods in my fist,” he chuckled, explaining the dog’s wide-eyed alarm and bringing tears to my eyes.

“You had more balls than me!” I wanted to quip, but that wouldn’t have worked in Portuguese. Like many things.