Pudsey the dog signs his own death warrant with warts and all autobiography
The dog has talent to burn.
Perhaps Pudsey has been wearing the Bowlingual Voice microphone that translates a dog’s barks into human speech?
Of course, what we love bet about our pets is that they cannot talk. We get to humanise them. Dogs and cats know what they want. And the fun is in believing you are giving it to them. To learn that your dog is unhappy with its bedding or your cat prefers your blue dress to the green would be problematic. Worse if your pet thinks you to be stupid. Goldfish owners would be shocked to learn that they think humans are dim. The humans who stare at them opening and closing their moths and fill their bowls with sunken wrecks.
Dogs will wonder why humans are so obsessed with throwing a ball. Humans give cats balls of wool but no knitting needles.
Thoughts turn to Tobermory, a story by Saki from the book Chronicles of Clovis. We are at Lady Blemley’s house-party. One guest is a Mr. Cornelius Appin. “He was neither a wit nor a croquet champion, a hypnotic force nor a begetter of amateur theatricals.” His talent was in teaching animals to speak English. His star pupil was a cat called Tobermory:
In the midst of the clamour Tobermory entered the room and made his way with velvet tread and studied unconcern across the group seated round the tea-table…
“Will you have some milk, Tobermory?” asked Lady Blemley in a rather strained voice.
“I don’t mind if I do,” was the response, couched in a tone of even indifference. A shiver of suppressed excitement went through the listeners, and Lady Blemley might be excused for pouring out the saucerful of milk rather unsteadily.
“I’m afraid I’ve spilt a good deal of it,” she said apologetically.
“After all, it’s not my Axminster,” was Tobermory’s rejoinder.
And then the conversation turned:
“What do you think of human intelligence?” asked Mavis Pellington lamely.
“Of whose intelligence in particular?” asked Tobermory coldly.
“Oh, well, mine for instance,” said Mavis with a feeble laugh.
“You put me in an embarrassing position,” said Tobermory, whose tone and attitude certainly did not suggest a shred of embarrassment. “When your inclusion in this house-party was suggested Sir Wilfrid protested that you were the most brainless woman of his acquaintance, and that there was a wide distinction between hospitality and the care of the feeble-minded. Lady Blemley replied that your lack of brain-power was the precise quality which had earned you your invitation, as you were the only person she could think of who might be idiotic enough to buy their old car. You know, the one they call ‘The Envy of Sisyphus,’ because it goes quite nicely up-hill if you push it.”
Major Barfield plunged in heavily to effect a diversion.
“How about your carryings-on with the tortoise-shell puss up at the stables, eh?”
The moment he had said it every one realized the blunder.
“One does not usually discuss these matters in public,” said Tobermory frigidly. “From a slight observation of your ways since you’ve been in this house I should imagine you’d find it inconvenient if I were to shift the conversation to your own little affairs.”
The panic which ensued was not confined to the Major.
And on it went. Tobermory had been listening:
Even in a delicate situation like the present, Agnes Resker could not endure to remain long in the background.
“Why did I ever come down here?” she asked dramatically.
Tobermory immediately accepted the opening.
“Judging by what you said to Mrs. Cornett on the croquet-lawn yesterday, you were out of food. You described the Blemleys as the dullest people to stay with that you knew, but said they were clever enough to employ a first-rate cook; otherwise they’d find it difficult to get any one to come down a second time.”
“There’s not a word of truth in it! I appeal to Mrs. Cornett—” exclaimed the discomfited Agnes.
“Mrs. Cornett repeated your remark afterwards to Bertie van Tahn,” continued Tobermory, “and said, ‘That woman is a regular Hunger Marcher; she’d go anywhere for four square meals a day,’ and Bertie van Tahn said—”
Dark thoughts emerged amongst the former animal lovers:
“Then,” said Mrs. Cornett, “Tobermory may be a valuable cat and a great pet; but I’m sure you’ll agree, Adelaide, that both he and the stable cat must be done away with without delay.”
“You don’t suppose I’ve enjoyed the last quarter of an hour, do you?” said Lady Blemley bitterly. “My husband and I are very fond of Tobermory—at least, we were before this horrible accomplishment was infused into him; but now, of course, the only thing is to have him destroyed as soon as possible.”
“We can put some strychnine in the scraps he always gets at dinner-time,” said Sir Wilfred, “and I will go and drown the stable cat myself. The coachman will be very sore at losing his pet, but I’ll say a very catching form of mange has broken out in both cats and we’re afraid of it spreading to the kennels.”
At two o’clock Clovis broke the dominating silence.
“He won’t turn up tonight. He’s probably in the local newspaper office at the present moment, dictating the first installment of his reminiscences. Lady What’s-her-name’s book won’t be in it. It will be the event of the day.”
So. Pudsey. What really goes on behind the scenes at Britain’s Got Talent? Is he, yer know, gay..?