The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

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“What a wonderful lurcher you have there, Mrs Bryant, I haven’t seen as fine a one since long before the war. Can you make it roll about, play dead, or beg a biscuit? Nod its head or shake your hand by sticking out its paw?”

“Actually,” said the lovely Mrs Bryant, whose dresses tended to terminate a mere six inches below her waist, “it’s a Dane, not a lurcher.”

“Come off it,” I said. “That’s a lurcher. My dad used to keep them back in the nineteen fifties.”

“It’s a Dane,” said Mrs Bryant. “A Dane, that’s what it is.”

I shook my head and hailed a passer-by. “Is this dog a lurcher or a Dane?” I asked him.

The passer-by stroked his bearded chin. “Looks more like an Irish wolfhound to me,” he said. “This woman is wearing a very short dress,” he continued.

I dismissed the hirsute passer-by and addressed the dog directly. “Are you Dane or lurcher?” I asked it.

“Dane,” said one of the dog’s heads.

“Lurcher,” said the other.

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