Picture yourself located in a tranquil and peaceful wood during the late morning hours of summer, a light breeze can be felt on your face as it rustles through the green leaves of the canopy. Dappled sunlight peeks through splashing on to the ground. Everything is calm, everything is relaxed. The only sounds are the birds in the trees and the only sights are the dashes of various coloured wildflower hiding amongst the undergrowth. Now picture that peaceful atmosphere being interrupted by the lone and repeated bellow of a teenager in distress as he cries one word over and over: “ALFIE!” You look up. Just in time to see a rather large black Labrador flying down a small path between the trees, covered head to tail in the foulest smelling brown sludge ever to be encountered by mankind. This is where I come in. Because I am the pissed off looking teenager, also covered in a healthy portion of disgusting gunk, tearing down the same path in pursuit of my disgraced idiot of a dog.

Most children are able to look back at their first dog and think of fond memories of that loyal and obedient companionship that has been shared by man and pooch over the millennia gone by. I, on the other hand, will be left with only the bitter reminder of all the trouble Alfie has caused me ever since the devil left him on our doorstop, grey carry crate and all. Here is a dog that laughs in the face of the law and spits on the shoes of dignity. Alfie has tried it all: shoplifting, home invasion, assault and elderly abuse are to name only the most famous of his accomplishments. Sometimes I wonder if his actions are deliberate, if he takes pleasure in watching as I return the now punctured football back to a screaming toddler as his mother hurls abuse in my direction.

So there I was, caked head to foot in a filth that’s smell was as putrid as the first fart after an egg sandwich on a hot day. I wouldn’t wish such exposure on my worst enemy and there I was getting a full frontal nasal blast every three paces, all thanks to my four legged so called “friend”. I was staying with family in an old holiday cottage in Herefordshire, on a small weekend break. Upon arrival the house had seemed like a canine paradise, located in the middle of the woods with a large open garden and more sticks and branches than Alfie would know what to do with. And the best part of all? It was secluded, meaning that there were no other people for Alfie to harm, annoy or otherwise inconvenience. The first three days had passed by with no serious incident; the only minor case was when Alfie had managed to capture a live frog and brought it back to the kitchen. The thing seemed to become quite at home on the stone tiles but was forcefully evicted by my step-mother much to the disgust of the frog.

It wasn’t until the last day that Alfie finally chose to strike. Packing in my household is a very stressful affair, it involves an excessive amount of swearing, moaning and arguing and a surprising lack of actual packing. So I decided, as the first of my father’s insults echoed through the house directed at the rucksack that had “vanished” in the night, that this would be a good time to go for a dog walk. We left the house and the mysterious case of the missing backpack and stepped out into the trees. The walk itself went fine, we met no other people and Alfie seemed contented enough to stay by my side and carry a tennis ball in his mouth. It wasn’t until we were nearly back at the house that things went wrong. Alfie seemed to decide that he was not ready to go back to the house and, out of the blue, bolted off into the undergrowth, leaving the tennis ball forgotten at my feet.

At first it didn’t worry me too much, there was no one around and he seemed to be behaving well. That was until I finally caught up with him. I heard him before I saw him, crashing around in the undergrowth with all the grace of a baby elephant on roller-skates. I felt all the optimism of the day drain from my body as I came face to face with my, now completely brown, black Labrador. He was stood, tail wagging, in the very centre of a pool of thick viscous muck and was absolutely covered in the stuff. All I managed was a faint sigh as I thought of who (me) would have to clean him and how long it was going to take. Whenever I attempt to wash Alfie, I always seem to end up wetter than he does and he always seems to end up running around with the hosepipe in his mouth. I took out his lead from my pocket and attempted to call him over, but he pretended as though I wasn’t there and continued to roll around in the filth. It’s always heartening to know that, to a dog, a stinking puddle of slimy foulness is a more preferable choice than the human who feeds, walks and cleans him every day. Once again I stress how loyal these majestic creatures really are.

After about ten minutes, I decided I was bored of being ignored and accepted that fact that the only way to get Alfie back was to go to him. I was thankful I’d chosen to wear walking boots instead of trainers as I stepped out into the mess and towards Alfie. Managing to get a hand around his collar I clipped the lead into place and stood up triumphant. However my victory was short lived as Alfie chose that precise moment to decide he wanted to run off again. Under normal circumstances I would have been able to control him on a lead, but standing in the middle of a pool of liquid filth is far from normal and instead I was dragged to floor and the lead torn from my hand. All I could do was watch forlornly as the lead trailed uselessly behind my runaway dog.

After being purposefully tripped up, I was forced to race after Alfie once again, freezing cold sludge dripping from every part of my clothing. My hope was to catch him before he had the chance to ruin anyone else’s day. Like he always does. I decided to cut a corner by going through the undergrowth, my goal being to get in front so I could ambush him. For some reason I was still calling his name, perhaps in the hope Alfie would suddenly develop a conscience and come bounding faithfully back to his “master”. Of course this did not happen.

What happened instead was far more humiliating and soul destroying. Just as I was starting to get worried that he might have already slipped passed me, I was deposited back on to the main path. To this day I cannot not say what would be worse; that sinking feeling of despair I felt as I arrived just in time to witness the world’s filthiest canine rip the walking stick from what appeared to be the world’s oldest man, or simply being shot in the face. The whole incident unfolded before my eyes in slow-motion and the poor man didn’t stand a bloody chance. In fact, I had to rugby tackle Alfie to the floor and prize the stick from his jaw, strands of saliva trailing off of it. I’m not exactly sure what was wrong with the millions of other sticks that littered the entire woodland, but it would seem my dog is somewhat picky when it comes to correct stick selection. But apparently a £58.99 hand carved, sturdy oak walking cane with brass handle just about makes the cut.

As for the man himself, I can only say two things about him. The first is that he looked to be at least eighty years old and not accustomed to such action, being mugged by a dog in the middle of the woods was probably not something he had anticipated dealing with. The second thing was that he picked the wrong day to wear beige. Everything about him was beige, from his sunhat to his loafers and everything in between. I remember noticing several large, black paw prints plastered down the side of his jacket and trousers as I returned his property back to him and hoped he wouldn’t notice the rather large cluster of teeth marks gouged into the stick’s base. I must have apologised probably somewhere near the six billion marker, give or take a few hundred.

I dragged Alfie home after that and refused to let him off of the lead for over a month, not that he cared. In fact I’m not even sure if he noticed the added weight as he dragged me around like some sort of rag-doll. The most annoying thing is that this was probably one of the less embarrassing things he’s accomplished. When we turned up back at the house, thirty minutes later than promised and both covered head to toe in filth, as a pair we stank so badly that the rest of the family retreated back inside and told me not to come inside until I’d hosed myself down. By the time I had cleaned the dog and then myself we were three hours behind schedule and to top it all off got stuck behind a slow moving tractor for the majority of the journey home. As for Alfie, self-reflection is not his strong point and so I feel he did not learn any lesson from the whole experience, in fact I believe he now sees most poor defenseless walking sticks as easy prey. I cannot even boast that since then he has become more obedient as not even two months later he stole an entire roast chicken from a family picnic. These days I’ve found it’s easier to just keep walking and pretend he isn’t mine.