The dog that is my heart

As I was walking my little dog betty tonight she was just about to pee (dribble, really) on the base of an electricity pole when the lady of the house adjoining it decided to come outside and tell us both off, in Greek, to not pee on the electricity pole, which, as I understand them, if they belong to anyone, belong to the public. To diffuse the situation I responded in perfect Londonese english and replied, Madame, I do apologise, I cannot Understand what you are saying. She started gesturing with her fingers, her hands, saying the word, Dog, over and over. Epeksa pellon. I apologised profusely, claiming I could not understand what she was saying, which was not a lie, entirely. I could understand what she was saying, but I could by no means affordable rationalize in which universe could she make such an outrageous command. Not a request. A command.
First of all and really this is the only point, I was walking a dog, for goodness sake. For that fact alone, I should have been rendered space, because dog, it’s in the word.

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Epeksa pellon: (Greek Cypriot colloquialism which roughly translates to I played dumb.)

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