Bruce the Dog

The Dog's Bollocks: It was one of those dreich Tuesday mornings on the 101 route. 

The passengers, commuters staring out the windows, pensioners buried in their papers, and a couple of students with headphones in, were all wrapped up in their own worlds. I was cruising along, the same route as always, when I saw them.

Bruce’s unforgettable bus ride to the vet with his laid-back owner.

Bruce

He was no ordinary dog. A stocky Staffordshire terrier with shoulders like a weightlifter, Bruce strutted along the pavement with an air of reluctant authority. But it wasn’t his build that grabbed everyone’s attention, it was what was swinging beneath him.

Bruce’s bawbags were monumental, the kind of thing you’d expect to see in the prize section of a farming show. They swayed with every step, two massive orbs that seemed to defy physics. Bruce himself didn’t look particularly impressed about the spectacle he was causing, but he soldiered on.

And then there was his owner.

The bloke strolling beside him looked like he could’ve been lifted straight out of any housing scheme. His tracksuit bottoms hung low, his trainers were scuffed to oblivion, and his T-shirt looked like it had survived more than a few nights at the local. A gold chain glinted around his neck, and he carried a can of some fizzy drink that wasn’t water. He had a swagger about him, the kind of stride that said he wasn’t in a rush for anyone.

“C’mon, Bruce,” he drawled, yanking lightly on the lead. “Vet’s no far." 

Let’s get yer baws sorted.

Bruce gave the bus a long, hard stare, then sighed like a man walking to the gallows. He wasn’t sold on the idea, but his owner wasn’t about to let him back out. “Shift yersel’, big man,” he muttered, giving the lead another tug.

Bruce lumbered towards the steps. I’d already lowered the floor, knowing this wasn’t going to be the most graceful boarding, but even that didn’t seem enough. Bruce hesitated for a moment, then took the leap.

THUNK

The sound echoed through the bus as Bruce’s massive bawbags slammed into the step with a force that made the whole vehicle shudder. He let out a yelp, half surprise, half indignation, while I winced in sympathy. His owner? He just laughed.

“Ach, yer fine, Bruce,” he said, grinning as if this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

For a moment, the bus went silent. Then the comments started.

Jings, look at the size o’ those!

Bet that dog’s got his ain storage locker!

More luggage than ma ma’s holiday suitcase 

someone quipped, and the bus erupted in laughter.

Bruce, now on board, shuffled down the aisle with as much dignity as he could muster. His bawbags swung side to side, almost grazing the floor, and a few passengers shuffled aside as if they feared they might trip over them.

The owner collapsed into a seat, popped his can open with a fizz, and leaned back. “Don’t mind him,” he said casually, gesturing at Bruce. “Big lad’s just nae fussed. Vet’s seen worse.”

Bruce slumped into the aisle with a theatrical huff, sprawled out like a king surveying his kingdom. His look said it all: Aye, this is happening. Gonnae no make a scene?

The jokes kept coming. “That dog’s got mair tackle than a fitba’ team,” someone muttered, earning another ripple of laughter.

“Bet the vet’ll need a wheelbarrow for those!”

Bruce’s owner was unfazed, scratching behind his dog’s ears. “Good lad, Bruce. Get through this, and we’ll get ye somethin’ fae the chippy.”

As we approached their stop, Bruce reluctantly hauled himself up. His owner gave the lead a tug. “C’mon, lad. Nearly there.”

The bus doors opened, and Bruce lumbered off, his mighty gonads swinging like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. “Cheers, driver!” the owner called, giving me a cheeky grin and raising his can in salute.

As the doors closed and I pulled away, I couldn’t help but chuckle. Bruce might’ve been the star of the morning, but his owner? A man of pure laid-back charm. It was one of those moments you’d never forget, equal parts ridiculous and brilliant.