I grew up reading comics and cartoons.

I was enthralled by Mandrake the Magician who could gesture hypnotically and capture the bad guys, the heart of his girl-friend, Narda, and the loyalty of Lothar, simultaneously; the Lone Ranger who was Kemo Sabay to the native American Tonto, and their horses Silver and Scout, one responding to "Hi Yo" and the other to "Get um up!"; and Jiggs and Maggie, Mutt and Jeff, Dagwood and Blondie, Li'l Abner, and the Katzenjammer Kids.

I put a matchbox on my wrist to imitate Dick Tracy's high-technology videophone, left many "Z" marks with my guava-stick sword, and begged for a sombrero like the Cisco Kid. There were Roy Rogers and his wife Dale Evans with their horses Trigger and Buttermilk, Gene Autry and his guitar, and the Phantom whose horse was Hero and his dog Devil.

There were the K9 heroes, Lassie and Rin-Tin-Tin as well as the superheroes – Batman, Superman, Green Lantern, Aquaman, Flash, Plastic Man and Spider Man as well as the villains who were worthy opponents up to the point where they were handed over to the police. They inevitably escaped to fight again another day, but we knew that in the end they were losers.

As I grew older I realized that X-ray vision was not something that even the hormones of adolescence could convert from wishful thinking into objective reality. Had this been possible, the "see through" garments that were the craze at the time would not have been necessary.

I was suspicious of the relationship between the Lone Ranger and Tonto, something later explored by the film Brokeback Mountain. Mutt and Jeff, too, together with Mutt's wife, M'love, were suspicious as a trio since Mutt and Jeff seemed to be together most of the time leaving M'love out in the cold. Popeye, Olyve Oil and Brutus were a ménage a trois long before I knew what that was.

Even the superheroes were not immune from speculation. There was this story that Flash, going at a tremendous rate, saw Wonder Woman in her natural, lying on her bed, and could not resist temptation. Then shamefacedly he apologised for his despicable behaviour.

To which Wonder Woman said, "Don't apologise to me. Say that to Invisible Man there." There were the Tarzan jokes like, "Did you see 'Tarzan bawls?'" Or someone would do a tremendous Tarzan imitation and then ask, "You know what he said after that? Dammit Jane, how many times must I tell you, swing on the vine!"

Now, the one hero who has endured for me is really what is called in literature an "anti-hero". He is Andy Capp. He spends his time in the pub, racing pool, or on the football field and his wife Flo brings home the bacon, eggs, beer, cigarettes, and her mother. Like me, Andy has to reside in leased accommodation.

When the time of the month comes to pay up, and the landlord or his agent comes around with the cry of "rent", Andy's invariable response is "spent".

Even the term "rent" has a sense of violence to it. In the Gospel (Acts 14:14), when one reads: "which when the apostles Barnabas and Paul heard of they rent their clothes and ran in among the people crying out" you know they were long suffering tenants and were so hard pressed by the onerous demands of their landlord, they had to try to earn money from divesting their clothing.

It is enough to make anyone cry out. In fact, my adventures with rental accommodation in Belize and Antigua are enough to make anyone bawl like Tarzan. When they first arrived in Belize, having come from a huge house in Trinidad, my children were amazed at the house I had the temerity to put them in.

"But daddy," my daughter Jasmine, aged 6 at the time, "that is a dolly house." I wish I could have used play money to pay the rent of US$1 000 a month. Then we came to Antigua and faced prices that would make you want to rent your garments and not the houses. A Robin Hood house – it had a little John – cost US$2 000 per month. The prices were hotter than the weather, but more predictable. As soon as some people heard my accent or saw us in the flesh, the price increased by at least another US$500 more.

In the narrowing expectations and diminishing returns that constituted my house hunting activities, I learned what is meant by something "going to the dogs". Quite simply, anywhere in the Caribbean the more downscale the community the more dogs it has. While in the upscale neighbourhoods the dogs are purebreds with pedigrees and training, in the less salubrious communities, mongrels abound. No Lassie or Rin-Tin-Tin here, they are all devils.

They are untrammelled and unfettered in the exercise of their legs, lungs and territorial rights, especially at night. I am sure that a medical check would reveal a startling correlation between hearing loss and dog possession in the region. I often wonder whether the people who own these pests are sadists enjoying the discomfiture of their neighbours, or masochists who enjoy the torture of noise pollution and sleeplessness.

Not being able to rent my garments to offset the rental of a houses, it is in one such community that I have now landed. As I lie in bed, listening to the canine cacophony, I resolve with dogged determination to buy a house. At this stage, even a Robin Hood will do. So long as it is far, far away from noisy dogs. Sherwood Forest will do.

Tony Deyal was last seen talking about the man who wanted a divorce because he lived in a two-story house. One story was, "I have a headache" and the other was, "It's that time of the month."