The dog’s fault

“It wasn’t the dog’s fault was it?” This was a salient question from a colleague at work last week after I’d recounted a tale whereby I sustained a bit of a head injury.

“Actually, now that you say it… It was the ruddy dog’s fault!”

Just the evening before I had been wondering about ‘the ruddy dog’ when the little humans returned home from school. As is the custom for their return, I downed tools and went to meet them at the door.

“Hi Dad,” said the first little human in the most cursory fashion.

“Hi Dad,” said the second little human, with barely a nod in my direction.

The next creature they encountered in the hall was the Hound. Cue high-pitched, cutsie voices…

“O-my-God-wee-Waffie-we-missed-you-so-much!”

“O-wee-Waffie-you’re-the-best-dog-in-the-world!”

Both the little humans shrank to their knees to wrap their arms around the hairy clown. Cue yet more shrill compliments…

“Look-at-your-lovely-wee-teddy-bear-face!”

“You’re-the-best-dog-in-the-whole-wide-world-so-you-are!”

Whilst Waffle was receiving these tender ministrations, I rolled my eyes and went back to work. “Lovely wee teddy bear face, my arse,” I thought but didn’t say. “Worst dog in the world, more like.”

Later that evening, after both the little humans had taken turns with more snuggling of their hairy teddy and they’d gone to bed, the Hound stretched himself out in front of the fire, emitted an enormous sigh, licked his lips and promptly went to sleep.

“A clear sign of a clear conscience,” I thought aloud and laughed. At that very moment a car’s door banged at a neighbour’s house up the road.

Waffle’s head snapped up, alert and listening, immediately prepared for action. He growled, as if saying, “What the…?” and he had the look of a dog that knows as the surest, solid truth that he will defend his family to his last breath.

“Don’t worry, fool,” I told him. “The house invasion by zombies hasn’t started yet. Chillax.”

And yet, I had to conclude: No wonder the girls love him. He is devoted, always in good form and always up for snuggling and the craic. Plus he really does look like a teddy bear.

“Maybe I’ve got you all wrong after all.”

It was the following day however, that my opinion swung back once again – like a great pendulum on the Grandfather Clock of Destiny which ponderously ticks off life’s remarkable events, rather than merely clocking time.

I had actually risen early on the day in question, circa 6am so that I might gain an hour’s work ahead of the rest of the house waking. A quick shower and cup of tea and I was toiling away before even the sun’s light had graced the morning.

An hour later, I stretched and smiled, satisfied that my plan had worked.

“Better feed the hens and let them out before you do anything else,” a little voice inside my head suggested. So that’s what I did.

In actuality, this morning chicken routine is quite fulfilling and usually it goes thus…

I summon the dog via a brusque, “Right dog, let’s go.” Waffle immediately springs out of his bed, shakes his head violently, banishing, I assume, all vestiges of slumber. Next, I don a coat, retrieve my wellies from the shed, scoop a scoop of layers’ mash and then open up the chicken run and duck inside.

The run itself has a pitched roof covered in chicken wire to keep out undesirables and when inside, I can stand upright in the centre. However, if I move to either side I have to crouch slightly so as to avoid bashing my head on the wire or the supporting lathes of wood.

“Tuk tuk tuk,” I told the hens, inviting them to exist their coop when I opened the door.

“Tuk tuk tuk,” the three hens replied in apparent fowl satisfaction.

“Tuk tuk tuk,” I continued, as I doled out some feed.

“YEEEEOOOOoooo,” Waffle whined in impotent expectation on the other side of the chicken wire. This is a daily whine for the Waff and it usually continues as long as my patience lasts. On this fine day though, when I was already ahead in my work, showered, fed and all tea-ed up, I let his whinging slide.

Had the sun risen at this stage, I couldn’t have said, as the morning was heavy with thick cloud and a light drizzle was tingling my face and neck. I made a mental note to put down some straw within the chicken run, as the persistent rain and the hen’s exponential pooing (and scraping) had all combined to muddy-up the surface.

I also noted, slightly dismayed, that the hens’ water supply in their drinker had much diminished. This, I would have to replenish before I went off to work or the happy peckers would be thirsty later in the day.

Grabbing the drinker, I exited the chicken run and trotted over to the tap to refill their H2O supply.

“YEEEEOOOOoooo,” Waffle whined louder than before. “YEEEEOOOOoooo!” He was evidently translating my brief absence from the chicken run as permission for him to lose his ship.

“YEEEEOOOOoooo!”

Drinker filled, I returned to the chicken run with Waffle slinking back and forth along the length of the run, like a tiger in a zoo’s enclosure.

Inside the run, I scanned the muddy-poo-y surface for a level place upon which to set the drinker. Spotting such a place, a grassy mound I, reached out to place the drinker thereupon.

“YEEEEOOOOoooo,” the Hateful Hound continued, louder still, pawing at the wire.

“Shut-your-face-dawg,” I barked at last, my patience eventually spent.

But just as I was reaching out to place the drinker onto the grass mound – WHACK! – I neglected to crouch underneath a wooden lathe running along a lower part of the wood.

Before I knew what was happening, my legs went out from under me, the drinker went flying and I landed on my back in the middle of the muddy-poo-y chicken run. Immediately the wet dung-y mud soaked through my clothes as I lay stunned, a lump already rising on my forehead like one of the as yet, uncollected eggs.

I can’t tell you what I said next although you can be sure it was colourful bordering on nasty.

Belatedly regaining my senses, I clambered to my feet and surveyed the damage to my jeans and coat. Maybe I had missed the worst of the chicken droppings. Maybe not.

There comes a time in life when the great pendulum on the Grandfather Clock of Destiny makes its ponderous move and for good or ill, we are beholden to our fate.

At those times, when the swing goes against us, there is nothing
else to be done other than accept
that fate and if needs be, cut our losses.

Leaving the dog to his withering whining, I stripped off at the back door and headed for the second shower of the day.

It was as I was standing under
the hot stream of water that I could hear the continuing impotent expectation from outside in the lightening gloom.

“YEEEEOOOOoooooooo.”

I tenderly searched out the lump on my head, which had developed a pulse of its own. There was also a small cut.

Yes, I concluded. It was all the dog’s fault.