Brace, Brace

There will come a time in every relationship between a pet and their owner when said owner will wonder if said pet owns them, instead of the other way around.

As a fairly rational individual with a fairly decent memory, I recall only too well that time I parted with a goodly fistful of my own folding money to procure the slobbering services of the dog named Waffle. By extension, that then meant that I owned said Waffle and what is more, that I would be responsible for Waffle’s upkeep and well-being. This was made yet more official when I licensed him via the local council and he was micro-chipped by the vet. Should he ever become lost, the data on that microchip would lead him back to me – another example of the concept of ownership. And should I punch his lights out and dump him in a bin, the dog warden would be after my hide. It all comes down to responsibility, I suppose.

More and more though, I am beginning to wonder who is playing who and more importantly, who has gained the upper hand.

I understand, of course, that my relationship with Waffle is not merely a black and white ownership situation and that instead, there are many shades of grey involved.

“I better not stay any longer,” I’ll tell the host of whatever soirée or party I am attending. “I have to get home to let the dog out.”

Or…

“The dog has just shat all over the utility room floor. It’s yellow liquid. Can you take him to the vet’s.”

Or…

“The dog has been in the longer grass, he’s soaking wet and there’s a tick on his face. Can you give him a dry down, brush his hair and remove that tick.”

All three of these incidences exemplify the ownership concept where by I, as his keeper, must be responsible for the aforementioned upkeep and well-being, whether it be cleaning up the yellow liquid or simply letting him out of the house to attend to his toilet. However, increasingly I’m second-guessing who is dancing to whose tune – if Waffle had a tune, that is, other than his hellish, high-pitched whine.

Ultimately, I suppose, I am increasingly making allowances for Waffle’s infractions. Increasingly, I am looking at him and thinking: If he isn’t coming from badness, he’s going to badness. Then there is the making of amends and apologies when Waffle makes an arse of himself vis-a-vis other people. It’s almost ironic because one of the deciding factors back in the day, during the selection process, when I was standing over soon-to-be-named Waffle and two of his siblings, Waffle kept jumping up at me.

“Sure, I’ll take that wee jumpy one, he looks friendly,” I told the vendor, as the folding money disappeared into her bra.

Now, two and a half years later, Waffle is still jumping. He’s jumping up onto me with muddy paws just before I’m about to leave for work. He’s jumping up onto children who deign to walk past our gate, making them, by turns, cry or fall down.

He’s also jumping up onto my desk chair when my back is turned to snatch a packet of Haribo that I was keeping for after my lunch. His jumping is so prevalent he makes a kangaroo look as though it’s glued to the ground.

I have also decided that those extendable leads are only convenient for the Hound at the end of the line. If the so-called owner needs to reel the Hateful Hound in at short notice, the extendable lead is not your friend.

This flaw in the technology coupled with the jumping tendencies were brought home to me last week when walking through the Gortin Glens. Waffle was at the end of the lead doing his usual sniffing at every tree and cocking his leg at every second tree.

All was going well until I needed the extendable lead to retract at short notice, which it unfortunately does not do.

Wandering around one particularly large conifer, I only noticed the woman with her child at the last moment. Waffle though, wasn’t as slow. Ever the bumbling fool, Waffle immediately wanted to make friends and so he ran up to the child, who was walking some yards in front of her mother, and jumped up to be petted. The child, a tall girl of about six or seven or eight, didn’t take too kindly to this unsolicited show of friendship and after a short squeak of alarm, immediately adopted the position one might take when the pilot on the place shouts, “Brace! Brace!”

Unfortunately, this meant that she crouched off balance and Waffle’s ever foolish and cumbersome ministrations knocked her backwards onto the ground.

As I say, the Hound was at the end of the extendable lead, some ten or 15 yards of line and so when I saw that all was not well, I attempted to yank him back. This took more time than was ideal and not before the young girl ended up on her bum.

“I’m so sorry,” I told the mother, as she coaxed her daughter onto her feet. “This clown is too friendly for his own good,” I added, images of me later strangling the clown springing unbidden into my mind. Dog warden be damned.

Waffle, of course, was entirely ignorant of the child’s plight, taking her tumble as just another form of play. And of course, yanking on the lead only had marginal success when Waffle was insisting on circling the girl and her mother, hopping and whining to be played with, tangling everyone with the long lead.

“Waffle!” I snapped, attempting to break the spell. It didn’t work and Waffle kept up his bouncing mission as the young girl slowly made it to her feet.

“Waffle! I repeated, this time with a little more venom. Fortunately, the venom had the desired affect and Waffle slunk back to my heels.

“Oh,” started the woman, as though seeing me for the first time. “Is this the Waffle that we’ve been reading about in the paper?”

I sighed and forced out a laugh. “It is indeed. He’s much too friendly – and getting too big for his boots.”

“Ah, he’s lovely,” the woman cooed, hunkering down to scratch the clown’s ears. “Aren’t you, Waffle. You’re so lovely.”

Waffle lolled his tongue and smiled in that special way that only a foolish dog can.

I sighed again, relieved and paradoxically, even more annoyed.