From the dog for the dog

In times gone past, someone in the know might have uttered the words to me, “What about the turf the year?” In more recent times though, that question has been usurped by, “What about the dog?”

Those ‘people in the know’ had been repeatedly told and in no uncertain terms that ‘the turf the year’ is for others to worry about and is not and will not ever again become, a sweaty, midge-bitten, sun-burnt, sore-fingered, stiff-backed, where-are-the-rest-of-the-fuppen-fertiliser-bags?! facet of my everyday life. No. The turf is at an end. And that’s the way it’s going to stay.

Such is my aversion to, ‘the turf the year’, I am acutely aware that the whole of this week’s column could be bog-based complaints.

However, I am also acutely aware that this is supposed to be ‘The Wuff with the Smooth’ and not ‘The Turf with the Smooth.’

What is not at an end is a different but often, no less burdensome facet of my everyday life. The midges have been replaced by ticks, and instead of losing my mind in search of fertiliser bags, it’s now a case of where-are-the-rest-of-the-fuppen-poo-bags!?

I have said it before and undoubtedly, I will say it again, but, like the turf the year, the dog is a great conversation starter. I hardly ever bump into an acquaintance on the street (sans the Waff or otherwise) without them asking me as to the hound’s well-being.

Similarly, almost all the messages of goodwill over Christmas and New Near mentioned His Hairyness in some capacity, even if it was a sardonic inquiry as to whether he is still alive.

This is all good – fine and dandy – and in a small way it’s nice to know that the Waff is appreciated outside the confines of our family home.

However, two things happened last week which pushed the envelope a little further.

First, on Wednesday evening, I was astonished to be gifted a whole side of smoked salmon via a neighbour of my father’s. To repeat in paraphrase the conversation my father relayed, John had suggested, “Would your lad and the wee dog like it?”

Whether or not John realised, but this was the perfect gift for Waffle, seeing as how it’s one of the few things he can eat (apart from his dog food), without his rampant allergy kicking off like one of them big bulls the cowboys ride.

At the time of writing, both the Hound and I had the smoked salmon for breakfast (me with strips on granary toast with cream cheese and he with strips mixed through his nuts), and I can confirm, it is sumptuous stuff; woody and deep and lingering.

Again – although this time in a big way – it’s nice to know that there are people outside of the confines of our family home who are kind enough to think of me and the wee dog. So thank you, John.

Second (and stranger), was a correspondence I received just this morning, a card tucked inside a lilac envelope addressed to my good self.

“Don’t be opening that around here in case it explodes,” a colleague in the front office suggested wryly, handing me the card.

Ignoring this advice, I poked my thumb under the seal so as to extract the missive. Inside was a large card, ‘Christmas Message from the Dog’. The front read, “Every roast you make, every mince pie you bake, every biscuit, cake, every bite you take…’ and then inside, ‘…I’ll be watching you.’

Also on the inside was an illustration of a slobbering dog sitting on his haunches underneath, ‘To Mum and Dad… Happy Christmas’ with the ‘Christmas’ scored out and replaced with ‘New Year.’ Below that it was written, ‘From (Lucky) xxx’. ‘Waffle’ was also printed to the side in block capitals with a biro-drawn paw print for good measure.

I checked each inlay page of the card to make sure there wasn’t a fiver secreted therein (or even a side of smoked salmon) but no. Still – and despite the slight confusion as to who was the signatory, Waffle or the unknown, Lucky – the card made me smile.

My close friends aren’t traditionally great at keeping secrets. I didn’t recognise the hand-writing. It was handed into the office rather than posted. And it contained neither perfume nor any scent that I could discern. Ergo, my sleuthing skills expired.

Had the inscription on the inside read, “What about the turf the year?” I might have had an inkling as to the identity of the sender but honestly, I am at a loss.

Is Lucky the name of a female dog looking to make Waffle’s acquaintance? Did Waffle himself commission the card via Moon Pig? Or is this simply the first example of fan mail for the Waff?

Whatever the case and in a similar vein to John’s gift, it’s nice to know at least someone is reading these columns other than my mother.

Dear Whoever-Wrote-The-Card… Thank you very much.

You know what would really have been perfect with the card? If I had cracked it open and a little sound device in the spine starting playing the sound of a dog whining.

That would really have taken the (dog) biscuit.