The Adventures of Champion

Like a streak of lightning flashing cross the sky
Like the swiftest arrow whizzin’ from a bow

Like a mighty cannonball he seems to fly

You’ll hear about him everywhere you go…

‘Champion the Wonder Horse’ by Frankie Laine

“Can we take Waffle the next time I go horse-riding?” This was Anna. Anna is eight. Anna loves Waffle.

“We certainly can not bring Waffle the next time we go horse-riding.”

This was me. I am 47. I am sick of Waffle.

“You never want to take Waffle anywhere.”

This was Anna again. Anna has started horse-riding lessons (‘cause she wouldn’t give over about horse-riding lessons). Anna wants to take Waffle everywhere.

“But you know why I don’t want to take Waffle anywhere. He whines like a wean with a slapped rear-end any time his eyes are open and he’s seeing the world outside this house.”

This was me again. I take Anna to horse-riding lessons. I never want to take Waffle anywhere.

“Pleeeeeeeeease.”

“Not a holy hope.”

And so it went…

There usually comes a time in these negotiations when I consider what a military man might term, a tactical retreat. I consider lying and saying, “Yes, OK, we’ll take the ruddy dog to the ruddy horse-riding lessons.” Secretly though, I’ll have my fingers crossed because it’s all a ruse just to make Anna clam up about bringing Waffle along-with.

The problem with this tactic is that Anna is no slouch and she’ll remember that I acquiesced to Waffle’s presence in the car, probably as we’re en route to the equine emporium.

“Lies make Baby Jesus cry,” she’ll tell me and then I’ll feel guilty and then yet more aggrieved at the stupid hound for wrecking the equilibrium of my mindfulness.

“Why do you want to take Waffle along to the horse-riding anyway?” I finally wondered, wondering at the same time why I hadn’t thought to wonder this before.

“So that he can see me riding the horse, of course.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Look, buddy, no offence, but Waffle doesn’t want to go see you sitting on Bruno (the chestnut horse Anna has befriended). He only likes – I held up my hand and counted these off on my fingers – “scratching, sniffing other dogs’ butts and pretending to pee when we’re out for a walk.”

“I bet Bruno would like Waffle,” she suggested with a distinct emphasis on the name.

“Bruno would hate Waffle – he’d probably rear up and try to flatten the hairy bug. Horses aren’t best friends with dogs.”

“But what about that dog with Champion the Wonder Horse?”

For the craic, one Sunday afternoon about a month ago, I had shown Anna an episode of ‘The Adventures of Champion,’ an old show featuring Champion the Wonder Horse, a young boy, Ricky and Ricky’s dog, Rebel. If you remember the programme, black and white and as cheesy as feet, it was aul-fashioned when your granny was a wean. Think Lassie but instead of a dog saving the day, it was always a horse, the horse.

See what I mean about not being a slouch?

Summoning up the power of Job and Brave Starr’s strength of the bear, I filled my lungs with pure patience.

“That’s different. Champion was a wonder horse and Rebel DIDN’T WHINE HIS WAY THROUGH THE WHOLE PROGRAMME – not as far as I remember, anyway.”

“You’re mean! Bruno is a wonder horse as well and Waffle wouldn’t whine the whole way through the lesson.”

The two of us sat in sulky silence then, both of us no doubt wondering how either might find the killer argument which would win the day. Anna stuck her tongue out at me and I responded in kind.

In the end it was Waffle who, unbelievably, attempted to save the say.

A crunch of gravel from the driveway outside announced the presence of the postman’s van. The Hairy Fool, true to form, translated this seemingly innocuous sound as a precursor to the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse arriving out front and immediately, he lost his hairy head.

Remember as a kid you used to peg a piece of cardboard onto your bike so as to make a driving sound? The cardboard used to catch in the spokes and rattle like a machine gun. That was the sound that Waffle made when the Single Postman of the Non-Apocalypse ground to a halt on the gravel.

“WAU-WAU-WAU-WAU-WAU-WAU!!!” Waffle suggested in the most un-subtle of terms.

For once, I said nothing. I didn’t even tell him to shut his hairy mouth before I break it. I just sat in the living room and smiled a broad smile.

“See?” I said at last, when the bills and supermarket fliers flooded through the letter box and Waffle’s defensive eruptions increased in intensity. “Imagine you were sitting on Bruno and Waffle decided he needed to bark. There would be every chance Bruno might spook and you’d end up testing out the effectiveness of your new helmet. I don’t fancy spending a Saturday evening in A&E, I can tell you that for nothing.”

My smile widened and I tasted the elusive sweetness of victory. I hadn’t even needed a tactical retreat.

Anna then surprised me by rolling her eyes.

“Dad,” she said, taking a deep breath of her own. “Bruno isn’t a postman.”