O cachorro

This time last week I was lying on a beach in Portugal. The sun was high in the sky, the sand was hot to the touch and the sea, when I ventured therein, was mercifully cold and refreshing.

I also broke the habit of a life-time and went topless at said beach; I didn’t want any tan-lines ruining the aesthetic of my hunkin’ bod, you see.

In reality (misplaced notions of hunkin’ bods aside), it was so hot I had no choice but to get me T-shirt off. It was 32C in the shade and I felt as though I was being baked alive. And yet, it was fantastic.

In between regular dips into that beautifully clear and refreshing Atlantic Ocean, there were breakfasts and lunches and cocktails and dinners and I found myself thinking that a life in the sun wouldn’t be half bad at all, notwithstanding the fierce heat.

“Waffle wouldn’t like heat though ‘cause he’s too hairy,” someone said, as I considered aloud how we might mastermind a flit to the Algarve.

“Waffle?” I said, testing the word on my lips. I continued, “I don’t think Portuguese authorities would allow him into the country, at least, not if they have any sense.”

The truth was, I had all but forgotten about the hairy fool and all his nefarious hairy antics.

Later in the evening, after another sumptuous meal of uber-fresh fish and several glasses of vino tinto, one of the little humans asked if there were any new photos through of Waffle. The plan had been that my mother (who was baby-sitting Waffle as well as the hens at home) would send through some pics of the hairy fool, so that the little humans wouldn’t miss him too badly.

The truth was, I couldn’t have given a monkeys about how Waffle was getting on at home. Or did I?

All in all, the week in the Algarve was a magical time and all too soon, it came to a sudden conclusion. The beaches, the locals, the food, the wine, the weather, the hotel – everything had been a hair’s breadth from absolute perfection. The only downsides (depending on one’s perspective) were the earthquake (5.3 on the Richter Scale but big enough to be felt) and that time I had my elbow clipped by a passing car (no injuries sustained other than a small bruise and a lingering surliness that the driver didn’t stop). Everything else was magical.

The return journey home however was punctuated by two reoccurring themes: i). A family from Belfast rowing the whole time on the plane. ii). My own family repeatedly saying that they couldn’t wait to see Waffle again.

“I couldn’t give wan…” I almost said before re-examining my own opinions on the hound and the time we had spent apart. I wondered if he was still chasing the hens and sneaking up onto the sofa when no-one was looking. Would it be good to see him again? Had I actually missed him?

As is always the case with the trip home after a week in paradise, the flight seemed longer, my fatigue felt more acute and eventually, I felt like strangling each member of that family from Belfast. I’ll choke the scumbaggery out of you!

Thankfully though, the journey finally came to an end and by the time we pulled into the drive, we all felt worn out and more than a little bit flat.

And there he was, the hairy fool, prancing around on his hind legs at the kitchen window barking his hairy head off.

“WAFFIE!” the little humans chorused.

“There he is,” I said, dryly.

But do you know, dear reader, I surprised myself to realise that I was actually glad to see him.

After the door had been opened as the hairy bullet shot out of the house and made his rounds of welcome and appreciation, I continued the relocation of the luggage from the car to the hall. That done and as the little humans finished their scratching ministrations, I turned to find Waffle hitting on his haunches staring up at me, with his big brown, hang-dog eyes, literally vibrating with excitement. He put me in mind of a little soldier standing to attention, waiting for his next command.

“What, dog?” I said, standing my ground. “Are you looking something?”

“Who are you kidding?” Herself smiled. “Look at him. He’s waiting on you.”

Beckoning Waffle outside (I didn’t want him peeing in the hall), I patted me knees and up he jumped. However, wise as I am to these situations I immediately turned him so that the Lucozade-coloured stream went on the ground rather than my bare legs.

Waffle growled as I rubbed his ears and I laughed. His pleasure was impossible to ignore and moreover, I decided, I had missed him.