Wuff with the Smooth: Grumpy

Apparently, I’m getting grumpier as I get older.
Now, while we don’t necessarily have to go into the finer details vis-à-vis said grumpiness, suffice it to say, there are plenty of triggers – the prime mover being Mr Hairyface himself.

Nor do we have to go into the specifics of Mr Hairyface and his triggers, although for the purposes of this tale, all you have to do is remember this fact: He’s either on his way to badness or coming back from badness.

Last Saturday evening, after a long day’s working outside, I gratefully creaked my aul bones onto a stool at the island in the kitchen. It had been a real humdinger of a mission: I had given the hens one of their quarterly big cleans (forensic clearing of the coop followed by a disinfecting, a de-lousing and the application of fresh bedding). I then dug a hole to plant a tree and after that, I mistakenly believed that mowing the lawn (front and back) would be a good idea. It wasn’t. By the wind-up, I was so spent, I couldn’t even remove the lid from a bottle of suds – although don’t worry, I managed this feat eventually.

Creaking on the stool (or was it the stool creaking), I sucked on the suds content that, despite my fatigue, at least I had made the most of a Saturday’s freedom.

Eventually, the various members of the family arrived at the island and also took up positions on stools. We call this ‘Island Time’ and it also usually involves listening to music and having the craic.

Waffle was there too, of course, although he was doing his usual whining shtick at the sunroom door – most likely, I assumed – gurning at the gathering clouds.

Now, to give you an idea of the geography of our kitchen, the island is in the centre and the fridge stands sentinel at the entrance to the sunroom. Waffle was, at that moment, out of sight doing his gurning beyond the fridge in the sunroom.

Whilst his allergies haven’t been as bad as late, they’re still lingering in the background, like vestiges of a bad smell. This means that he’ll scratch his ears if they’re bothering him, and that means I’ll encourage him not to. Usually, I don’t have to see him scratching to know that he’s at it. He ‘gurns’ as he scratches, a low rumble in the back of his throat which is almost a whinge but not quite.

Now, creaking and tired as I was at that time, I was in no form to be listening to this gurning – nor mentally deal with the fact that he was once again, scratching. I was just too tired – even my hands were sore – and I felt that a week on a four-poster on a cloud might be in order.

“Put a sock in it, dawg,” I told him gruffly, as the gurning continued.

The little humans drew me a look as if to say, ‘Don’t be so grumpy. Leave him alone.’

But the gurning continued.

“Jesus, dog, would you ever give up!”

“What’s wrong?” Herself asked.

“I can hear him rumbling in the sunroom as he’s scratching his ears,” I qualified.

But the gurning continued.

And my patience finally ran out.

“DOG! GET-AWAY-OUTTA-THAT!” I snapped.

As you might imagine, at this juncture and without preamble, Waffle appeared, head low, his tail tucked between his legs.

But the gurning continued.

At last, with Waffle in the same room and entirely silent, I understood that it hadn’t been him gurning at all but rather, the gurning had been the whirr of the fridge as it battled to keep chilled, my precious bottles of suds.

“Ah, gee,” ses I. “It wasn’t him at all. It’s the fridge making the noise.” I couldn’t help but laugh at my own stupidity/fatigue-addled brain.

“Sure, I’m not wise,” I said. “It was the fridge all along.”

Then Sarah said something which, even should I reach an age of four score and ten, I’ll never forget.

“That was so embarrassing for you, bro,” she said