A dog’s life

History abounds with inspirational accounts of congenial canine commitment. In fact, it is impossible not to be humbled when digesting the magnitude of our hairy companions’ devotional exploits and what man’s best friend has achieved over the centuries.

Last year marked 150 years since the death of one of the most renowned examples of doggy devotion, A Skye Terrier remembered as Greyfriars Bobby.

Bobby was the faithful dog of one John Grey, a Scotsman who lived in Edinburgh in the 1800s. Upon the death of John Grey – also known as Auld Jock – and following his interment in Greyfriars Kirkyard, Bobby the dog took to sitting by the grave every day thereafter. Such was his unstinting dedication he remained by his late master’s graveside for the remaining 14 years of his life.

Then there is the true story of the Japanese Akita dog named Hachiko who, like Greyfriars Bobby, captured the heart of a nation with his unerring but slightly more heart-rending devotion to his master.

Hachiko – or Hachi, as he came to be known – belonged to a Tokyo academic named Professor Ueno in 1920s Japan. The story goes that Hachi would accompany Professor Ueno to a train station each morning, so that the latter might catch his train to work. The two would there separate; however Hachi would reappear at the station every evening to meet the prof upon his return from work.

Unfortunately, Professor Ueno died at work in 1925. For the next ten years until his own death, Hachi travelled to the station on a daily basis in the hope of seeing his beloved master once again.

Unsurprisingly, statues to both Greyfriars Bobby and Hachi have been erected in their memory, in Scotland and Tokyo respectively. And unsurprisingly, both shrines are popular tourist attractions.

Both Bobby and Hachi have also been immortalised in books and film, such have their respective devotional feats impacted on the world’s collective psyche. And yet, there are not alone.

There’s the legendary Balto, a Siberian Husky who led a team of sled dogs over 1,000kms to deliver medicines to a remote Alaskan town during an outbreak of diphtheria – thus saving thousands of lives.

There’s the story of Gelert, a Welsh dog who lived in medieval times and who reportedly slew a wolf to save a prince’s son.

There’s the story of Gander, a Newfoundland who fought with Canadian soldiers in World War II and who sacrificed his own life by running off with a live grenade which had been thrown at his troop during a battle. He was posthumously awarded the Dickin medal – the equivalent of the Victoria Cross for animals. Then there’s the story of Waffle, a dog so unsparingly devoted to being loved that it is impossible not to love him in return.

One of Waffle’s main traits is that he loves to please. Ergo, he is easy to train, supremely biddable and likes nothing more than having his ears scratched.

Each morning as I leave for work (or if it’s a weekend and I’m heading to the shap in search of bacon and milk), aul Waf barks at the window until I and the car pull out of sight.

A span of time later (depending on the mission), upon my return, Waf barks at the window once more, heralding my arrival into the familial milieu once more. It’s like having a hairy brass band which trumpets my departure and later, my homecoming.

To my eyes, it appears that he only barks when I disembark and when I return, although I am reliably informed by the familial milieu that the barking continues for most of my absence and nothing short of threats of extreme violence will augur a cessation of the hairy brass band.

I am wondering therefore, what might occur in Waffle’s world if – God forbid – I am struck down by a deadly malady during these forays into the great wide open. Would he remain forever more barking at the window until his own demise? Would he curl up in one of my old shirts, despondent and bereft? Would he make the trip into the graveyard every day and sit by my headstone remembering all the great times we had together (the ones when I didn’t shout at him for being a hairy fool)? Or would he transfer his affections onto the very next human who walks past, perhaps a member of the familial milieu?

Honestly, knowing Waffle as I do, he’s most likely to cast off any lamentations and sally forth with his habitual, happy-go-lucky mien – bumping into furniture, tripping everyone up and generally being his habitual canine plonker.

I would imagine too that any corresponding statute of His Hairyness would be just as plonkish.

Might work as a door stop, mind you.