Don’t. Pet. The dog

If there’s one good thing about having a dog, it’s that he’s NEVER in bad form.
Every morning I open the back door to let Waffle out to do his business… but he’s so excited to see me after our long separation (overnight), he can’t bring himself to exit the house. The tongue’ll be out, he’ll be hopping on his hind legs, squealing with delight. You’d think I was a long-lost friend turning up after a decade’s absence.

At first, I’ll admit, I was swayed by his happy countenance and I returned his warm greeting with a few rubs behind his ears. However (and I should have known), this small gesture of companionship resulted in an emotional overload for wee Waffle and he promptly peed all over my feet.

That would have been bothersome enough at the best of times but first in the morning, barefoot and with the vestiges of sleep still blearing my eyes and thoughts, it wasn’t really in my top five things to experience.

In fairness, it’s only to be expected that any new pet owner and their charge will have to develop a loose routine as part of their symbiotic relationship and pretty quickly (which is to say, the second morning I was letting the canine out to answer the call of nature), Waffle and I acclimatised to each other’s needs. His needs were both physical (needing to pee) and emotional (needing some companionship) but my needs were baser still: Don’t pee on me, dog or you’ll wind up over the ditch.

The key, I have found, is not to be swayed by Waffle’s early morning exuberance and to wait until he’s come back inside AFTER he’s watered the lawn. That means, just to be on the safe side, I don’t even make eye contact. I simply unlock the back door, open it wide and say, “Out you go, Leaky,” before encouraging His Hairiness with my toe.

All of this reminds of a time when I was a wean and we went to visit an old uncle, somewhere up in the Highlands of Scotland. It shames me to say that I can’t even remember the man’s name but after what happened, this isn’t surprising.

The trip into the Highlands to visit Jock or Andy or Jimmy or whatever his name was, came punctuated by warnings from both my grandmother and mother.

“Don’t. Pet. The dog,” they repeated. “Don’t even look at it. And whatever you you do, don’t make eye contact.”

Of course, eight-year-old me steadfastly refused to heed this stellar advice, preferring at the time to believe that my inherent affinity with all canines would help me win over even the grumpiest of mutts.

I remember when we entered the house, myself and my younger brother were offered a footstool in the centre of the room on which to sit and out of the corner of my eye, I could see the dog sitting alert beside old Angus (or whatever his name was).

Having thus been seated and with the adults in muted conversation, the first thing I did was look straight at the dog. How could I not?

Sans growl or bark or indeed, without offering any sign that it resented being looked at, the fangy devil went straight for my throat.

Luckily the mutt in question was a Corgi or if not a Corgi, a small breed, perhaps a cross between a terrier and a rat and so there was scant chance of me being actually savaged too badly.

And yet, such was the little bugger’s ferociousness, it took swift adult-y intervention to prevent the beast from eating me whole.

And so it is with Waffle, only instead of eating me alive, he prefers to pee me into submission.

For the most part the, don’t-look-him-in-the-eye-or-pet-him-until-he-gets-outside tack works perfectly well, but there have been some lamentable occasions when he has tricked me.

Sometimes, even though he’s been saving it up all night, he goes out the back door and runs around to the front door and scrapes at the window to be allowed in. Sometimes, he hasn’t attended to his morning toilet and sometimes, thinking he has, I’ve made the mistake of letting him in again for a wee rub and scratch.

PEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Even if the offending stream doesn’t sprinkle your bare toes, this is not a way you want to start your day.

Thus, the routine continues and he and I are learning more and more all the time. I have learned to be sparing in my affections, even in the face of abject canine devotion, whilst he has learned that if those emotions overload his system, he’ll be drop-kicked into the next townland.

Calm down, animal rights campaigners; I don’t actually do this (although I do think about it). Thankfully, as time turns the page and as our routines become more entrenched, so has Waffle tightened up his urge to go all mushy at first glance.

But one can never be too careful – or too dry.