Don’t take your love to town

“I don’t like country music but I don’t like to denigrate those who do. And for the people who like country music, ‘denigrate’ means ‘put down.’”

– Bob Newhart

Last week, I was left home alone after the other members of the clan abandoned me in favour of a friend’s caravan on the North coast.

“No, no, no – don’t worry about me,” I said. “Me and Waffle will just sit here and stare at one another for two whole days. We won’t be bored nor nahin. We might die of starvation but we’ll be fine.”

Secretly though, I wasn’t overly disappointed at the prospect of having the house to myself. Having Waffle to myself was another matter altogether and I made a mental note not to forget to feed and water the fool; the last thing I needed was for the fambly to return home and find Waffle had popped his hairy clogs.

But just to be on the safe side I also decided to have a talk with the Hound immediately subsequent to the clan’s departure on Saturday. The talk went something like this…

“Not a ruddy word out of you dog,” I said, stabbing my finger aggressively in the direction of his face. “Me and you have to get along for the next two days. That means…” and I waggled my finger for full affect, “No whining, no barking, no taking dumps in the back hall and no chewing anything up. Come to think of it, maybe you should just sleep for the next 48 hours and then everything will work out fine.”

I wondered then if such a thing as Valium for dogs might exist. Could he stomach Valium for humans? Could I get a prescription within an hour?

“Anyway,” I said by way of conclusion, once again wagging my finger, “Just try and keep a lid on any madness for the next 48 hours and then, when they come home again, you can go fuppen mental.”

Surprisingly, Waffle seemed to get the message and after a sulky glare in my direction, he slunk off in the direction of the back hall and promptly crumpled into his bed.

Surprisingly again (for me at least), I took to being home alone like a duck takes to quacking. After a quick trip to the butchers to pick up something no-one else in the clan likes (lamb cutlets) I returned to the homestead, stuck some music on Spotify (AC/DC), turned it up very loud and opened a beer (Kinnegar).

The habitual weekend ‘k’tizz’ is usually Waffle’s cue to come looking for some loving; he has somehow concluded that the sound of a beer opening coincides with a softening of my demeanour.

“Not tonight, pal,” I told him, when his head popped around the corner from the back hall. “Remember? You’re keeping a lid on things.” And the head disappeared.

I must admit: This retreat to his bed without hesitation did cause a small bubble of guilt to appear in the back of my throat. Or was it merely a rift?

After a second beer (Jaipur), I fried off a couple of the lamb cutlets and set them into a pre-heated oven to finish the cooking process. Then I set a ten-minute timer on Alexa, sloped off to the living room and collapsed onto the sofa. Then something strange happened…

Alexa (God love her) has malfunctioned in recent times. Whilst I can lower her volume for music, her alarm volume cannot be modified and it is permanently stuck at full boot.

This is only really problematic when I have to set a timer when someone’s sleeping which is to say, I don’t. On Saturday, the malfunction deepened.

When the ten minutes had elapsed, instead of Alexa’s usual alarm sounding, she kicked into ‘Don’t Take Your Love to Town’ by Kenny Rogers – at full boot.

At first I thought that maybe one of the departed clan members, who also have access to Spotify, was trying to play a joke on yours truly from afar. However, when I checked my phone, Spotify was apparently still playing AC/DC’s ‘Thunderstruck’.

“That’s strange,” I said.

Then the howling started. Jumping from the sofa, I ran through to the kitchen to find Waffle sitting in the middle of the floor with his head pointed at the ceiling howling his little hairy head off. It was a lament for the dead, a keening for disaster, a callfor Kenny to cease.

However, what with said howling and ‘Don’t Take Your Love to Town’ going full boot, Alexa couldn’t hear me to tell her to stop. I had to go nose-to-nose with her and shout before the order was obeyed.

Immediately, the howling ceased.

“What did I tell you about keeping a lid on things and not being mental?” I demanded of Waffle, who looked so disturbed by Kenny Rogers that he might burst into tears.

“Ah, for Godsakes. Come over here, you hairy fool,” I told him, hunkering down. “But don’t be thinking you’re getting any lamb!” I added, giving his lugs a reassuring scratch. “Strange how things turn out, isn’t it?”

Ten minutes later with a plate of lamb cutlets on my knee in front of the TV and with Waffle tucking into his bowl of expensive dog food by the fireplace, we were as happy as pigs in the unmentionable.

“So,” I started by way of conversation. “You’re not a fan of country music?”