Howling at the moon

Back when Waffle first crashed into our lives like a furry, sniffing ball of doggy energy, I remember trying to teach him how to howl.

Mind you, I should have been trying to teach him to keep his mouth shut, if the subsequent whining has been anything to go by. However, back in those (naive) early days, I remember a friend telling me about how he taught his own dog to howl simply by starting up a howl himself. He’d howl, keep the howl going and by and by, his own dog would join in the chorus.

“This’ll be some craic when I get home,” a naive me thought. “Me and the Waff will be like wolves in the night.”

I secretly harboured plans about teaching Waffle to howl but telling no-one and then setting the Hound loose on Halloween night when the moon was high and all the denizens of the underworld abroad.

My secret plans lasted as long as it took to arrive home and set up a howl of my own, me and the Waff being the only ones at the house at the time.

“Right Waffie,” I started and by way of encouragement, I gave him a rub under his chin. “Repeat after me… AAAAAOOOooooooo.”

Waffle looked at me as if he knew that the full moon had started its monthly deterioration of my mental faculties.

“AAAAAOOOooooooo,” I persisted, raising my pursed lips to the ceiling. “AAAAAOOOooooooo. Come on, Waffie, pretend you’re an Alaskan Timber Wolf. AAAAAOOOooooooo!”

After about the seventh or eighth AAAAAOOOooooooo though, I finally lost faith – and especially after Waffle chased off after a Daddy Long-Legs who had strayed into the house through an open window.

“That’s that, then,” I told myself. “Waffle’s genes don’t remember being a wolf.”

Whilst it is a generally accepted fact is that all dogs are descended from wolves which is to say, today’s dogs are basically domesticated wolves, why wouldn’t Waffle howl? I can only assume that there’s jellyfish or rabbit genes in there somewhere.

Fast-forward to 2023 and now that the Covid-induced lockdowns are a thing of the past, the Hound is spending more and more time at home on his own. Usually, he’s the Guardian of the Homestead for at least two days of the week, and most often three. That means before I leave in the morning, as well as having his breakfast (which he wolfs into him entirely unlike a jellyfish or a rabbit), I have to take aul Waff out for a widdle and possibly a number two. This involves a short walk with a promise that there’ll be a longer walk in the evenings if he promises to be a good boy and not chew something up.

The rest of the morning routine goes thus: I heel my own breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, I check that none of the little humans have left an outside door swaying in the wind and I tell Alexa to ‘stop’; Alexa’s normally playing a radio station or the news, as I’m slurping tea and waiting for the previous night’s sleepfulness to diminish. For his part, as I turn the key in the outside door, Waffle is normally perched on the back of the sofa barking as if he’d invented the noise. In doggy-speak he’s probably saying, “Please don’t leave!” or, “I’m lonely already!” Depending on how my morning has gone and what is in plan for the day I’ll either say, “Awww, don’t worry wee Waffie. I’ll be home soon,” or “Shut your face, dawg.” Anyways…

One day during the snow fall some weeks ago, I had gone to work on the Tuesday morning as expected but then the meteorological conditions transpired to send me home early. I didn’t want to get stuck on the frozen back-roads around my house and so I’d returned to the homestead at lunch time to finish my working day there.

Normally, whenever I pull into the drive Waffle springs to attention, jumping onto his perch on the back of the sofa and starts barking like crazy. In doggy-speak he’s probably saying, “Thank God you’re home!” or, “Where the fup have you been!” Again, depending on how my day has been and what is in plan for the rest of the evening I’ll either say, “Hey Waffie Boy! Are you excited?” or, “Shut your face, dawg.” Anyways…

On the snow day in question when I returned home early and as I was pulling into the drive, aul Waff was nowhere to be seen.

“Maybe he’s having a schlurp at his bowl,” I thought, as I parked the car and killed the engine. It was only as the rumble from the internal combustion ended that I heard it – although what ‘it’ was, I didn’t know.

The sound was half car alarm, half shriek of anxiety and so immediately, I bounced out of the car and glanced around. It was only then that I realised where it was coming from and more importantly, what it was.

Striding to the door, I peeked through the kitchen window. Waffle’s nose was pointed at the ceiling and he was howling as though his life depended on it – proper, Alaskan Timber Wolf howling. Fumbling with the key, I clicked the lock, pushed through the door and went straight for the kitchen. Such was Waffle’s howling lament, he didn’t even notice me enter. However, that wasn’t surprising seeing as how, between his howls and Alexa’s alarm going off on the kitchen window, you could hardly hear yourself think.

“Alexa, stop,” I said but to no avail. “ALEXA, STOP!” I shouted. This time, Alexa quietened down. But Waffle just kept on going. He howled and he better howled and all I could do was stand transfixed, looking on.

Belatedly coming to my senses, I dumped my coat and fell to my knees in front of him. Only then did he snap out of whatever keening zone he had been trapped. I checked my watch: 2.30pm. “Ship!” I breathed, as it all flooded back.

During that morning’s fug of sleep, I had attempted to set an alarm on the Alexa on my tablet for 1pm. Stupidly, I hadn’t realised that the Alexa in the kitchen had taken up the charge instead. That meant Alexa’s alarm had been going off the head for the past hour and a half. No wonder Waffle was howling. He had reached the end of his doggy tether with noise pollution and had been trying to drown Alexa out.

“There’ll never be a better time,” a little voice sounded in my head.

“Waffle,” I said, giving him a reassuring rub under his chin. “Repeat after me… AAAAAOOOooooooo. AAAAAOOOooooooo.”

For what was perhaps the first time in our relationship, Waffle looked at me as if to say, “F you, jackass.” And then he walked away.

“So that’s how it going to be is it,” I asked. “Maybe I won’t come home early the next time and save you from Alexa.”

But Waffle didn’t reply. He retired to the furthest corner of the kitchen, lay down and feel asleep.

The jelly-fish and rabbit DNA had reasserted its dominance.