If looks could have killed

People always say that I’m ‘awful hard on poor, wee Waffie’.

Maybe I am although it’s not as if I’m beating him round the house with a wooden spoon.

If I think about it, I would say I’m more strict than hard. After all, it’s me that has to clean up after him and it’s me that has to tell him to shut his cake hole in the middle of the night when he’s yowling at the moon. I long ago realised that in order to have a happy house with a canine, said canine needs to know about red lines. Although he doesn’t really understand the concept of red lines, Waffle undoubtedly recognises the murderous intent in my eyes when and if he has crossed said line(s).

Family members often suggest too that I wouldn’t be so hard on Waffle if something ever happened to him.

“Why? What happened to him?” I always ask. “Has he whined himself into an early shallow grave in the back garden? Has he died of stupidity?” As you might imagine, these sarcastic rejoinders do nothing for my standing within the household; my curmudgeonly demeanour is rarely appreciated.

As I am wont to do of a weekend, I buy a newspaper and install myself in the living room for a leisurely read.

As is their wont, the little humans often steal sections of the paper for their own uses. Rarely do these ‘uses’ have anything to do with reading but rather, are more aligned with painting or gluing or making clay models.

However last weekend, the littlest little human (Anna) turned up in the living room to read me an article she had spotted in the paper.

In a nutshell, it concerned an American lady who lost her dog nine years ago (the dog’s name was Gizmo) only for the errant hound to reappear at an animal shelter almost a decade later.

Anna, reading the first person account from the American lady, Judith said, “It was a calm night on 17 July this year, around 10pm. It had been more than nine years without Gizmo. I was baking cookies and checking emails.

“While waiting for the cookies to rise, I received an email from the microchip company Gizmo was registered with. I couldn’t believe it. I shrank to my knees, sobbing. Gizmo had been found!”

Anna looked at me expectantly over the top of the paper.

“What?” I asked.

“If Waffle was missing for nine years and was then found, would you…” she paused to find the line in the paper… “shrink to your knees sobbing?”

“Aye,” I said. “I would shrink to my knees sobbing in despair that I would soon have to listen to his constant whining again after nine years of blissful silence.”

As if expecting such a response, Anna crumpled up the paper and threw it at me.

Holding back the laughs, I unfurled the paper and proceeded to read the whole article myself. When I arrived at the last paragraph I read aloud Judith’s last few lines; I could sense Anna waiting in the hall.

“I often wonder what he went through over those nine years. Maybe I’ll never know. But my focus is on the now. I’m doing everything I can to give him the best care so he can live out his golden years to the fullest. He’s the same dog I loved all those years ago, and I’m so grateful to get more time with him.”

As I finished, Anna’s face appeared around the door. “Do you not think that’s a nice, happy ending?” she asked.

“Of course it is,” I replied. “I’m happy for the woman. I’m happy they’re back together. I’m happy for the dog.”

Anna’s dimples appeared as she broke into a wide, beatific smile.

“It’s just my own dog I’m not happy with,” I added.

If looks could have killed…