I’m not a pheasant plucker…

Waffle has started chasing birds in the garden and it’s a sight for sore eyes. Any time there’s so much as a flutter or a twitter, off he thunders like a hairy missile, lazer-guided and locked onto the target.

Happily for the wildlife, Waffle’s as adept at chasing birds as he is at doing the dishes, which is to say, cack at both. He’s as enthusiastic as the day is long though and, God love him, he doesn’t have the cop-on to realise the birds have an innate advantage: They can fly away.

However, I suspect that even if the birds could only manage a slow walk, Waffle still wouldn’t be able to snare one. He’s what a friend of mine might refer to as, a foolish fool.

“Are you a fool?” I sometimes enquire of the hound when he erupts from a sleeping position into a fit of barking at a swallow overhead. This mild enquiry he somehow takes as a form of encouragement and barks all the louder. This then necessitates an essential, “Shut up, dawg!”

Previously, if I’ve been buoyed by a sumptuous sunny Saturday evening or better still, a few bottles of suds, I have played fetch with Waffle and a tennis ball in the garden. This is beneficial on various levels. a). Running up and down the garden is good exercise for the hound (it tends to shut him up for a while afterwards). b). I can have another bottle of suds as we play and c). He’s actually quite funny to watch.

Whether it’s his poor coordination or his over-eagerness to snatch the ball before the rolling sphere loses momentum, but the hairy fool often ends up going head over heels upon reaching the ball, like a tumbleweed on a drunken mission. Being low to the ground like a badger and having a similar gait, I had wondered if he’s actually tripping over his own ears to make himself fall. He always sets off at a blast (the acceleration is very impressive, no doubt honed from previous angry chases around the garden featuring yours truly) but invariably, by the time he reaches the ball, he loses the run of himself – missteps, trips or freaks out – and winds up taking the tumble. Even thinking about it now, makes me laugh aloud and yet, his bumbling failures never detract one iota from his boundless energy and williness to keep going.

So, as you can imagine, this bumbling is all fine and dandy when it’s just me, Waffle and a ball. Add a smattering of birds to the scenario and things become a tad more… embarrassing. Strangely enough, said scenario reminds of that scene from Dumbo with the crows on the powerlines, the way they’re cracking up when confronted about the ridiculous prospect of an elephant taking flight.

I can imagine the Blackbird or the Song Thrush in the garden unable to sing because they’re doubled over laughing at the sight of the tumbleweed with teeth bearing down on them with all the precision of a floundering jellyfish in a swell.

“But I been done seen ‘bout everythin,

“When I see that stupid dog run…”

Unlike the crows in Dumbo, who were eventually put in their place, something tells me that the Waff will have a harder time of it with the Blackbird and Song Thrush. But he won’t give up.

As I write, the hairy fool is asleep at my feet after one particularly eventful episode with a pheasant. A cock bird, who had wandered royally into the garden no doubt in search of some titbits among the shrubs, was like an artist’s colour palette against the green of the grass.

I stood at the window watching him hoke among the blades for all of five seconds before I remembered Waffle and his new penchant for giving chase.

“This’ll be good craic,” I said aloud and called the hound over to the back door. “Right, dog!” I told him with a goodly hint of urgency in my voice and immediately his ears pricked up. I cranked open the door as softly as I could so as not to alert the pheasant and then I suggested with the same urgency, “Get him, Waffle!”

Well, the canny peasant had barely enough time to turn his navy neck before the hairy fiend rushed into him, sending the bird skywards in a flurry of feathers and squawks. At first I thought the Waff had for once hit his mark but no.

True to form though, Mr Tumble couldn’t arrest his progress in time and so balled ever forwards, head giving way to heels, somersaulting underneath the now flapping cock. Luckily for the pheasant, when Waffle found his feet he was looking completely in the wrong direction. Snapping his head from side to side, it wasn’t until I shouted, “Hi!” that he turned to me and in doing so, clocked once again his target, who had wasted no time and was goose-stepping away post-haste.

Not to be outdone however (Waffle is nothing if not a determined wee bugger), the hound shot forward as if out of a canon but this time the pheasant was on high alert and before Waffle could even come close, he was away into the sky with a flap and a squawk and then a glide over the hedge and into the field.

“Hard luck, the Waff,” I told His Hairiness, who had slumped onto his haunches to watch the less than dignified retreat. “You’ll get him next time.”

This is empty encouragement of course. Our Waff couldn’t catch a cold never mind a bird. But he won’t stop trying!