Starting the year on the right paw

Waffle has decided he’s going to be a good boy from now on. He’s only going to attend to his toilet in pre-designated sites, he’s no longer going to whine when the butterflies appear in spring – and he is absolutely and positively not going to roll around in the badger dung outside of the sett just a long stone’s throw from my house.

Like most of us though, the Waff’s New Year’s resolutions are in reality, nebulous at best. If even one of those new aspirations were to stick, then I for one, would be a happier man. For his part, Waffle would remain the bumbling fool.

“What’s that smell?”

This was a regular question uttered at the homestead over Christmas and New Year, and 99 per-cent of the time, the origin (or culprit) turned out to be Hairyface himself; whether of his own making, or the result of his poking around in something else’s questionable excreta.

“Ah, Jesus,” I’d sigh deeply and then affirm, “Right, you. Into the shower.”

Such has been the frequency of the hound’s trips to the bathroom that he doesn’t even have to be ushered in any longer and at the mention of, “Right, you,” he’ll trottle off looking as though his hairy world is about to come to an abrupt and violent end.

“This is harder on me than it is on you,” I routinely tell him as I’m spraying him liberally with the shower head with the water on full boot. “Just say the word and you can wash yourself, and I’ll get out of your hairy hair.”

Alas, Waffle remains ever mute as these ministrations are taking place, and, such is his dislike of the shower, and particularly the soaping up part, even his usually ever-present tail wag is gone.

“Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t me rolling around in that badger dung.”

Or…

“For Godsakes, dawg, just try and stand still for two minutes and we’ll get this done and out of the road.”

Waffle’s hang-dog demeanour at these times reminds of my own lugubrious comportment, when, as a child, I had to be taken to the dentist for the routine check-ups and fillings and lectures about not brushing properly – or not brushing at all. I was then, as the Waff is in the shower, a victim of my own negligence; the only difference being, I’m the only one of us to appreciate this fact. Whatever Waffle thinks of these regular dousings and latherings, I cannot tell, except of course, that he hates them.

“Stay away from those chavvy, scumbag badgers and you won’t need washed at every fart’s turn.”

Or…

“Stop looking at me with those big, sad eyes. It’s only a shower. You won’t die from it.”

From start to finish, it takes a good 15 or 20 minutes to complete a head-to- toe wash on the Waff (he’s very hairy), and such is his reluctance to play ball and cooperate, it’s quite the mission. Usually, when he’s washed, rinsed, dried and I’m clambering to my feet off the bathroom floor, I do so with a long, languid groan as if to banish the aches in my back and the stiffness in my shoulders. Not so with the Waff.

As soon as he is set free from the towel he races around the house shaking himself violently.

“Go forth and multiply!” I tell him as he bounds away. “Although, that’ll be difficult in your case seeing as how you’ve had that wee op.”

Not to be deterred by my sardonic quip, Waffle enters into zoomies mode, that near hyperactive state when he gallops around the house like a horse (or gelding) as if chased by the divil himself.

This is grand for the most part until he crashes into something or almost trips me up and then it’s…

“Right, you! Cut that ship out!”

Or…

“Get-outta-the-road-you-hairy-clown!”

Although it can be tempting to simply put the fool outside until he shakes himself off completely and runs off his zoomies, this tact is better avoided. The hairy header that he is, Waffle has been known to make a bee-line for the badger dung once more and then return to the house as black as a coal-miner and stinking – of course – to high heaven. In those instances (this has actually happened in the past), a deep sigh does nothing for my humour, and if things really get out of hand, I might find myself chasing him around the house as if it were I, who had developed a case of the zoomies.

This is the way we wash our dogs, wash our dogs, wash our dogs…