By 
We belong to us
He sits and begs, he gives a paw.
He is, as you can see,
The finest dog you ever saw,
And he belongs to me.
He follows everywhere I go
And even when I swim.
I laugh because he thinks, you know,
That I belong to him.
But still, no matter what we do
We never have a fuss;
And so, I guess, it must be true
That we belong to us.
– ‘Chums’ by Arthur Guiterman
Waffle didn’t appreciate this poem by Arthur Guiterman, when I read it aloud at the weekend. He just sat there and stared at me with an unblinking ferocity and contrary to what Arthur might postulate, he was not, I considered, the finest dog I ever saw.
And yet, he is my dog and there remains a certain power in those four words: He is my dog.
For all his faults, Waffle, I do believe, thinks that I belong to him. He follows me everywhere I go, even when I swim – and then I have to swim back to the shore before the hairy fool drowns.
And still, no matter what we do, he always causes a fuss – an idiosyncrasy which I also believe is hard-wired into his canine raison d’etre. He is my shadow whenever I am at home and even when I’m not at home, I imagine him jumping at other shadows.
If Waffle could talk it would likely go something like this…
Waff: Where go?
Me: I’m just going to the toilet.
Waff: I come.
Me: If you have to. I won’t be long.
Waff: I come.
Me: Grand so.
Waff: Door open?
Me: I think I’ll close it, buddy. I don’t want to give you any ideas and as well, there is the small matter of my personal dignity.
Waff: Door open.
Me: (slams door).
Waff: Opeeeeeen dooooooor.
Me: Cheese and crackers, dawg. Give me five minutes.
Waff: Where at?
Me: I’m in the ruddy toilet! Give me five fuppen minutes.
Waff: I wait.
Me: Fill your boots.
Waff: Where at?
Me: (opens door): Here I am. Happy now?
Waff: Happy now. I was wait.
Me: I know. I could hear you whining.
Waff: Where go?
Me: Back to the sofa, the exact spot I was sitting at five minutes ago.
Waff: I come.
Me: Grand.
Waff: What doing?
Me: I’m just closing the bathroom door.
Waff: I halp.
Me: You’re standing in the doorway.
Waff: I halp.
Me: Get outta the road then, dog!
And so it goes. I move. Waffle follows.
I also find it strange sometimes that Waffle has attached himself to me, strange as in, I’m the person in the house who gives him the least amount of affection – which is not to say he receives none whatsoever. Put it like this: He is not spoiled.
And yet I understand all too well that despite the challenges, if he wasn’t around I would miss his hairy ways.
Waff: What noise?
Me: That’s a crow cawing at the back door.
Waff: I chase.
Me: It’s grand. It’s not doing any harm.
Waff: I bite.
Me: What are you on about? You can hardly bite yourself. Chillax.
Waff: I defend. Open door.
Me: Of course, Your Majesty. (opens door).
Waff: BARK! BARK! BARK!
Me: Happy now?
Waff: Happy now. You bark?
Me: I’ll ruddy well bark at you. Get in here clown.
And so it goes…
I guess, it must be true, that we belong to us.