There are new Waffle-shaped patterns emerging in my life. Apart from the much-mentioned incidences of chewing what shouldn’t be chewed and whinging like he invented the sound, Waffle – or I should say, having Waffle – also lends itself to life lessons regarding other people.
Increasingly for example, the longer this column runs, the more people tend to bring the Hound up in casual conversation. However, more and more these well-intentioned people tend to stumble over his name.
Apart from the odd query along the lines of, “How is the dog?” I have come to discover that an augmented number of people are not great with names – an unfortunate group to which I too am party.
“How’s Wiffle?” and, “How’s Willow?” and “How’s Winkle?” are just some of the examples of the erroneous attempts people have made to ask after WAFFLE’S welfare. This is something to which I can relate.
On innumerable occasions in the past I have met someone in the street only to misplace their name in my mind when I needed it the most. “Oh, what’s the craic, lad/missus?” I’ll exclaim in an overly loud voice as if to compensate for my forgetful stupidity. Then, as that person passes in the street, I’ll immediately remember their name and mentally slap myself in the forehead.
But the most imaginative effort one person made when trying to remember the Hound’s name was this: Wooly – which, in fairness, wasn’t a bad try. He’s such a hairy bugger, he could well have been named Wolly by a different family.
Increasingly too, the more this column runs, the more I discover that people are in lurve with their own dogs.
Following the usual preliminaries such as, “How is Waggle keeping?” the inquirer will then launch into a long-winded tale about their own hairy charge at home (normally with names like Chad or Brett or Mitchell). And there is no interrupting the story-teller either. They wax long and verbose about the antics Chad gets up to when they’re not at home or the way Brett sneaks into their bed at night when they’re sleeping (I mean, WTF?).
In these instances, the most I can do is stand there making platitude-like noises so as to pretend I’m still listening. Mostly I want to say, “I couldn’t give two ducks about my own dog. What makes you think I want to hear about your smelly mutt.”
Of course, I don’t say any of this, although I do think it. It’s like Kevin’s internal commentary from The Wonder Years except it always features dogs.
I have also discovered that people harbour certain dog-related idiosyncrasies when it comes to caring for their pets. One man I spoke to asked me, “Do you wipe Wonka’s behind after you take him outside for a poo?” I confirmed that I did not and then, thinking the onus (anus?) was on me to reciprocate, I followed up by asking him the same question.
“I always take a bit of Andrex and a poo bag with me when we go for a walk,” he said.
“To wipe Mitchell’s butt?” I sought to clarify.
“That’s right. Cleanliness is next to godliness…” he added with a smile.
“…is next to mental,” I didn’t say and started to back slowly out of the room.
Another lady who enquired how ‘Whistler’ was doing remarked that she only takes breakfast in the morning after she has seen to the needs of her four terriers.
“If they don’t get fed they get really aggressive,” she said with a straight face before adding, “I don’t know how many times I’ve been bitten.”
She then proffered her right hand to display a series of raw-looking bite marks on her skin.
“Have you ever drop-kicked one out the back door?” I remarked. “That’ll put the biting out of them.”
The lady’s eyes widened in shock.
“I’m only joking,” I hastily added. But I wasn’t really. Waffle might be a right pain the back end from time to time, however that pain doesn’t arrive via daily pre-breakfast toothy attacks. A drop-kick would be the least of his worries, should those attacks come to the fore. Come to think of it, I’d bet even Waffle would laugh at yer wan getting bitten by her terriers if she doesn’t feed them before herself.
Then again, maybe Waffle laughs at me when he poos in the flower bed outside the house. See corresponding picture as evidence of how cheeky/goofy/infuriating the Hound looks when having his photo taken beside the de-weeded flower bed he just shat in.
I can only hope that pooing in said flower bed doesn’t become another Waffle-shaped pattern. Unlike yer wan with the terriers, we have a zero tolerance policy about here.
This page is available to subscribers. Click here to sign in or get access.
Receive quality journalism wherever you are, on any device. Keep up to date from the comfort of your own home with a digital subscription.
Any time | Any place | Anywhere
SUBSCRIBE TO CURRENT EDITION TODAY
and get access to our archive editions dating back to 2007(CLICK ON THE TITLE BELOW TO SUBSCRIBE)