Man’s so-called best friend

I took the dog for a run last week. “Big (bow) wow,” I can hear you say and yes, that would be the case if I had been taking anyone else’s hound for a jog. With my own canine companion however, it was another matter altogether.

Waffle is a Cockachon, part Bichon Frise and part Cocker Spaniel and all foolish fool. He’s a happy dog for the most part; he loves playing and fetching and he’s as good-natured as the day is long. He is so good natured in fact, you could pick him up by the tail and swing him around your head, and he wouldn’t be one bit cross.

Before he came into our household, which is to say, before I surrendered quite a lorryload of my hard-earned cash so that we could be permanently graced with his presence, I stuck ‘Cockachon’ into Google to see what kind of breed I was buying. The search repeatedly returned the phrases, ‘great with kids’ and ‘sensitive.’

“Happy days,” thought I. Being great with the kids will mean he won’t be snappish or take anyone’s fingers off and if he’s sensitive, then so what? Sure, I’m sensitive too. We’ll be best friends, then. How wrong was I.

Anyway, on Thursday me and the hound set off for a run in the countryside and for the first 20 minutes, all went swimmingly. The mutt was on one of those long, extendable leads which usually means he can be happily sniffing at something questionable on the other side of the road without getting under my feet. For my part, I was chugging away and sweating the bit out, trying not to pass out from exhaustion.

On the return loop to the house, I spied a man walking towards us and, it wasn’t until we were passing one another, that we realised we were old acquaintances. Thus met, we stopped to talk; we hadn’t spoken in years and as such, there was a good bit of catching up to do. This was all but ruined though, because my sensitive dog wouldn’t stop whining. He was whining because we were no longer running. He was whining because I was talking to someone he hadn’t met before and God only knows, he was probably whining because the sky was blue – he doesn’t really need an excuse for an aul whine, does Waffle.

After several admonishments (a few sharp tugs on his lead and a cautionary, “shut up, dog!” through clenched teeth), the whining continued unabated and so I was forced to cut short my chit-chat.

Leash extended, we took to our heels and ran on.

It wasn’t until we turned the corner on the last stretch of road back to the house that my grudge against Waffle and his whining had subsided and as a gesture of goodwill, I decided to let him off the lead.

It was maybe 500 yards to the house and there wasn’t a sinner in sight.

“Good boy, wee Waffle, try not to be an arse,” I told him, rubbing his ears. And on we ran.

After another few hundred yards, I glanced behind me thinking I had heard a car. I hadn’t. But what I did notice was, Waffle was nowhere to be seen.

“$*&%^!@? of a dog,” I muttered and taking a deep breath, I put my thumb and forefinger to my lips and whistled for him to come back. I waited. Then I whistled again, only louder. I waited again. I whistled again as hard as I could. No sign of the dog or his hairy face.

Cursing like a pirate who’d lost his peg leg, I started back up the road looking into the trees and bushes on either side. No sign. I whistled some more and I even started calling his name. No sign.

Suddenly, I caught sight of the hairy bugger slinking past in the trees to my right.

“Right you wee…” I started, and, with nothing else for it, jumped the ditch into the boggy field.

Instantly glad that I didn’t sink up to my knees in muck, I could see the field was nevertheless very wet and my stomach lurched at the thought of how dirty the hound would be when I finally corralled him back to solid ground.

“Waffle!” I shouted.

Nothing.

“WAFFLE!!!” I roared.

Nothing.

“To F with you,” I said and I began to make my way back to the road, picking my steps carefully so as to keep my feet dry.

Climbing up the ditch, who did I discover sitting on the road, wagging his stupid tale? That’s right, man’s so-called best friend.

“Where the fup were you?” I asked, firing the lead at him.

Waffle looked at me as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“G’wan ya…” I shouted, clambering out of the ditch, noting as I did so that he was black from head to toe from where he had waded in the bog. Plus he was stinking.

Back on the road, I immediately started chasing him, canine-icide forefront in my mind. I didn’t catch him though and instead, blind with rage, I tripped over my own feet and went flat on my face in the middle of the road.

Knowing he was in bother, the dog didn’t hang around for me to rise and without a backward glance, he ran the whole way home. I picked myself up and only then noticed that the lead had smashed to a thousand bits. “Never again.”

Back at the house, I found Waffle curled up at the back porch – a door we never use – waiting, it seemed, for his trial and retribution. Flicking him the bad finger (as the little humans call it), I retired to the house for a shower and a calm down. Also my knees were grazed and I had a small cut on the palm of my right hand.

“You can stay out there, for all I care,” I said to no-one in particular, when I noticed it had started to rain. “It might wash some of that black crap off you.”

An hour later, showered, shaved and splashed with Brut, I was surprised to see the hound stepping about in the rain, still mucked to high heaven.

In the end, I was forced to bath the foolish fool and then afterwards, rub him dry. He’s a pretty hairy dog and so the washing and drying is no mean feat – which was why I was so put out in the first place when he ventured off piste and into the bog.

As you might imagine, me and Hairyface avoided each other for the rest of the afternoon, each content to avoid the other’s mournful gaze. I was still annoyed and he was huffing that I was still annoyed, huffing being facet of his sensitive nature.

It wasn’t until the dying of the day that we met once again. I was stretched out in front of the fire in the living room watching I-can’t-remember-what on the box and in sauntered the hairy clown, dry, clean and fluffy once more. I ignored him but for his part, he had obviously decided to be the bigger man (or dog). He shuffled over and sniffed. He wagged his tail. His tongue lolled. And then he laid his head on my thigh and yawned. He started up at me, unblinking and hypnotic.“What a clown you are,” I said and scratched his ear. “Same again tomorrow?”