The sumo dog

Although he doesn’t mean to be, sometimes Waffle is his own worst enemy. On a daily basis, I take the Hound out in the mornings for a stretch of the legs. Depending on various factors including the weather, air temperature and my own personal form, these perambulations are either long or short but they always last for as long as it takes for three things to happen.

First, Waffle must sniff up and down the road beside the house until he is certain that yes, the world hasn’t ended and yes, everything is as it was the day before.

Second, in the off-chance that the standing stone out beyond our driveway is feeling too dry, Waffle must then pee up against it; a long, languid stream.

And third, Waffle then trots up and down the verge until he finds a suitable spot to attend to his toilet. He will then circle this spot a few times before adopting what I refer to as ‘the sumo position.’ This is a crouch not unlike a sumo wrestler’s starting stance, before the flighting clash occurs with his opponent. In Waffle’s case, he takes up the sumo position, waits for nature to take its course and all the while stares me in the face. This endeavour can be long or short but it always lasts until the business is finished and then Waffle takes a quick sniff before trotting up to me with a tongue-lolling, happy countenance as if he’s the best dog to ever have shat upon that particular part of the verge. He’s always genuinely pleased with his achievement and upon catching up with me he jumps up expecting congratulations and/or a loving embrace.

Not that I am squeamish at all (I used to work in an abattoir), but the daily ritual of watching my dog pinch off a loaf and then having him rush me for a soggy hug, isn’t top of my priority list.

Apparently, the crucial phase of the operation is when he’s staring me full in the face, mid-loaf. Apparently dogs do this because it is at this juncture when they are at their most vulnerable. Apparently, they’ll stare you in the face in the hope that you’ll protect them from whatever adversary or natural disaster should happen to come their way.

“This is what it’s come to,” I lament to myself on a near daily basis. “You know you’ve arrived in life when you have to bear witness to a hairy hound poke out King Kong’s finger of a morning.”

Still, these things have to be done, especially on the days that I’m not working from home; we couldn’t have those big, brown ape digits lying around the house.

Just this morning though, Waffle decided to deviate from the routine, exemplifying the fact that he is sometimes his own worst enemy.

This morning started as all toilet mornings do. Waffle and I headed outside. Waffle sniffed about up and down the road as though he would never again be afforded the chance to use his nose. Then he took that long, languid leak against the standing stone and then he walked up and down the verge for a while. After a minute or two however, he returned to stand at my heels.

“No dump the day?” I asked him, blearily. But he just looked at me as if to say, “Done wan last night, man. It’s all good.”

“Grand, so,” I said and turned to walk the short distance back to the house.

Often, during these early morning forays into nature, the sunrise is threatening the eastern sky with pastel reds and oranges and sometimes, I will pause to appreciate the palate of celestial colours.

This morning was one of those mornings and through a break in the grey, I could see a small patch of gold in the heavens. I paused the perambulation to stare at the livid, moving masterpiece, while, unbeknownst to me, the Waff carried on ahead.

It wasn’t until I had finished my upward gazing and turned towards the house that I noticed Waffle crouch into the sumo position on the FUPPEN DOORSTEP OF THE HOUSE!

“HI!” I roared at the hairy sumo. “Get-outta-that!”

Sensing my displeasure, Waffle rose from his crouch and slunk off towards the garden, an ape digit hanging from his hindquarters.

“F…” I said, the magnificent sunrise forgotten. “Take that stuff away from the house, you clown.”

Waffle seemed to agree although he also seemed perturbed by the presence of the big brown pinky that wouldn’t fall off.

“That’s what you get for being so hairy,” I told him. “Get over here!” I motioned him to approach with an impatient wave of the hand and to his credit he understood.

“Gimmie a look,” I added, reaching down to lift up his tail. Sure enough, there it was. All lovely and King-Kong-y.

“F…”

With the hand that wasn’t holding onto the hairy tail, I reached into my coat pocket to retrieve a poo bag. Suitably equipped, I reached down and dislodged the offending phalange.

“You know you’ve arrived…” I said as I tied up the poo bag. “when you not only have to bear witness to a hairy hound poke out King Kong’s finger of a morning. Then you have to help him wipe his butt.”

So cleansed, Waffle immediately adopted happy mode and jumped up expecting congratulations and/or a loving embrace.

“Get ta Fintona, sumo dog,” I told him.