The support group

“What kind of dog have you?” asked the shop-keeper.

“An annoying one,” I answered immediately and without thinking.

Moments earlier I had looped Waffle’s lead around the gate post beside the shop. The enquiring shop-keeper had obviously, through the window, seen us walk past. He met me at the door and stepped past me to gain a better look at His Hairyness.

“Is he a Cockapoo?” he said, regarding the Hound.

“Cockachon – Bicon Frise and Cocker Spaniel mix.”

“Ah, yes. He’s a lovely dog. He looks very happy. I have three cockers myself.”

“Whoopdidoo!” I thought but didn’t say.

The truth was, Waffle had already enraged me to the point of a fit during our walk and a conversation with a well-meaning but ultimately misguided shop-keeper was the last thing on my list of Things I Must Do Before I Die (Or Kill the Dog).

However, social etiquette prevailed and I replied with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, “Is that right? Double the fun for you.”

“Awww, they’re great, so there are. They’re great company for one another; anxiety is a real feature of cockers.”

“Gone stop saying ‘cockers’, it sounds obscene,” I wanted to say, but didn’t.

Instead I went back to the enthusiasm well and delved deep. “Aye, Mr Annoying there would be a bit anxious from time to time too, when the notion’s on him.”

“You’re a lovely wee thing, so you are,” the shop-keeper said, hunkering down and scratching Waffle’s ear. “Do you be a wee bit anxious from time to time, do you? You’ve lovely big brown eyes, so you do. Don’t you, wee boy? You’re lovely.”

“Hi! Shop-keep!” I wanted to shout. “How’s about fuppen up with the dog-speak and sorting me out with a bottle of Lucozade and a Snickers?”

I said none of this however. I stamped down my Waffle-inspired lunacy and stood on in the drizzle, silently praying for another customer to come along so that this hound-focused fawning might be brought to a swift end.

“Are you a wee bit dirty, wee boy?” the shop-keeper continued, oblivious to my twitching eye and the beginnings of a stroke slouching the left side of my face. “Were you running about in a field? Did you have a lot of fun?”

And so it continued. Shop-keep continued with the scratching and the soft-murmured words of doggy encouragement whilst I stood to one side with a hump on me, silently huffing and angry that this bane of my life was being treated as if he was a normal dog and not, a complete clown of a hound, the biggest and hairiest four-legged sap-head that had ever been tied to a gate in the history of gates (or sap-heads).

I must have zoned out, wondering most likely about canine euthanasia, because when I switched on again, the shop-keeper was looking at me with an expectant smile.

“Sorry, I missed that,” I said, honestly.

The shop-keeper’s smile widened. “I asked, why did you say that he was an annoying dog?”

I opened my mouth to speak and then paused. What would I say? What could I say, without sounding mental? Could I tell the kindly, dog-loving shop-keeper that minutes earlier Waffle had ran off in the direction of a fleeing hare and wouldn’t come back? Could I say that the little humans had stupidly replaced his normal collar with a fancy but useless bow-tie accessory which snapped off any time he went to the end of the extendable leash? Could I tell him that a fight almost broke out between Waffle and a smaller dog whose owner had him on another extendable leash but with a normal collar which didn’t snap off? Could I explain in tentative terms that he was dirty because after the collar broke off for the umpteenth time and he ran off into another field on the trail a cat and wouldn’t come back despite my vein-popping, voice-breaking admonitions?

No, I decided, as these options flashed through my mind in the pace of a second. I could tell him none of this because it would make me sound as though I wasn’t playing with a full deck and moreover, that I had no clue as to how a dog-being-a-dog behaves.

I returned to the well and delved again, finally replying, slack-jawed and gormless, mentally slapping my forehead before I had even finished the sentence. “Ah, you know. When he chews up my stuff.”

The shop-keeper nodded sagely as if to say he felt my pain.

“He’ll grow out of that eventually,” he said. “I bet he used to pee too when he got excited.”

“Like a fireman’s hose full of Lucozade,” I replied.

“And what about whining? Does he whine a bit when he’s excited?”

“Like a rusty gate in a gale.”

The shop-keeper laughed, deep and chesty. “You can love your dogs until the cows come home but if you have a whiner…” he smiled. “But, he’ll grow out of that too.”

“Do your… cockers whine much?” I asked.

“Like two rusty gates!”

This time I was the one to laugh. “The whinging drives me nuts. Although in this clown’s case it’s more excitement than anxiety.”

“I suppose, it’s a way of communicating a feeling. Any allergies?”

“Allergies? I practically have my own parking space at the vet’s.”

Despite myself and despite my Waffle-inspired annoyance, I was actually warming to this discussion and the more we talked, the more I came to realise that I’m not entirely alone when it comes to tholing the anti-virtues of a dog’s whining and peeing and running away to give chase to whatever quarry tickles his nose’s fancy.

“They’re worth it, though, for all the hassle that they are sometimes,” Shop-keep summed up, giving Waffle a final scratch.

“I suppose you’re right,” I replied. “Like everything else in life, nothing worthwhile is ever easy.”

“Never a truer word,” he said. “Actually, we’ll have to have this chat again sometime.”

“Like a support group for people with whiny dogs?”

“Exactly. Now, what can I get for you?”

We re-entered the shop and I picked a bottle of Lucozade from the fridge and scooped up a Snickers at the counter. “Just these two,” I said.

Shop-keep scanned the goodies – doo-doot, doo-doot.

“That’ll be £2.90 please.”

“Two fuppen ninety?! Was the chat on the clock or wha’?” I once again thought but didn’t say.

Instead, I tapped my phone and held my wheesht.

“Don’t forget about our support group,” Shop-keep reminded me with a smile.

“Stick your support group. Lulling me into a false sense of security with your wily dog chat. With those prices I’ll be dealing with Waffle’s madness on my own. Come on, Waffle. Let’s get outta here before this man tries to sell us snake oil. We better go sparingly with this gold-plated Snickers, too but the Lucozade’s going on the wine rack for a special occasion.”

You may decide, dear reader, whether I said that last part out loud or not.