The Wuff with the Smooth: Desert island discs

“The chicken in the bread-pan pickin’ out dough. Granny, does your dog bite? No, child, no.”

– ‘The Devil went down to Georgia’ by Charlie Daniels

What kind of music do you think Waffle likes?”

This was Anna last Saturday night. We had congregated around the island in the kitchen, taking it in turns asking Alexa to play songs. So far we’d had the best of Taylor Swift, Harry Styles, Inhaler, Wolf Alice, Hosier and Sam Fender. As a curveball, Anna had also played ‘Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town,’ though further attempts to play Christmas songs were hurriedly vetoed. Then she fires her Waffle-shaped question onto the table.

“Party Til You Puke?” I suggested. “Andrew WK,” I added. “A bit before your time.”

“No, no,” Anna went on, the picture of earnestness. “I think he likes new music. Maybe he likes the music we play.”

“I’m not sure he knows what music is,” I said, wondering if this wasn’t a conversation we should be having at 3 o’clock in the morning – wired.

“I’m gonna Google it,” Anna went on, unperturbed.

“See!” she said after a long moment, by which stage I’d asked Alexa to play ‘Party Til You Puke.’

She continued, “It says here that some dogs have been reported to ‘enjoy’ music. Another bit says, ‘According to research they like listening to classical music.”

“I wouldn’t believe everything you read on the internet,” I said. “Sure, half the internet still thinks the Earth is flat and that NASA didn’t land a man on the moon.”

Anna drew me a withering look which featured shades of both pity and disbelief.

“I bet he does like music,” she said, going back to Dr Google. “Listen to this,” she added, putting on her reading voice, “’A study conducted by the University of Glasgow revealed that dogs like music, especially soft rock and reggae help to keep them calm. Music can lead to dogs having lower levels of stress hormones.’”

“Funny that,” I said. “Soft rock would have the opposite effect on me.”

“What’s soft rock?” she asked.

I hesitated before answering, “The Bee Gees or something.”

“The Gee Bees? Is that something from CBeebies?”

“The BEE GEEs,” I said. “Actually, we’ll stick on a Bee Gees song and see does Waffle like it.”

For his part, Waffle was sitting on the biggest little human’s lap, with his head on the island, as in the picture. He didn’t look like he could be any more relaxed.

I asked Alexa to play ‘Saturday Night Fever’ and away she and the Brothers Gibb went.

Listen to the ground

There is movement all around

There is something goin’ down

And I can feel it.

“Na,” said Anna. “I don’t think Waffle likes that one. It’s too… whiney?”

“He should love it if it’s whiney,” I countered.

“No. Maybe we could try the other stuff – what’s it called – reggae.”

I asked Alexa to play Bob Marley’s ‘No Woman, No Cry’ – Live at the Lyceum, London, 1975.

Anna – and for the purposes of this article, Waffle too – listened to the whole poem – Trenchtown, great futures, drying tears, Georgie starting the fire and how everything was going to be alright.

“Yes.” Anna said simply. “I think Waffle likes that one.”

“How do you know? He never even opened his eyes.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly, my rear end.”

“Play it again.”

“What difference…”

“Just play it.”

I complied, reluctantly and we again listened to the whole tale – the good people they met, cornmeal porridge, feet being his only carriage – the whole shebang.

As the crowd cheered at the end of this live version, Anna said, “See?”

“See what? Waffle never opened his eyes.”

“Now play something else, something he won’t like.”

“Like what?”

“You know the one about the chicken in the bread picking out the dough.”

I had to think about that for a second.

“You mean, ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia?’”

“Yes! That’s the one.”

I suggested Alexa should do the honours and immediately, the first beats kicked in followed by the winding fiddle. We both watched Waffle for any reaction.

At first there was nothing. He just sat there with his eyes closed. But by the time Charlie Daniels got to Johnny rosinin’ up his bow and playing his fiddle hard, Waffle’s eyes flickered open.

Fire on the mountain, run, boys, run

The Devil’s in the house of the risin’ sun

The chicken in the bread-pan pickin’ out dough

Granny, does your dog bite? No, child, no

And would you just believe it, as soon as the first chorus finished, Waffle sat up and then jumped down onto the floor.

“See?” Anna said.

“Well, I’ll be danged!”