By 
I’m beginning to think that Waffle can read my mind. Certainly, over the years he has become accustomed – tuned in, if you will – to my mood at any given moment. This is particularly prevalent if he acts as the catalyst for said mood.
“Waffle’s been sick in the back hall.”
The mood is bad and he knows it.
“Waffle has done a poo on the back step.”
The mood is worse and he might even feel it.
“Waffle is chewing your wallet.”
If there happened to be money in said wallet, the mood would be at an all-time low and Waffle will repair to relative safety underneath the kitchen table, fully cognisant of the fact that I’m ready to spontaneously combust.
More and more though, Waffle doesn’t have to be the catalyst for my mood and yet he still perceives that something is awry.
Take Liverpool FC for example.
I might happen be reclining on an armchair in the living room of a Saturday afternoon with Waffle curled up in front of the fire. I might be happy that it’s a Saturday and I’m not at work. I might be happy in anticipation of a fine meal in the not too distant future. I might even be savouring a cup of tea or a craft beer. Then, if I check the score in the latest Liverpool game I’ll groan inwardly at yet another defeat. Even if I haven’t verbalised my disappointment, Waffle seems to know something is wrong. I know this because he will raise his head and whine in my direction.
“Ah, gee, bro… they’ve been brutal lately but don’t let them get you down,” his whine seems to say.
You see, I have noticed such a trend of late: I am perfectly happy, Liverpool lose and Waffle whines.
In terms of mood-scale, Liverpool losing isn’t quite as bad as Waffle being sick in the back hall but it’s still not fantastic. Therefore, when the Scousers fluff another fixture and the hound whines, I might simply be inclined to say, “Shut up, dog.” However…
I have also noticed of late that Waffle’s telepathic tendencies don’t merely stretch to football-related disappointments.
I have lost count of how many times this has happened recently; if I’m disturbed by anything such as thinking about work or onerous jobs to be done around the house or regretting something I didn’t do – and Waffle is in the room – he will start gurning. For some reason, I find this phenomenon a little disturbing in and of itself. Can he actually sense that I’m perturbed, even when I don’t speak? Is this even a thing?
Could it be my body language? Gestures? Facial expressions? Or is it possible that my emotions are causing hormonal changes and the hound is able to smell stress-related chemicals such as cortisol and adrenaline?
Ultimately, I don’t know. However…
The worst part is when Waffle whines at me when I’m not at all annoyed.
I might happen be reclining on an armchair in the living room of a Saturday afternoon with Waffle curled up in front of the fire. I might be happy that it’s a Saturday and I’m not at work. Perhaps Liverpool have even won their latest match and all is right with the world. And then Waffle turns in my direction and starts gurning.
Can his super-canine powers sense that I’m unwell in some way? Can he perceive the beginnings of some serious health issue? Can he smell a stroke coming on?
In terms of mood-scale, an imminent stroke isn’t quite as bad as Waffle being sick in the back hall but it’s still not fantastic. Therefore, when I’m as happy as Larry and the hound whines, I might simply be inclined to say, “Shut up, dog.” Because if I can’t even sit peacefully on a Saturday afternoon – warm, fed, mildly smug and buoyed by a Liverpool win – without being silently diagnosed by a creature who thinks hen poo is edible, then perhaps the real problem isn’t my mental state at all, but the fact that I live with a dog who thinks he knows me better than I know myself.
Shut up, dog.
