A Dog's Life

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I had my Sunday, we’ve-got-an-extra-hour–in-bed lie-in planned,  but sadly no one told either my inner alarm clock nor the dogs, who were keen to go out at the same olde time as yesterday, oblivious that six was now five and that it’s Sunday …I say keen, actually that isn’t completely accurate. Beau who is nine, a big dog,  and a veteran of two cruxciate ligament operations, bumbles flat footed and clumsily down the stairs from his bed, making enough noise to ensure everyone gets disturbed. Only one of us gets up…

Having negotiated the stairs,  Beau waits patiently by the back door while I slide out of bed, pull on my dressing gown and slippers, stagger downstairs and unlock the doors. When the doors are open he slowly pads across the conservatory, and peering into the gloom, murk and rain, thinks better of it, sighs heavily, turns tail and heads back inside, climbs up into his chair and goes back to sleep.

Meanwhile in the kitchen, Jake, who doesn’t give a damn what time we get up (he is the laziest puppy I’ve ever met) is now out of bed, wide awake, pressed up against the dog gate and wagging furiously – his take on life is that if everyone else is up he’s damned if he’s going to be left out of the peeing, sniffing and scratching behind the ear thing.

I go back for him and he hares out of the open dog gate,  skipping and wagging, happy to be free, happy to go and pee. I open the back door and let him out. It’s cold out there. And dark. And wet. He doesn't care.

I wait.  If he’s quick I can be back in bed in two minutes – except he’s not quick. This morning he wants to explore.

I wait.

Beau joins me in the conservatory. We peer into the gloom together.

I open the door for Beau in silent invitation. He raises his eyebrows and sits down on the door mat, in a no way Jose gesture.

We wait.

Experience tells me if I go back into the sitting room Jake will reappear. I know he won’t hurt outside and the garden is enclosed, but I don't want to go anywhere; I want him to come back inside so I can go back to bed.

I call him. Quietly. We have a town garden; he’s not on the other side of the Ocavango Delta

We wait some more.

jake helping with rug making

Some time later a small very happy dog hops up the steps that lead down into our garden, taking absolutely no notice of me as I open the door for him. He has a leaf on his nose, a halo of dried grass and some unidentifiable crud all over his back. He has the expression of a dog whose day has begun well. He skips past me on his way back to bed.

Beau looks at me, sighs, and goes back inside to his chair. I’m wide awake, cold and in need of tea.

Happy Sunday