It’s a dog’s life
Earlier this year my family and I invested in a puppy, our first canine, in a family of humans and felines, and a tortoise. My children had been nagging me for years to get a dog and I had said no, on the basis that they would soon lose interest in the necessity of taking the animal out for walks daily, of listening to her bark night and day, and having to pick up after her poo!
I don’t know whether it was the poo, or sentimentality but when my friend announced that a reliable breeder was having puppy retrievers I was persuaded. Bobbie has been part of our family ever since. She is a beautiful white, blond retriever, still a puppy but growing daily. She is a delight, she is affectionate, playful, and obedient.
Of course, there have been adaptations to accommodate this new canine comrade into the family. Armed guards next to the food, for example. Wishful thinking, but it’s crossed my mind. I can’t count the times I have returned to the kitchen side, to finish finely cutting the cucumber for my lightly seasoned, humus and cheese salad, to find an empty bowl and one remaining rocket leaf, hanging suspiciously from Bobbie’s salivating jaw.
There have been many times, pieces of toast have been inhaled seconds after my back is turned to get the butter from the fridge, and Doritos have been demolished while bending to get the cling foil from the cupboard. The food disappearances are not isolated to the kitchen. One sunny day earlier in May, just as I set my scrambled egg aside to cool, I put some clothes on the washing line. No sooner had I pegged the gusset of my husband’s underpants, Bobbie was nose deep in my lunch. I was so hungry that day that I still ate the remains, having rescued the last third of my protein-rich meal.
I am surprised Bobbie isn’t morbidly obese; she is a canine food disposer. She is the Dyson of dogs. She can ingest a four-course meal in the time it takes you to open a cupboard door. If food isn’t nailed down or locked in a steel-reinforced safe, it will be bowel deep in her digestive tract. It can take her 0.111111 seconds to get to the kitchen when she hears the fridge door opening. Every hour is feeding time, every minute. The opening of a door, the click of a cupboard, the rustle of a packet, the delicate repositioning of a spoon a street away, all a dinner bell for Bobbie.
I would say that Bobbie isn’t a picky eater. If it can fit in her mouth, it’s going in. If it fits in anyone else’s mouth, the same applies. She’s not fussy about how many mouths have been around or in the food. After school one day, my daughter reported to me that she had fed the pond fish. And that inadvertently included feeding the dog. Bobbie had mopped up the pond. Then vomited. Then ate the vomit.
She isn’t fussy whether the food is partially digested (vomit) or fully decomposed (cat feces). Yes, she was nose deep in the litter tray a couple of weeks ago. If you have smelled cat poo, you will understand how repugnant eating it would be. Not for Bobbie. We had to dispose of the litter tray after this, and now the cats evacuate their bowels, safe in the knowledge that it won’t be recycled by their canine housemate.
If you saw photos of Bobbie, you would never imagine the places she has feasted her innocent face on. You would be surprised, too, to learn that she has very good manners when she needs to. When we put her food out ready for her, we make her sit and “stay” until we have placed the food bowl down. We then make her stay for a couple of seconds before we give her the nod. She always waits for the command.
Then again, wouldn’t you be patient for your meal if you had just eaten a starter of half-digested vomit, served with a sprinkling of fish food, followed by cat excrement, marinated in chalky flakes of absorbent litter, finished off with half a block of lard. Bon Appetit!
