Daily walk, trailing behind Mungo's behind and pause to think who exactly is walking who? And am I walking with him for his or my benefit? And why is it (nearly) always me and not the rest of the family, each of whom had two perfectly functioning legs the last time I looked, and all of whom promised the breeder who vetted us, before we brought this big, but loveable brute into our home, that they would walk the dog.
Yes, you didn't read wrong, she vetted us! We had to make an appointment en famille to meet the breeder and her dogs at her house, so that she could interview us and decide whether we were fit to have one of her precious puppies and then we had to pay £500 for the privilege of having passed. Now, maybe this is normal practice for responsible breeders, but imagine if the national health care system vetted prospective parents before telling them whether or not they could go forth and procreate - will you take the child for walks every day; microchip it; feed it only expensive and healthy dry food and water; lock it up in a cage every night where it will feel secure; worm it regularly; play with it; abide by the law and hang an id tag round its neck whenever it is out in public; take it to obedience classes; insure it in case it causes an accident; and agree not to breed from said child without registering with the human equivalent of the kennel club first? - could solve a lot of the country's social problems! But thankfully history would make us shy away from eugenics on such a scale. Also, if the male of the couple in question can nod in agreement to all the dog breeder's questions, sound enthusiastic and fail to acknowledge that he doesn't really like dogs, then what is to stop him doing the same when quizzed about having children - in both scenarios the same person ends up with all the work; same old, same old, eh?
Which brings me back to WTD - why? Is WTD for his or my benefit? I do wonder sometimes why anyone gets a dog? Lots of reasons spring to mind and I remember spouting them to the breeder and five heads nodding with varying levels of enthusiasm as I did so: he would be good company for the kids, especially the one who had been chronically ill for four years and cruelly had everything he had previously enjoyed removed from his life; he would be good for my fitness (laugh out loud at this point); we could bond as a family going on long weekend walks (laugh again but sadly); all the places we frequent for holidays are dog friendly; and loads of our friends have dogs. Add to these reasons the constant pestering for a pet; the fact that our cat was run over a year before; our naivety and the fact that none of our friends with dogs mentioned the drudgery, the mess, the teeth that bite (hard) and we were sunk.
So who is walking whom? Clearly he's walking me - all over me in more ways than one judging by the muddy paw prints coursing up my jeans and onto my shirt. When the children were babies and positing little mouthfuls of sticky goo everywhere it was somehow acceptable to walk around with a white stain on your shoulder; people understood and asked after the baby. But very different and not at all acceptable is the vague awareness of impending embarrassment and a perpetual thinking of "What!" as people snigger behind your back and no-one actually says anything all morning leaving you jiggling around awkwardly checking yourself until you eventually find the smudged muddy brown stain on your bottom and you remember the dog, fresh in from the garden, jumping up when you took him to his run.
But before you think I'm an old (yes) curmudgeon (no!) let me put the record straight - Mungo frequently makes my heart melt. He very obviously thinks he's mine - or probably that I am his. The warm body that keeps my feet warm when I am working at the kitchen table, the child-like friend who keeps me company in the garden and helps with the digging and un-helps with the weeding, and the oh-so-faithful eyes that speak so tangibly of trust, especially when he was ill recently and making numerous scary trips to the vet, confirm that he is mine and I his and most of the time I wouldn't be without him.
To return to my point: breeders, by all means go on vetting families that wish to adopt your puppies, but please, when you ask if everyone will play their part in walking and caring for the dog, look the father of the family in the eye and only believe those brave and honest men who dare to say no. Otherwise turn your attention to the mother and if she doesn't say wholeheartedly that she will be chief walker, feeder, and poop-scooper, tell them you will be in touch later and gently show them the door. It's kinder for womankind that way.
Yes, you didn't read wrong, she vetted us! We had to make an appointment en famille to meet the breeder and her dogs at her house, so that she could interview us and decide whether we were fit to have one of her precious puppies and then we had to pay £500 for the privilege of having passed. Now, maybe this is normal practice for responsible breeders, but imagine if the national health care system vetted prospective parents before telling them whether or not they could go forth and procreate - will you take the child for walks every day; microchip it; feed it only expensive and healthy dry food and water; lock it up in a cage every night where it will feel secure; worm it regularly; play with it; abide by the law and hang an id tag round its neck whenever it is out in public; take it to obedience classes; insure it in case it causes an accident; and agree not to breed from said child without registering with the human equivalent of the kennel club first? - could solve a lot of the country's social problems! But thankfully history would make us shy away from eugenics on such a scale. Also, if the male of the couple in question can nod in agreement to all the dog breeder's questions, sound enthusiastic and fail to acknowledge that he doesn't really like dogs, then what is to stop him doing the same when quizzed about having children - in both scenarios the same person ends up with all the work; same old, same old, eh?
Which brings me back to WTD - why? Is WTD for his or my benefit? I do wonder sometimes why anyone gets a dog? Lots of reasons spring to mind and I remember spouting them to the breeder and five heads nodding with varying levels of enthusiasm as I did so: he would be good company for the kids, especially the one who had been chronically ill for four years and cruelly had everything he had previously enjoyed removed from his life; he would be good for my fitness (laugh out loud at this point); we could bond as a family going on long weekend walks (laugh again but sadly); all the places we frequent for holidays are dog friendly; and loads of our friends have dogs. Add to these reasons the constant pestering for a pet; the fact that our cat was run over a year before; our naivety and the fact that none of our friends with dogs mentioned the drudgery, the mess, the teeth that bite (hard) and we were sunk.
So who is walking whom? Clearly he's walking me - all over me in more ways than one judging by the muddy paw prints coursing up my jeans and onto my shirt. When the children were babies and positing little mouthfuls of sticky goo everywhere it was somehow acceptable to walk around with a white stain on your shoulder; people understood and asked after the baby. But very different and not at all acceptable is the vague awareness of impending embarrassment and a perpetual thinking of "What!" as people snigger behind your back and no-one actually says anything all morning leaving you jiggling around awkwardly checking yourself until you eventually find the smudged muddy brown stain on your bottom and you remember the dog, fresh in from the garden, jumping up when you took him to his run.
But before you think I'm an old (yes) curmudgeon (no!) let me put the record straight - Mungo frequently makes my heart melt. He very obviously thinks he's mine - or probably that I am his. The warm body that keeps my feet warm when I am working at the kitchen table, the child-like friend who keeps me company in the garden and helps with the digging and un-helps with the weeding, and the oh-so-faithful eyes that speak so tangibly of trust, especially when he was ill recently and making numerous scary trips to the vet, confirm that he is mine and I his and most of the time I wouldn't be without him.
To return to my point: breeders, by all means go on vetting families that wish to adopt your puppies, but please, when you ask if everyone will play their part in walking and caring for the dog, look the father of the family in the eye and only believe those brave and honest men who dare to say no. Otherwise turn your attention to the mother and if she doesn't say wholeheartedly that she will be chief walker, feeder, and poop-scooper, tell them you will be in touch later and gently show them the door. It's kinder for womankind that way.
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