Four-legged-friend and the night patrol

Picture this - dusk; last birds crescendoing into their twilight chorus; Littlest in bed; glass of wine poured; dinner (almost) in the oven; teenager engaging with arias at the piano; Bertie Baggins heavy-lidded, creeping, body close to the floor in case we see him, towards his desired destination curled up against the Aga; last jobs of the day in hand - laundry being folded and mis-matched socks paired; idle chatter or none at all - peace has indeed descended ... on the household inside.

Outside, Four-legged-friend is gearing his voice up for the night bark, the need to let the world out there know that 'I'm here, this is a dog-protected haven and I AM THE PROTECTOR! So jolly-well go and create your mischief somewhere else. There will be no mischief-making on my watch.' If I go outside and shout at him, it either panics him because suddenly his mum is outside and she above all (as principle provider of sustenance) needs to be kept safe, or he thinks I'm joining in and the volume increases. Only when I mention the prospect of a carrot-end, or bit of broccoli-stalk, does the barking cease and he comes inside, huffing and puffing like an elderly colonel, and spluttering carroty spittle all over the sleepy, young upstart, Bertie Baggins.

A friend suggested that the other man of the house should take Four-legged-friend out on a lead and calmly walk the boundary. Every night. In the dark. Thereby, relieving Four-legged-friend of the burden of being top dog. Apparently, their golden retriever adopted this leader-of-the-pack mentality when they brought their puppy home and the accompanied night patrol cured him of his barking and pacified their neighbours. We don't have any neighbours. And that man-to-man night walk is never going to happen in this house. So Four-legged-friend will go on with his slightly nervous dusk patrol - he always seems to be a bit too relieved to come inside. Especially, when a distant fox starts coughing back at him.

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Walking The Dog

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