a dog's life

There are new licensing laws here in the UK, which mean that many places are open until later. It’s not without opposition, we have something of a binge drinking culture here, so it’s not sufficient to assume that if places are open for longer that we will be in less of a rush to drink ourselves into a destructive frenzy....but that’s not really why I’m writing. It just suits me.

I want to come home from work, relax for a little while - let the day wash away, take the dogs for a walk, have a shower and maybe a glass or two of wine and then go out later, maybe 10’ish for some fun with friends. I don’t want to rush.

Which is precisely what I did on Friday. I’m sure that any of the people out there that I irresponsibly corresponded with in the early hours of Saturday morning will give testament to the fact that I’d “had a good time”. (Sorry, I promise I’ll try to find something else for my tipsy digits to do from now on).

If only you knew. If only you knew what a rotten sod I’d been you would have erased me.

I came in, filled a glass and switched on the fire in the living room, and lay and stretched. Charlie came to say hello, and sat on my bum in front of the fire. We watched the goggle box like that for a little while, I have no idea what, just blurry moving figures, police sirens and people shouting “wada wada, woomba” at each other. Until eventually I’d cooked nicely on one side (stick a fork in me, I’m done), and went for a refill.

It occurred to me that the chaps might need a wee, so I called and Charlie appeared and I opened the back door….and there sitting on the top step of the stairs into the yard was the most soulful looking Spaniel I’ve ever seen in my life.

Five hours.

Five miserable, freezing cold, lonely hours.

The last thing I had done before I went out was let them out for a wee, like any responsible ‘parent’. Unlike any responsible parent I hadn’t made sure that they were both back in doors before I went out.

He stared at me with hazel brown eyes the size of dinner plates, shivered and stood up. He slunk past me and I could feel the cold radiate off him, like the antithesis of a radiator, into the living room to sit on the hearth with his bum nearly in the fire. Charlie looked down into the yard and then up at me as if to say “I’m not falling for that” and I shut the door.

Spaniels don’t sulk, they can’t, it’s simply not in their nature -but there was a definite air of “have I not been good?” about him, and it took a lot of biscuits and hugs before we saw even a tiny little wag.

(A girl did a similar thing to me once and I sulked for a week).