It’s Friday. Unusually I find myself alone for a few hours. I retreat to the kitchen and assume the role of guard dog. My bed, close to the front door, provides me with a clear line of sight right up the driveway. I turn my head and the back door is covered.
The house is secure.
A vehicle approaches. I glance up and instantly recognise the familiar red coloured van. At ease; it’s the letter box man. He visits most days and feeds paper gifts though the hole in the door, which Dad subsequently sticks into a machine, muttering something about ‘protection against identity theft’. Today, protection is my job. I note the machine on the kitchen work top. Dam: I wish I’d paid more attention to how it works. Jumping up I give it a good sniff; nothing. I lick it. Still none the wiser. I take a swipe at it with my paw and the machine crashes to the ground, contents spewing across the kitchen floor: shredded paper gifts!
Shredded I can do.
Making short work of today’s paper gifts, and with Dad’s identity still protected against theft, I settle back into position.
My home is situated within a country park, amidst farm land. There is a public bridleway which runs directly through the front garden. A large group of two legged walkers hike past the front door. They need to know that I live here. I run to the door and spin wildly around in circles whilst wagging my tail from side to side. It’s a difficult feat; like patting your head and rubbing your tummy at the same time, but I go a step even further and pee on the floor. It has the desired effect; heeding the warning, the ramblers ramble on, giving the house a wide berth.
Back in bed, I catch up on some sleep. After what seems like just a minute, I’m awoken by a disturbing sound; I know that sound. It’s not a good sound. It means trouble. I run again to the front door and my worse fears are realised: a tractor. Somehow I have just always inherently known that tractors are evil and I have long suspected that they are the preferred mode of transport of hardened criminals. Dad on the other hand has never concurred, in fact often mocks and patronises whenever I raise the alarm, but now is no time to be scoring points over him. Our property needs protecting. I view the pool of pee already at the front door and consider my next move; it’s going to take more than just urine and spinning in circles to scare this guy off.
I pull back my give-away cute Labrador ears, flex my muscles, put on my best Staffy Bull Terrier face and bark aggressively at the top of my voice. The tractor passes by the front of the house and out of sight. I run through to the utility room; the side window is obscured by a large basket of laundry, but it takes little effort to displace the obstruction landing the contents conveniently into the nearby sink. I spot the tractor and continue with the barking.
There is a standoff. Me: Family Protector. Him: Evil Tractor. I hear a taunting splutter of diesel and I let out a low growl in return. A tense few seconds follow, before the tractor makes a left turn and scurries off across the nearby field.
Lily: 1. Tractor: 0. I suspect this is not our last confrontation.
Dad returns to the now relatively calm home, unaware of the earlier potentially volatile incidents. Standing at the front door he surveys the kitchen; important documents safely torn to strips, the now redundant shredding machine consigned to the floor and the laundry in the kitchen sink.
Head in hands, he lets out a screech: “Oh my God!”
I’d prefer to keep the earlier, unfortunate incidents from him, but it’s obvious he’s now aware of what has previously ensued.
He steps towards me but slips on my pee, landing flat on his back. Even now my job as Protector is not over. I run over and lick his face.
“Lily, no!”. He cries.
I understand. His house, our house, our home was under threat, close to being burgled, robbed, violated; it’s traumatic.
I continue with the reassuring licks.
He’s upset. But he’s safe.
The house is secure.
A vehicle approaches. I glance up and instantly recognise the familiar red coloured van. At ease; it’s the letter box man. He visits most days and feeds paper gifts though the hole in the door, which Dad subsequently sticks into a machine, muttering something about ‘protection against identity theft’. Today, protection is my job. I note the machine on the kitchen work top. Dam: I wish I’d paid more attention to how it works. Jumping up I give it a good sniff; nothing. I lick it. Still none the wiser. I take a swipe at it with my paw and the machine crashes to the ground, contents spewing across the kitchen floor: shredded paper gifts!
Shredded I can do.
Making short work of today’s paper gifts, and with Dad’s identity still protected against theft, I settle back into position.
My home is situated within a country park, amidst farm land. There is a public bridleway which runs directly through the front garden. A large group of two legged walkers hike past the front door. They need to know that I live here. I run to the door and spin wildly around in circles whilst wagging my tail from side to side. It’s a difficult feat; like patting your head and rubbing your tummy at the same time, but I go a step even further and pee on the floor. It has the desired effect; heeding the warning, the ramblers ramble on, giving the house a wide berth.
Back in bed, I catch up on some sleep. After what seems like just a minute, I’m awoken by a disturbing sound; I know that sound. It’s not a good sound. It means trouble. I run again to the front door and my worse fears are realised: a tractor. Somehow I have just always inherently known that tractors are evil and I have long suspected that they are the preferred mode of transport of hardened criminals. Dad on the other hand has never concurred, in fact often mocks and patronises whenever I raise the alarm, but now is no time to be scoring points over him. Our property needs protecting. I view the pool of pee already at the front door and consider my next move; it’s going to take more than just urine and spinning in circles to scare this guy off.
I pull back my give-away cute Labrador ears, flex my muscles, put on my best Staffy Bull Terrier face and bark aggressively at the top of my voice. The tractor passes by the front of the house and out of sight. I run through to the utility room; the side window is obscured by a large basket of laundry, but it takes little effort to displace the obstruction landing the contents conveniently into the nearby sink. I spot the tractor and continue with the barking.
There is a standoff. Me: Family Protector. Him: Evil Tractor. I hear a taunting splutter of diesel and I let out a low growl in return. A tense few seconds follow, before the tractor makes a left turn and scurries off across the nearby field.
Lily: 1. Tractor: 0. I suspect this is not our last confrontation.
Dad returns to the now relatively calm home, unaware of the earlier potentially volatile incidents. Standing at the front door he surveys the kitchen; important documents safely torn to strips, the now redundant shredding machine consigned to the floor and the laundry in the kitchen sink.
Head in hands, he lets out a screech: “Oh my God!”
I’d prefer to keep the earlier, unfortunate incidents from him, but it’s obvious he’s now aware of what has previously ensued.
He steps towards me but slips on my pee, landing flat on his back. Even now my job as Protector is not over. I run over and lick his face.
“Lily, no!”. He cries.
I understand. His house, our house, our home was under threat, close to being burgled, robbed, violated; it’s traumatic.
I continue with the reassuring licks.
He’s upset. But he’s safe.
2 comments:
Your Dad must sleep welll at night knowing that you have the place safe and secure!
Tractors? Not so sure. Personally I think its people on bikes that you need to be wary of. That includes the postman.
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