In The Dog House

I’m in the dog house. That’s not some funny pun. It’s not funny.

The problem stems from some serious inconsistency with Dad and Mum’s pet parenting skills.

Take toileting for example. Some mornings Mum will just open the back door and allow me to free range into the garden to do my thing wherever I sniff fit. This works for me. Dad however will follow me around passing comment on where I should and shouldn’t go. Plus he’s is a little more hands-on; ready to clear up my doings the second they hit the ground. It’s a little bit off putting to be honest; trying to do your business when someone is hovering just a few feet behind you with a blooming great shovel in hand.

And then there’s the Greeting People at the Door dilemma. Dad always insists on me sitting still at the door before he will even enter the house. Mum on the other hand prefers the Shouting Excitedly through the Letter Box approach; I spin madly round in circles for her entertainment before she opens the door and encourages me to jump up and lick her face. Again on balance, this is the approach I prefer. But it leaves me with just guesswork on how to behave whenever visitors come to the house.

No surprise then that I find myself cowering in the bush at the far end of the park where we live. The bush is a favourite of mine; I use it for shade on a hot day, shelter on a wet and it’s a perfect spot for a quick game of Chomp the Flying Insects whenever I have a few minutes to spare.

And now it screens me from the bedlam that ensues just a few feet away and buys me time to consider my next move.

“Get here!” Dad cries.

I think not.

“Lily, sweetheart; come here”. It’s Mum. The classic Good Cop, Bad Cop routine. I don’t fall for it.

To my right is the house, about 200 yards away. I’m quick; at flat out I could easily make it in less than 30 seconds, but the route is one of open grassland and provides absolutely no cover. Risky.

I contemplate the alternative. From my current position, with a little bit of stealth, I could probably reach the next field undetected, then a quick dash along the perimeter and I’m into the wood. A fairly easy escape but there would be no turning back; I’d be on my own. It’s a scary thought.

“Lily!”

I recognise this third voice. It belongs to the Visitor. The Instigator.

I’d just finished assisting Dad putting the bins out for the evening when he wandered into the garden. My garden.

I gave him a warning bark, but he paid no attention. Rather he retorted “hello boy, what’s your name then?” Putting aside for just one minute his obvious lack of understanding of doggy anatomy, I assumed from his tone of voice that, given half a chance, he would be of the same Shouting Excitedly through the Letter Box persuasion as Mum.

I ran towards him. He screamed in excitement.

A tall man. I had to leap pretty high.

Tall, but not firm. He fell backwards quite spectacularly. Fortunately Dad’s Land Rover broke his fall, the bumper cushioning his head.

I of course did what I could; but he seemed to have some aversion or possibly allergy even to dog licks that seemed to make matters worse. Dad shouted. Mum screamed. I ran.

“Lily! Where are you, you silly dog?”

Silly? I’m so close I could pee on your leg, you fool.

“Here, boy!”

Even now he gets it wrong. How many boys does he know called Lily?

He wanders off. I seize the opportunity and make a break towards the house. He doesn’t spot me. I reach the front door, but it’s shut.

Dam.

Plan B: I lie down calmly and stare back across towards Dad. He feels my puppy-dog eyes burning into him, and turns.

“Lily! There you are baby!” His voice somewhat different now: Calmer. Relieved.

“Have you been there all the time?”

Obviously not. But I’m not letting on. Instead I wag my tail from side to side.

Dad and Mum run towards me and I greet them first with a display of spinning round in circles before jumping up at them both and licking them all over. Neither complain. At last, some consistency.

We go back indoors and I am given some treats. All is right in the world again.

I have no idea what happened to the Visitor, but one thing for sure; if he comes round here again I wont be displaying the same friendly affection again. That’s his sad loss.