El Springador rufflects on his roll as Canine-in-Much-Waiting to an author
I was thinking only the other day, that Beagle's not too bright, reclining on the apex of his roof when he could be cushty on the sofa. I have one of my own in her study, so I put my paws up while she's writing. She gets a lot of help from me, though. I'm the ninety-nine per cent perspiration they're always telling you authors about. She's on the third book in a series with characters out of history, some time back when Dog was a lad, who have trouble getting into Crufts or something because their pedigree's not KC. Well, I never knew my father either, but I'm a bony fido sort of customer who knows wotz wot. My Dad was a Lab, but I'm one of your dark Spanish types. Act first, think later, that's my mutto. “Come down off the ceiling, Jack!” she used to chivvy. “That curtain's not a trapeze!” Colefax and Fowler? Never heard of 'em.
Sometimes I can catch the corner of her eye with a gentle swishing of the tail (Just like Maria Callas used to do with her fan to gain attention when she was still in the chorus.) It works a treat. Really breaks the concentration. Then we can have a cup of tea and bickies and a bit of a romp! And she'll probably do a few jobs while the kettle's boiling, like emptying the washing machine. This means I can nick her scanties and make off round the neighbourhood with them. She's so embarrassed, her arm appears out of the door with a Bonio bribe at the end of it. It's a terrific ruse, that one.
I'm very good at repelling invaders and do get a bit shirty with the mail and delivery folks. My best idea so far is my secret stash of brushes, hairbrushes, nailbrushes, washing-up brushes, shoe brushes, you name it. Those lovely stiff hackles are great for giving trespussers the brush off. There's a grey moggy from Ghengis Khan's neck of the woods who lives close by and she loves to taunt me by sitting on the front lawn the other side of my full length bow window while I'm confined. I do a fair impression of Garfield, I can tell you. And don't get me started on Cesar Millan with all his dogmatic ideas. You never want to let your person watch that. I switch the telly off, paw right on the button. Can't have them thinking they rule the roost. Wowsers, no! It's bad enough having a Big Bruv knocking around, competing for her attention. I've made no bones about it, I'm definitely the boss of him! Well, you have to keep your tail-end up, don't you? I reckon he's the one who should have the collar and lead. He keeps buying new batches of Nike socks – hell's teeth, you really have to shake the beggars to kill 'em! – they're my sock-in-trade, so to speak. Works on a trick-or-treat basis. Though, to be honest, they're much too well hung. Gorgonzola's not even close. I've actually had to get the hang of opening his drawer and filching clean ones.
Anyway, I get the walkies. She doesn't play fetch with him. Yippee! To the woods! Jump in hatch-back, fly like the wind. (Bit of off-roading while Herself reaches for a mint.) Whiff of moss, damp ferns, wild garlic. Musky fox, sweaty rabbit whooshing up the sinuses. Jump down, log in, kick up a dust to spread the message. Jack's back, folks, and he's brooking no nonsense. Re-do molehills. Not a clue about excavation, moles. Underground Movement from the wrong side of the tracks. Vault over thistles and briars, dive into thickets, put the fear of Dog into the pheasant population. Feathers! I'm so starved of feathers I've had to resort to plucking the fingers off gloves. They go into hiding and make like they belong on terrier firma. No wonder their wings are faulty. Not exactly an aerodynamic design. I've seen clay pigeons with better style! I remind them what happened to the Dodo and promise it's a favour, giving them free lift-off. I'm an impawtent cog in the wheel of evolution. Nose lined up, sprinting down the runway, whiskers curved against the wind, ahead a squawking squadron of birds rising up to the branches. This is the best job on the planet!
And you know wot...I'll to be crackered for at least five minutes!
Jack, the dog who keeps track of the plot.
© Copyright Rosy Cole, 2009, 2012, 2013, 2015