25.05.2006 13:08 - Beware Dogs With A Sense of Humour
I was nineteen, and had been left in charge of the house whilst my parents and sister went on a brief caravanning break. I was also dog-sitting Bob, our lovable mutt of a dog. Bob was basically a golden retriever with added hair, and was originally known as Oscar to his original owners. However, "Bob" stuck because I said he had a similar hairstyle to Bob Geldof. Bob and I didn't hit it off immediately, but once we did we got on like a house on fire.
Unfortunately, Bob, although full of what vets like to call "hybrid vigour", had what vets also call "a dicky tummy", and could not be left alone for long without resultant canine angst setting in (ie Fear of having his nose rubbed into it). Bob would man(dog?)fully try to contain his bowels, but sooner or later would realise resistance was futile and, in a damage-limitation exercise, would drop his load somewhere he percieved to have minimal repercussions, like under the sideboard. This would give birth to many "We know what it is, and we know who's done it, but for Christ's sake tell us where it is" scenarios over the years, not to mention a couple of horrific early-morning barefoot squelches.
So : to sum up : it is three in the morning. I am sleeping in my parent's bed, because Bob sleeps in his basket at the foot of the bed, and won't sleep anywhere else. This is because I want to know when Bob decides to get up and go out. Normally he will approach the bed and paw me. If he can't, then he goes wandering through the house, opening doors, seeking exit to the back lawn. Unfortunately, Bob, a dog who mastered the opening and closing of living-room and bedroom doors, never mastered the complex paw-movements required to operate a yale lock, mainly because he wasn't tall enough. So muggins here, on receipt of a paw in the face, or, worse still, a cold nose somewhere you really don't want to get one at three in the morning, must traipse downstairs, followed by said hound, sphincter twitching, and open the door. Bob would then, for some strange reason, walk around the garden, triangulating the position for his latest mound of canine excrement, sponsored by the makers of "Pedigree Chum".
As Bob had what can be described as a very short fuse, certain things had to be dispensed with. Like dressing.
You can see where this is going, can't you?
No, fortunately the door didn't slam shut.
This very night was wracked with wind, and stormy rain. Bob disappeared off into the garden, which was not large, but was bounded by a large hedge and several conifers. Within moments he was lost in the undergrowth. I stood there at the door, clad only in a T-shirt, which I had pulled down to cover certain protuberances, yelling "Bob! BOB! Where are you?!?! Bob, you bloody animal!!"
It was then that I noticed the rotating blue light, parked just behind the hedge.
Suffice to say I would have had some explaining to do, had Bob not emerged from the undergrowth and shot back inside.
Like I said, beware of dogs with a sense of humour.