It's A Dog's Life for Me

I’ve decided that if I ever get reincarnated, I’m coming back as a dog. Preferably a dog owned by me (to ensure maximum comfort, that is).

Dogs are so uncomplicated. They eat, sleep, play, poo and sniff. That’s about it.

They are excited by everything. No matter how many times you walk them around the same block, it’s like the maiden voyage. Every lamppost, pile of leaves and tussock of grass is intriguing and beguiling. They sniff like it’s the first time they’ve ever smelt the ‘eau de urine’ of some previous canine visitor or the waft of rabbit near the showground sheds. It’s all so fascinating!

My dogs wallow like furry hippos in every available puddle, roll in dead fish on the river bank (if given half a chance) and greet everyone they meet with slobbering, wet-pawed enthusiasm. They don’t always get that not everyone wants to be jumped on by a soggy, shaggy mutt; in fact, it never enters their heads. Why would it when they have been led to believe that they are the Supreme Four Pawed Masters of the Universe? (or at least the portion of the universe that extends for a few kilometres either side of their Utopian Doggy Palace -- aka my place).

They are always happy to see you; even if you smell, look like death or are having a really bad hair day. They don’t care if you’re happy, sad, furious, depressed, sane, crazy or drunk. As long as you have one hand that’s capable of scratching their belly while the other locates the dog treats in the pantry, all is right in their world.

The simple joy of gnawing a bone cannot be understated, according to dogs. There is nothing quite like a half-rotten chunk of animal carcass to lift one’s doggy spirits. Better still if it’s been buried for a few 40 degree days in the back yard; thus maximising its gross-o-nomic rating. Ah, the uncomplicated joy!

And what pooch in his right mind wouldn’t turn himself inside out for the opportunity to suck on a pig’s ear for half an hour? Not too many of the ones I know, that’s for sure! And yes, at my place pigs ears are a regular treat. Not to mention liver ‘treaties’, bone biscuits, Schmacko strips and the occasional doggie carob bar.

The downside of such indulgence may well be the future pancreatic misfortune of my hairy kids, so I am trying to keep the fatty stuff to a minimum – but it’s soooo hard! Especially when they look at you appealingly through their fluffy white (Lloyd Bridges) eyebrows or hoist themselves insistently at the back window in an attempt to gain your attention. What’s a smitten doggie owner to do?

Okay, okay, I shouldn’t be such a sucker. I know this is how bad habits are formed, but at least I do make them ‘sit’ before they get their treaties, so I’m not a total pushover, am I?

Oh, and by the way, it’s just not true that they ate a whole couch at the boarding kennels last time they visited. That was a vicious lie. Just because the same thing has been happening to their beds here at home, doesn’t mean there’s any link……

Well anyway, life’s good when you’re a dog. No responsibilities. No bills to pay, dishes to wash, lawns to mow, meals to cook or work to go to. Not a care in the world. Other than perhaps, when you might be getting your next ‘walkies’. And I’m sure mine don’t ever really worry about that either. If they really want a walk they just go nutzoid around the loungeroom for a few minutes and start chomping on the couch. We soon get the message. And they say animals can’t talk!

So, next time around, it’s definitely a dog’s life for me.

Just hold off on the pigs ears okay? For some reason, gnawing on the aural appendage of a dead swine just doesn’t seem to do it for me.

But, then again, I’m not a dog. Yet.

Best In Show

Having recently become a bit of a “Dog Fancier” I, and the object of my canine affection, Scruffy the Mini Schnauzer pup, went for a peek at a dog show that was held here a few weeks back.

I had actually forgotten the show was on, until halfway through our morning walk and so (resplendent in daggy track pants and bed-hair) decided on a little walkies diversion so that Scruffy and I could see how the ‘other half’ (i.e. dogs with manners and cute hair styles) live.

We were very impressed too. Fluffy Pomeranians and elegant Afghans, sleek Rottweilers and cute Malteses, adorable Shar Peis and handsome Dobermans all marching around the ring or patiently enduring another grooming -- or reclining, bored, in their shaded crates.

Their owners, mostly smartly-coiffed women, paraded with them in the ring. It struck me as a little odd that these ladies would wear business suits in a dog ring but, then again, I guess dog breeding is very serious business and they figure they must do whatever they can to improve the overall picture for the judges. Either that or they are living in a corporate 90’s timewarp.

Anyhow, Scruff and I innocently parked ourselves not far from the entrance to Show Ring 1 and settled down to watch proceedings. All was going well: Scruff was fascinated but well behaved. Then a couple of huge ‘blue’ dogs (I have no idea what breed they were; sort of a cross between a fat blue Labrador and a St Bernard) made their way to the Show Ring entrance, waiting for their turn. These dogs were twenty times the size of Scruff; big powerful, but gentle-looking dogs. One of them noticed Scruff and pulled towards him to say hello.

“Ruf!” squeaked little Scruff in delighted approval.

“Don’t you DARE!” shrieked Fat Blue Boy’s Prada-Coiffed Handler, glaring at Scruff indignantly as if he was about to leap upon her precious mutt and tear him limb from limb!

She must have noticed the surprised look on my face, because she suddenly forced a quick ‘smile’ before turning her attention back to Fat Boy. (Presumably this was some kind of apology for being a vicious puppy hater).

Anyhow, Scruff and I decided we’d had enough so we wandered off in search of a fellow Miniature Schnauzer fancier. We soon found a lady grooming her hairy-faced boy, and stopped for a chat.

“Are you going to do something about his ears?” she asked looking disapprovingly at Scruff.

“Why?” I asked, “What’s wrong with his ears?”

She advised me that Schnauzer ears are supposed to fold forward. Scruffy’s point up and outwards (kinda like the ‘Flying Nun’ — for those of you old enough to remember her). Her advice was to tape a five cent piece to each ear, then tape his ears to his head. God knows for how long! I was too taken aback to actually ask.

“I don’t intend to show him or anything,” I said -- probably irrelevantly, because clearly Flying Nun Boy was never going to be a serious contender.

She kindly went on to give me some advice on grooming and maintaining the Schnauzers, and informed me that her dogs are never allowed to get fully wet as it ‘softens’ the coat (apparently this is an undesirable outcome in Schnauzer Land).

“So they never get to have a swim?” I asked in disbelief.

“Never,” she confirmed.

“Phew, Scruff!” I said as we made a hasty exit from the strange world of dog showing. “I’ll bet you’re glad you’ve got ME as your Mum and not THAT lady!”

“My fur coat!” agreed Scruff as he steered me towards the river for a quick dip and a roll in the dirt. “My furrrr coat!”