My dog is so ungrateful. When it’s raining I have to get the wellie boots out, the rain coat and the hat. Mustn’t forget the woolly hat with the bobble of course. All she has to wear is a jacket. You would think I was going to kill her the way she runs away the minute she sees it. It’s lovely, it’s maroon and quilted and snug. It’s also waterproof, which make drying her when we get back so much easier. But will she let me put it on her without a struggle? Never. At least that was until today.
Today it’s raining, I mean it’s really raining, and its wet rain. I know, who would have guessed that water was wet. What I mean is it’s not that rain that bounces off of you and you feel miserable and damp. This is real Wigan rain, sharp, cold, piercing and penetrating. It gets through your clothes, it gets through your skin and it settles on your bones. The chill encasing every limb. You think I’m being over dramatic. Trust me I’m not, and when you have to walk an excited crossed leg staffy/jack in it, it can get to you.
Pippa you see is an energy magnet. She reminds me of one of those wind-up toys that once you let go of the handle, they just keep going on their own, the handle continuing to spin and the momentum carrying it for miles. I once had a batman car like that. Buried it in the end, at the bottom of our garden. So just taking her around the block is not possible. She has to go into the woods and inspect every inch. I’m sure she is a reincarnation of one of Robin Hoods Merry Men. She seems so at home in the woods. But not with her jacket on.
I swore blind as Mark walked in and said, “It’s raining,” that I was going to wait until it stopped before we went out. I did all the usual things, sorted washing, washed the dishes, who am kidding, I sat and went through Facebook and put a wash load in, whilst writing a poem. When Mark left it was still raining. Pippa was doing her solo version of the Argentinian Tango, her legs were so crossed. I took her downstairs opened the back door and she just looked at me. Now anyone that has got, or has had a dog, will know the look I mean. I’m sure that when we go out, dogs sit in front of mirrors and practice the looks. Hell, we’re even encouraging them now by taking doggies and posting them on Instagram.
Do they have a web page? Conceptual expressions to train your human.
She gave me the look. To the layman, it would be, “Please don’t make me go out in the rain.”
To me, it was, “Really you expect me to go out there. You expect me to get wet whilst you stay in the dry. Who do you think you are? I have to suffer and get wet, so do you.”
But I’m wise, I’m not as thick as that dog thinks I am. So, after encouraging, asking, telling and shouting at her, she slunk back into the dining room and hid under the table. Pippa 1 Me 0.
I carried on with my morning. I know this is such an exciting story. Anywho, I don’t care, that dog has got me so pissed off I’m going to moan about her, whether you like it or not.
I came back upstairs and settled down to do some writing, she snuck in and crawled into her bed under the desk.
I don’t have any exotic animals that make that noice, it was the bloody dog. She has this, “Mew”, which sounds like she’s trying to call a dolphin.
Again, I was nice. “Shut the fluff (substituted word for expletive) up.”
I was adamant, looking out of the window all I could see was water running down the glass. It does that when it’s raining. I was not…
Wellies on, coat on, woolly hat with bobble, on. I found her jacket and was not in the mood to start fighting with a small white dog. I was almost in shock, when she crawled up to me with her head on her paws and waited patiently to have her jacket on. So surprised, I almost forgot it was raining.
She must have been desperate because she ran to the woods. At this point I have to tell you that purple wellies are not made for sprinting. The first puddle was deeper than it reckoned to be and the water splashed up over the edge causing a tidal wave in the foot of my boot. Quidging along at a jolk, that’s a cross between a walk and a not quite quick enough to be a jog pace, I kept up, just.
She was good, she stopped at the kerbs and didn’t run off. Then we reached the woods and poof, she was gone. She’s white with a maroon quilted jacket, how could I lose her? I called. I called again. Nothing. She would never run off, it wasn’t like her, she didn’t even need a lead, even though I took one with me, she was that good. But she was gone.
I have to admit I panicked. NOT because I’d lost the dog, but because I’d have to a) Tell Mark. b) Ring the police and inform them. And c) Because it made me so angry and it was raining. Did I mention the weather?
“Bloody ungrateful, dogs are the most ungrateful animals in the World, apart from cats, cats are ungrateful as well.” Now I knew I was angry, I was talking to myself in the middle of the woods in the pouring rain. I wasn’t going to stop, I was on a rant. “It’s not as though they build houses for themselves, is it. If we didn’t take them in, they’d have to live out here in the woods, with the rain and snow, they wouldn’t have nice quilted jackets to keep them dry.”
I could feel the chill in my knees as I stood and allowed the crystal cold water to seep in. Still no sign of Pippa. “Sod her, she can stay here.”
“No, you can’t leave her, she is just a small defenceless doggie.”
“She’s a Rottweiler in disguise, she’ll be fine, she knows where she lives.”
“No, she doesn’t. Remember when she got out that time and went on an adventure?”
“That was her own bloody fault.”
“Are you alright.” The voice from behind startled me.
Turning I was about to say, “I’ve lost my…” When out from behind him trotted a jacket free wet white wimpy dog.
“No, I’m fine, it’s cold out this morning,” I chirped trying to be cheerful. “Got to go, got to get my dog in, she’s getting wet.”
“You need to buy her a jacket.” The man stated matter of factly.
I didn’t growl, well not quite. I might have grumbled under my breath. Pippa was in the dog house again.
That’s the second week now, last week I fell and got covered with mud and today I’ve been drenched to the skin. I found her jacket, it’s in the wash now. How she got it off is a mystery. She’s not going to tell me. Even though I have asked her. You can see it can’t you. Me bent over her, waving the jacket in her face, saying, “How did you do this, what did you do, you naughty girl.” When she just lay there, her head on her paws, wagging her tail, with that, “I don’t really care.” Look.
Dogs are so ungrateful, they live in our houses, eat our food, and sleep on our beds, and now I’m buying her a new jacket. A neon orange one, with straps from a strait jacket and a homing device.