All I am saying is give Bruce a chance of peace - Fiona Duff
I don’t suppose you can hear this, but right now the only sound in my home is a sort of high-pitched squeak.
No, the dishwasher isn’t on the blink again – my sister’s dog is here for the afternoon. She’s a funny wee thing; a cross between a Cavalier spaniel and a poodle. My sister calls her a cavapoo. My husband calls her a mongrel.
Anyway, she has this special noise she makes when playing with our spaniel, Bruce. Apparently, it’s the only time it emanates from her, as they roll around knocking things over and getting under my feet.
It’s funny how some dogs are drawn to each other and others hate each other on sight.
There are a couple of dogs around the corner that hate Bruce. When we pass in the street, I smile at the owners (because they are nice people), while the two wee beasts at the end of the leads literally hurl themselves at my poor pooch.
Being a bit of a Jessie, Bruce can’t get away fast enough, so it makes any conversation rather difficult, not least because of the racket of their angry snarling.
However, I suppose it’s quite liberating not having to put up a pretence like us well behaved humans do.
So often I stand smiling and nodding to some old bore. I may be wishing to run for the hills or tell him to put a sock in it, but of course I don’t.
And then there are people you meet and you immediately want them to be your best friend.
“Let’s meet again for coffee, like tomorrow” you want to say. Or “I’ve got a spare room, do you want to move in?”
But I don’t because they’ll think that I am very odd and definitely won’t want to have anything to do with yours truly.
Then again, there are benefits to not being a dog.
I don’t have the urge to smell every bum in the vicinity and manage not to defecate on the pavement. I can choose what I eat and whether to lock the dogs in the garden.