Some people believe themselves to be “cat” people. Others vehemently maintain that they are “dog” people. I‘m neither... I’m generally an animal lover full stop. I used to have cats, and I admit that I miss the simplicity of being a cat owner. They pretty much look after themselves...well that’s putting it mildly. Mine used to treat the place like a bloody hotel. They’d turn up at the back door when they wanted feeding or if it was raining and they wanted shelter. Otherwise they spent most of their time next door with my neighbour, who clearly was a far more favourable individual in their eyes. As a result you always felt quite humbled when they did decide to grace you with their presence, and I often found that once either of them had decided to settle on my lap for the evening I daren’t move for fear of spoiling the little bit of quality time they deigned appropriate to spend with me.
Bryn is my German shepherd /collie cross bitza (bitza this, bitza that), and as I write this he’s currently stretched out on the sofa, dreaming doggy dreams - presumably about chasing rabbits, as his little legs are twitching like he’s just been hit by a taser, and he’s busy grumbling and yipping to himself. He’s quite a character really, and I’ve only ever met one person who hasn’t fallen instantly in love with him – Princess is not a fan of “big” dogs (she considers anything larger than a Jack Russell a big dog), and her and Bryn have a love/hate relationship...in as much as he loves her, and she hates him. In her defence though during the year we house shared together he did manage to consume two Juicy Tubes lip glosses, one MAC compact face powder, one Winnie The Pooh mid year diary, one packet of Lemsip Max Strength cold and flu sachets, a blueberry muffin and various packets of tissues and face creams all of which belonged to Princess...so it’s kind of understandable why he may not be her favourite furry friend. I think what was more frustrating was that he never decided to devour anything of mine. I guess her stuff must have just smelled better! Nevertheless it doesn’t stop him from desperately trying to seek her approval at every given opportunity.
Unfortunately for Bryn he chooses his moments poorly, and hasn’t yet learned that humping the £25 cushions she purchased from Next in a display of dominance when her boyfriend came to visit (he’s always trying to impress her), or forcing cuddles on her when she’s just got changed into a little black dress for a night out whilst in the height of his moulting season, are bad ideas as far as Princess is concerned. The look of utter confusion on his face as he gets shooed away is always rather amusing to see; as he’s completely oblivious to the distress he tends to cause our little Princess.
As a dog owner I’ve accepted the fact that I will not own a stitch of clothing that even when washed, dried and ironed will remain dog-fluff free for more than thirty seconds. I understand that when I am wearing white, the dog will only moult black fur and when I’m wearing black he will only moult white fur...just to piss me off it seems... Likewise I’ve come to realise that the chore of constantly cleaning his nose “paintings” from the inside of my car windows (the smeared smudges of wet nose prints caused by sudden braking or sharp cornering manoeuvres whilst the pooch is a passenger) will be one I have to undertake for the rest of his life. Whilst poop scooping isn’t exactly my favourite past time, I will, like any responsible owner, pick up after the dog, albeit with some fairly dramatic gagging and dry heaving sound effects to accompany the process, and even when there is no food in the house for me, I will always ensure he has his dinner, come hell or high water.
Chatting to a guy recently he asked me whether I lived alone, which I replied I did – although with my dog. He queried whether I got lonely, and it actually got me thinking. Did I ever feel lonely? Well the answer was, sure...sometimes. It would be nice to have someone here to chat to...but then thinking about it, I regularly have conversations with the dog. I’m not trying to lead you to believe he answers back (although sometimes the defiant look on his face when he’s being told off resembles that of a petulant and stubborn toddler, and could be described as a definite “answer back”) but I talk to him, and he hangs on my every word. If I’m talking to him from the kitchen, he doesn’t sit in the lounge with a beer in one paw, and the remote in the other half listening to me as he channel hops - he remains glued to my side, excitably listening to every word, forever pleased that I’m paying attention to him. It’s like I am the absolute centre of his universe and it’s really rather cute. If a guy was like that with me it would drive me crackers, and I’d no doubt end up beating him about the head and neck until he manned up a little...but obviously it’s perfectly acceptable behaviour from my fluffy little dude.
Bryn only has one downside. Unfortunately he’s a man’s dog. What this basically means is that while he loves me unconditionally, and isn’t happy unless he’s practically sat on me, he essentially doesn’t listen to a word I say.
Because I’m not a bloke.
He responds to men far better than me. If they tell him to do something in a relatively firm voice he will do it without too much of an argument. With me however he’ll push his luck. He’s obviously not born to be the Alpha in any given pack, so he takes direction from a strong male influence. Having spent the last two years surrounded by girls, it seems he’s even more eager to get in with the boys, and has taken to becoming best buddies with any man who happens to meet him. Random strangers on walks, the postman (I know...that’s just so wrong it beggars belief) the window cleaner, and most recently the Powergen salesman who tried to make a cold call this evening. It’s kind of embarrassing when your dog decides to mooch off down the street despite your calls in vain to bring him back, and you have to proposition the man you’ve just rather abruptly told;
“no I don’t want your electricity thank you very much, and if you don’t mind I’m in the middle of my tea...ooh bugger the dog’s out...Brrrrryyyynn”
“Will he come back?”
“Erm...probably...if you call him”
“What’s his name?”
“Bryn”
“Like Uncle Bryn from Gavin & Stacey?”
“If you like...but erm, do you mind doing it quickly because he’s half way to the park now?”
God love him, he did get him back...I think he expected me to sit and listen to his sales patter as a thank you, but nothing interests me less than discussions about electricity suppliers...so I didn’t. I’m such a cow at times! There are few people that actually command complete respect from my pooch though. In fact there’s really only one person I know who the dog actually seems quite intimidated by, and that’s the Bezzie Boy. When he’s not on tour the Bezzie Boy spends much of his time training new Army recruits, toughening them up for the career they’ve chosen, and at first I thought it must be something inherently authorative in his tone of voice that made the pooch respond to him in the way he did. At times the dog almost seemed fearful of the Bezzie Boy, even though he’s never once raised his voice to him. It was only when I witnessed the Bezzie Boy simply point at the dog’s bed, and saw the speed at which Bryn followed his silent command that I realised it had nothing to do with his voice at all. As I stared open mouthed in wonderment and questioned him as to how he’d done it, the Bezzie Boy simply replied;
“He does what I tell him because when I say ‘Get off the f**king sofa’ I actually mean it Nat... you on the other hand want to mean it because you know he shouldn’t be on the sofa, but you don’t...because the truth is you want him up there as much as he wants to be up there”
Annoyingly the Bezzie Boy was right. That dog has been an emotional crutch for me during two of the hardest years of my life, and when I am feeling lonely, and the girls aren’t around for me to make flying visits to, it’s the dog who ends up entertaining me, and helping me forget that sometimes life sucks, and you are on your own for a large part of it. So I’ve decided that given he plays such a crucial part in keeping me sane...it seems only fair that he should be allowed on the sofa, to stretch out and dream on. Just don’t tell the Bezzie Boy...else I’ll never hear the end of it!!
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