The sofa is mine

We adopted Bertie last October from The Dogs' Trust in Evesham.  He's been an interesting addition to the family.  He's complex, has issues, but is a great thinker.  Some thoughts and observations on the Bertie philosophy of life may feature on this blog.

 

A comfortable place

I come down to find Bertie stretched out on the kitchen sofa.  He opens a bleary eye and wags politely at me.  Bonnie, the good dog, is sitting up in her bed looking pointedly at him.  Then she turns to me.

“Are you really going to let him get away with that?” she asks.

I stand next to Bertie.

“Down,” I say, firmly, gesturing at the floor.

He rolls of the sofa slowly, stretches and noses my hand.

The next morning they are both on the sofa. 

“He made me do it,” says Bonnie.

First walk

First thing in the morning.  Too early to be awake.  I put my shoes on and get Bertie’s harness.  He starts to gambol and frolic in a manner which must be damaging to his stumpy legs.  Bonnie winds around my legs like a cat as I find the leads.

‘Think alpha,’ I tell myself.  ‘Calm and authoritative.’

Getting out the door in a cat’s cradle of leads, shoulder bag, keys etc is a challenge, but we do it.  It is soon evident that Bertie has no idea of lead protocol.  He meanders back and forth in front of me; stops suddenly to investigate smells, wees on everything, tangles with Bonnie who sits down suddenly.  I shorten his lead and we stagger and stumble round the corner to the little park.  My ambitions have been modest regarding our destination.  I lengthen Bertie’s lead and let Bonnie off and she goes to furthest corner to poo.  Bertie and I spend a while looking for it in the fallen leaves but it’s too well camouflaged.  I turn round to see her in the opposite corner, pooing again. 

“C’mon, Bertie,” I yell and we charge across the park to make sure we can locate this little pile while she’s still on the job.  He’s game and breaks into a wobbly canter at one point.  Then I feel terrible because he has to stop and cough. 

Picking up Bonnie’s poo is a challenge as Bertie wraps the lead round my legs and I think I might fall.  I have to put the full poo bag down and unravel myself.  Bertie gets his foot caught in the poo bag and drags it off, then gets scared of the thing wrapped around his leg and starts jumping around.  Poo exits bag.  I calm him down and start again, with a fresh bag.  Bonnie seems to think that this is all quite hilarious.  She runs to and fro, a bit smug as she’s the good dog who is allowed off the lead.  When she passes Bertie tries to break into a run, to join her.

“No chance, mate,” I tell him.  Not after his escape attempt yesterday.  We’d just collected him from Dogs’ Trust and we’d been home about two minutes when he made a break for freedom.  This is how it happened: since he was drinking water from the plant pot drip trays I nipped into the house to get him the water bowl.  Two seconds later he’d gone and the garden gate swung open.  OK, the catch is a bit wobbly, but it still needs a handle turning.  I dropped the water bowl on my feet and charged out the gate and down the side of the house.  There he was, trotting towards Bilton Road, in his smart , yellow Dogs’ Trust harness.

I resisted the urge to yell, and put on my most appealing doggy voice.  He turned, considered me and ambled back, stopping to say hello to my neighbour who was finding it all very amusing.  I barricaded the back gate with wheelie bins, wondering how my postman was going to deliver my parcels now.

So now there’s no chance of me letting him off his lead.  Maybe that’s how he strayed in Birmingham.  Maybe he learned to open the garden gate and just wandered off.  With no collar or chip, and no one looking for him, he didn’t stand a chance.

We circle the small park five times and I think he’s getting the hang of the lead.  His innate good nature will help with training, I think.  I’m sure he’s a bit better on the way back.

At home he rushes around the kitchen, then suddenly tires.  He gets into Bonnie’s bed.  She approaches and a growl rumbles in his throat.  I find their kong toys (Bonnie’s hidden both in the garden) and fill them with disgusting liver past and a chew.  I encourage Bertie back to his own bed with it and Bonnie reclaims hers.  But as soon as I start typing on the computer Bonnie comes to lie on my feet and Bertie quickly sneaks back into her bed.  Oh well, I suppose they’ll work it out.