It's a dog's life

‘Excuse me’ A young woman approached me, just after I’d refused a treat on behalf of my dogs. Not sure whether she too was part of the dog charity’s stall I’d just passed, or whether she was perhaps undermining or somehow critiquing their bribery approach. She definitely wasn’t the offerer. Politely, pointedly, she asked me if I was aware that it was really unkind to be out with dogs in temperatures of over 25 degrees. I said I was - I wasn’t, but it seemed reasonable enough to be unsurprising - but that we were only a couple of minutes walk from home - we were maybe four, but there’s nothing precise about ‘couple’, within a couple or so. She was pleased, said that lots of people weren’t, and left us to the heat.

I carried on between the double row of opportunities to part with money: the usual shops and the unusual stalls selling perfume, fudge, clothes, artwork, artisinal gin, keeping the dogs in the shade - feeling the guilt trailing off me like a melting aura. To be honest I hadn’t really wanted to come out at all, but this is the town’s Spring Bank Holiday Spring Festival, let’s not be churlish. This is a lovely town, and not every lovely town has a Spring Festival with lovely things on sale and a square lined with many and various things to eat and drink and free music - so ‘go enjoy’. I’d been out and the dogs home alone all morning. Instinct would prefer the relative cool of the house, but ‘oh go on’ won out, and here we are, mingling with population.

And we shouldn’t be, so the nice young woman pointed out. Or at least, they shouldn’t be, and so I’m stuck between various kinds of inclination. Never mind the dogs, though, it all that kind on me to be out in temperatures knocking 30. So a stroll along the chi-chi market and the edges of the square, a quick whizz into a blissfully chilly M&S for some salad, and home.

Nothing on the ‘should’ list, and shade in the back garden now well covering that one spot where, once I’m sitting down, no-one who isn’t in the garden with me knows whether I’m decently clothed or, let’s say, not. So I got myself an iced drink and the latest Mslexia mag, and sat. Not. It was marginally cooler in the garden than on the shady side of the street, but really not much, and it turned out that the black dog was entirely unaware of the exchange about the temperature, or the guilt cloud it induced, and wanted Something to Happen.

Let’s say a cuddle for starters. She’s a bit big (she’s not a big dog) for a lap dog, but she likes a bit of a cuddle, ouch. The claws and the weight were a bit of an issue, given the clothing situation (not), but unlike the white dog she doesn’t need to turn round six times before she settles.

Then she’s off - ouch - and I’m back to the mag. Then she’s back, tail wagging, eyes bright. ‘What do you want?’ she knows enough about those noises in that order to click into ‘what do I want?’ and trots off. Comes back with the piece of antler she likes to chew on. Bit of a pull-tug game then she lets go and raises her eyebrows - honestly. So I throw it for her, badly. Oh, great! She dashes after it and brings it back using my thigh as a brake - ouch - for her front paws. Do we tug, or do I throw? Bit of both. After two - ouch - or three - Ouch - goes at this she runs inside, and I get back to the poetry competition winners.

Then she’s back, with the pull toy. She has muscle this dog, and comfy though this reclining garden chair is, its edges are hard on arms flung this way and, Ouch, that, by an enthusiastic mouth at the end of an excited canine. We play the whose-going-to-let-go game for a bit, and I win - or she lets me, who knows - and I chuck it. She chases, fetches, dashes back, braking - OUch - against my thigh again. Tug, pull, throw, chase, fetch, ouch a couple more times, and she’s back into the house and I’m back with the poetry.

No-one has told this dog it’s too hot for dogs. Well, I have, but I’m clearly not reliable. The white one’s spark out on the sofa in the conservatory, being a sensible princess and getting on a bit. The black one’s convinced that if I’m outside, as opposed to upstairs at the desk exercising my fingers and staring at the wall, then it can only mean that it’s for the purpose of being available to play. So antler and pull toy in turn come out, and if I’m reading, then she sits just within my eyeline and explains, politely, that Something Needs to Happen. She doesn’t bark, or whine, but there’s a register she has which is very cute, very funny and for both those reasons impossible to ignore. So she gets her way.

Eventually, on one of her in-house spells, she finds her ball. This is a great ball, she loves it to pieces - literally. It’s rubber and hollow, half its surface is solid, the other half has holes. It’s good for the not-very-big garden as it doesn’t fly far, and using the holes as finger-holds I can throw it reasonably efficiently. But it is broken. Very broken. Very shortly it’s going to be two half balls. She’s thrilled to have found it and stands into my lap - OUCh - to show me that finally This is The Game we need to play. So I throw, she fetches and brings it back - OUCH - to be thrown again, and again, and again. Sadly the almost inevitable happens and one of my naff throws sends it rolling under the shed. She can’t reach it, and I’m not going to be able to without lying full length on my stomach on the sleepers and pebbles of the path, in the sun - which ain’t going to be happening. She worries and paces and looks and scrabbles and comes to me and goes back. And I feel like a heel, but the ball’s almost dead anyway, and I’m NOT going out of this comfy and blissfully secretive place to get it.

Dog is showing me just how rarely I sit me down in my garden, not to eat, not to work, just to enjoy the being in it, and the playing in it. It’s a good lesson, for all the little black marks on my thigh.