A DOG's LIFE
Tuesday 21 April 1998, 6.30am: From the room upstairs I can just here the first grunts, groans and snorts that herald the beginning of another day as He blindly stumbles across the bedroom towards the bathroom. I hear a few screeches and then my name taken in vain - oh, yes, I think, that's where I left my bone. Not far away my mate, Rully, another four-legged hairy beast like me, is already gnawing on his bone. God, I really hate him in the mornings, he's always so awake. 7.00am: Finally, He appears and I show willing by wagging my tail just a bit so that he thinks I'm pleased to see His bleary eyed face. Rully, as usual, goes completely over the top with ecstasy. He puts on his coat, grabs our leads and takes us out for our morning constitutional. Situation normal. 7.30am: We're back and by now She's also appeared - but that's okay because that means food can't be far away and, sure enough, She brings out my bowl brimming with goodies. I wag my tail at her and this time I really mean it. 8.00am: They both go off to open up the shop and set it up for another day's trade while Rully and I wander off up the garden to sniff out any cats that might have passed through overnight. Situation still normal. 8.45am: He is not far away when I see His countenance change completely. All of a sudden His face turns to blind terror, He starts swallowing hard and His body sets rigid. She comes looking for Him and now finds Him leaning against the wall on the verge, I swear, of being sick. I hear him mumble something about having just remembered that it's 'the big one' tonight. I don't know what the 'big one' is but She shows little sympathy and tells him to get his arse back in the shop. For the rest of the morning he looks decidedly pale - I haven't seen Him this bad since the time He was drawn out with the Lady Captain at the local golf club and He realised He'd have to try and play a full round without resorting to the 'colourful' language His golf game so richly deserves. 11.30am: He tells Her that they should have the main meal at lunchtime so that in the evening He can make a quick getaway and He offers to do the cooking. Now She starts shaking and turns a funny colour. 4.00pm: About this time He normally comes looking for us to take us out for what I have to say is a very pleasant stroll through the fields and, right on cue, here He comes. Hang on, did I say 'pleasant stroll'? Something's wrong. This isn't a stroll this afternoon but a bloody route march. I haven't got time to sniff out any of the local totty, nor time to mark that I've been around. When we reach the woods it gets beyond a joke. We always chase sticks He throws for us in here but not tonight. I decide to stage a sit down protest and bark to issue a gentle reminder of why we are here. I notice His boot in the vicinity of my backside and think that maybe protesting is not a good idea after all. 4.50pm: We're back home and now, as usual, they start to pack up the shop with Him muttering about slitting his wrists if trade doesn't improve (we have heard this every day for the last six years so don't take it seriously). 4.58pm: With the shop due to close at 5.00pm He's now moaning because it's packed out with customers, the 'Last Minute ßµ¿¿*®$ ' He calls them. 5.10pm: The door is slammed shut as the last customer is shown out accompanied by a less than gracious smile then all hell is let loose as He dashes around trying to till up; phone in the next day's order; and clean up all at the same time. Rully and I just sit and watch as He winds Himself up into a real lather whilst She keeps telling Him to calm down. That doesn't seem to have much effect. 5.30pm: Now I get a clue as to the meaning of 'the big one'. As He disappears out the door in a veritable whirlwind I notice He's dug out his 'Barrow AFC - Wembley 1990' scarf which he saves for very special occasions. All three of us have an anxious wait not knowing in what sort of mood He'll be when He returns. She feeds us and then I put my head on Her lap to provide some sort of moral support through the long evening's wait. God help us if they don't win she whispers to no-one in particular. 8.30pm: This really is serious. For the first time ever, She goes to the computer and calls up the web site. "Oh, no" She says, "half-time and it's still 0-0." I decide to hide under the table. Rully, thick ßµ¿¿*® that he is, continues to chew on his bone in blissful ignorance. 9.30pm: She goes to the computer again. The tension is too much but then she smiles "It's alright boys, they've won." 11.00pm: The peace is shattered as the garden gate is thrown open and He comes down the path screaming "Champions, Champions!!" He is beaming from ear to ear and each in turn has their hair ruffled - She doesn't find it funny. I wonder to myself why it is that he is never this good humoured when he comes back from golf. Wednesday 22 April 1998, 6.00pm: Only one word describes the way He's been today: 'serene'. In fact it's quite unnerving. He even reserved a pathetic grin for the 'Last Minute ßµ¿¿*®$'. Rully and I resolve to drop a line to Owen Brown expressing our wish that next season promotion is again achieved but can he do it without the tension! Rafferty (Bearded Collie, aged 7) With some help with the typing from Nigel Bamford Issue 036 - September 1998