Source : the age
The diary of a dog, day 1: It’s my first day with my new family. I don’t even know my own name. They seem to call me all manner of things – Sweet Pea, Lovely One, and No Chewing. Actually, I think No Chewing must be my name, as it’s the thing they say to me most often. Maybe they’re Native American.
Meanwhile, the female one oversees the food and does a nice line in chicken pieces. They are served during what she calls a “training session”. Every time I sit down, she gives me a small piece of chicken. By the end of day 1, the chicken is basically raining down on me. I’m running the show. I’m sitting down before she even says “sit”. It’s Pavlov’s dog, except I’m not the dog.
All the same, I wonder if I could impress upon her the need for a better name. No way do I want to make my first appearance at the dog park and be introduced as “Our new puppy, No Chewing”.
Day 2: I’m now hearing the word “Frank” on high rotation. I have a funny feeling it may be my name. What exactly do they want me to be “frank” about? Perhaps that I love chewing!
The training continues to go well. I’ve moved on to demanding chicken by means of a “down”. I lie down, the woman says “down” about a millisecond later, and then I get chicken. It’s a reward for indolence, sure, but everyone seems happy with the arrangement. Maybe if I leapt onto a chaise lounge and started snoring, she’d give me the whole chicken.
Day 3: I’ve been trying to help the male one with his wardrobe choices. I discovered, hanging on the back on his bedroom door, a flowery shirt that could be highly fashionable. It could be highly fashionable, if he were somewhat younger and somewhat thinner.
By standing on my back legs, I managed to grab hold of the cuff and pull it to the ground. I then expressed the full fury of my fashionista feelings, at which point I feared my name had reverted to “No Chewing”.
In the end the man took the destruction quite well, explaining that he hadn’t liked the shirt anyway. The female one had made him buy it. He then tickled me under the ears in a way I can only describe as “conspiratorial”.
Day 4: The whole naming issue remains problematic. I now understand my name is Frank, but now and then they mistakenly call me “Clancy”, after which they immediately sigh, apologise, and then go a bit weepy. I feel I’ve been co-opted into a Daphne du Maurier novel. They may as well cut to the chase and call me Rebecca.
Nonetheless, I sense this Clancy was a dog to admire and, as a puppy, it’s always useful to have a role model. I’m certain he’d have taken the same stern action against that floral shirt. It really is ghastly. Sorry, was.
Day 5: Two small visitors arrive. It’s nice to have fans, real fans, fans who – upon seeing me – instantly screamed and ran about as if I were the greatest thing since Taylor Swift. They danced about me, fighting among themselves as to who got to hug me first, and then taught me how to play soccer, a game in which my skills proved superior to their own.
Sure, the younger one is just two years old, but I only have 10 weeks on my own clock. By the time I’m fully grown, based on this first-timers’ game, I’ll probably be inducted into the Socceroos. (I’m assuming that, by then, they’ll have removed their baffling ban on dogs being included in the squad.)
I nose two balls into the goal, sidestepping the two-year-old, then totally defeat the five-year-old in a tackle. I’ve earned a rest and accept the young people’s congratulations and cuddles.
Day 6: I have to give credit to my new family. They’ve obviously installed dog-friendly features to keep me occupied. It’s like a Disneyland for dogs. So considerate! There’s the pantry with the child-proof barrier – but set at a height that still allows easy access for me. And then the books, thousands of them, many of them within reach of my teeth.
They’ve also hung floor-to-ceiling curtains in the living room, I assume in preparation for my arrival. Certainly, they are perfectly designed for me to grab with my mouth, running this way and that, the curtains moving on my command, back and forth, making the most delightful sound.
I assume they bought it last week at Pet Barn. God knows what it cost because that place is expensive! It would be ungrateful of me not to put it to constant use. I do so, roaring up and down, sampling the fabric with my teeth, hanging on like some trapeze artist from Cirque du Soleil. Then there’s that phrase again: “No chewing”.
That’s not my name. A week in, I’m sure of my name. And of my place. My name is Frank and I’ve arrived.
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