generalspeaking

When I brought him home, a tiny apricot poodle tucked into my jacket, my better half, truly my better half, did a double take then snarled "what is that?". A dog I said, a toy poodle puppy, isn’t he adorable? He said: "I don’t want a dog, I told you I don’t want a dog. If I had wanted a dog, I’d get a dog, not a little rat". I don’t know about the little rat, but my feelings were hurt. I forgave him because it wasn’t long before the little rat inveigled himself to grudging acceptance.

By the time he was two months old he was smart enough to jump into the little camera bag I use to carry him about out-of-doors. And carry him about I do, everywhere but the supermarket. He’s a magnet, a shameless flirt; both men and women are drawn to him and he doesn’t need much encouragement to clamber out of his bag into the arms of his admirers. Looking back at me as though to warn he could always take off with someone who has no problems appreciating his sterling qualities.

Riley Ace of Dogs I, unfortunately demonstrates a Napoleon complex, insisting on confronting every dog he has ever encountered, the bigger the better. With rare exception he wants to duel, teeth bared, fangs unleashed (he unaccountably turns happy cartwheels over the head of a long-suffering elder beagle we encounter on our ravine walks). Oh and cats, Riley adores cats and they return the compliment. He walks us faithfully day in day out in the ravine where all our dog-walking buddies are to be found. Where jaunts percolate with the imperative to monitor all the latest scents left upon anthill, tree trunk, upturned sod, stray root and twig. We know most of the dogs whose custom it is to take their people through the ravine, and they are stouthearted, understanding canines. True, at first the upstart’s yaps, yips and nips were regarded with canine incredulity at the lack of social grace and wit, but they’ve learned over time to bypass if not outright tolerate his bumptious behaviour.

He confided in me just lately how humiliating he thinks it is that he has to be dressed in a coat and boots. It impairs his sense of dignity he said passionately and none of the other kids, er dogs, are thus garbed. First of all, I told him, no one would think any the less of him but the fact is he’s awfully small, we have difficult winters and he needs the protection. Furthermore, I said, if he’s worried about dignity then he should think seriously about comporting himself in a more socially acceptable manner. He said he’d think about it.

Despite the above, he’s a trooper, an indefatigable outdoors dog. He has mountain-clambered in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, canoed in Algonquin Park, hiked endlessly in Gatineau Park.

When I cook chicken soup he knows for whom the chicken is destined and everything’s cool. Give him unadorned kibble? I cajole, I beseech, he regards me with derision. Why should he, when at dinnertime his kibble is salted with shredded cheddar and chopped red pepper?

Where does he sleep at night? Funny you should ask. Actually, at the foot of our bed. Well, that’s where he starts out after burrowing under the duvet. Wisely, he stays on my side of the bed. And moves stealthily through the night until he ends up a tight little ball snug against the small of my back.

Riley’s treasure-chest brims with toys. Plastic hamburgers, hotdogs and chops that squeak when bitten, stuffed animals of various types. Eventually Riley devised alternate uses for the stuffed animals. He selected one little pink pig and mooned and moaned, decrying unrequited love. At first we overlooked the whining and groaning and thumping. Then took away the pig. He adopted a stuffed bear. We absconded with this love-object; another took its place. We finally removed all the little offenders. Ergo: no lovesick displays, no whining, groaning, thumping. With his love interest gone he’s been reduced to racing around the house at somewhat less than the speed of sound, squeaking his plastic toys.

When his hair grows long enough to absorb his legs so he resembles a roving mop, I take scissors in hand and snip. The dreaded bath follows, reducing him to mouse size. No amount of towelling is sufficient to dry his reduced coat, so I rise to the challenge of chasing him, generating enough activity to dry him and exhaust me. And damn, I forgot what always happens when he gets so excited; he lifts his leg and lets go. I chase him with renewed vigour bellowing "Baaadd Boy!" and he scoots under the first available bed. Later, I refuse to acknowledge his presence and he creeps up to where I’m sitting, waits. I do nothing. He extends a tentative paw, forgiving me my transgressions.