The dog staged a dirty protest yesterday, all over my good rug.
Furthermore, I stepped in it, thus trailing shit and its offensive effluvium throughout the rest of the house.
And of course he had to choose that afternoon to defecate indoors; the afternoon that I had invited a crowd of mummies and their kids to come back to ours to make cookies. My one attempt to prove that I am a fun, interactive and creative parent, scuppered by a dog turd.
He knew he’d done a naughty. He looked at me from beneath his eyebrows, awaiting my reaction.
“Bad dog, Brucie!” I said, scrubbing at the rug as a row of repulsed mummies considered how they might politely tell me they no longer wished their children to make cookies in this shit-smeared midden.
But I forgave the perpetrator almost instantly.
Thing is, we have developed an understanding, he and I. We spend pretty much all of our time together. He was pissed off because I’d been out on a rare shopping day without him. His tiny brain had clearly been working overtime to come up with the worst possible offence in order to serve me right.
Since Mark died, Brucie has been a bed mate, a couch-cuddler, a sounding board, a reason to get out and walk for a mile each morning.
And the other day he showed me an act of compassion which proved he is capable of offering comfort too.
Caught out by an unexpected jag of grief, I found myself crumpled on the floor of my bedroom, howling in pain for my lost love.
The dog flattened himself down on the carpet nearby and watched. He continued his vigil for a couple of minutes, then something compelled him to intervene. He approached me and placed a paw on each of my shoulders. He then licked my eyes and nuzzled his head into my neck. I pulled him closer and we held each other until the moment passed.
He was probably only after a dog biscuit, (in which case – RESULT BRUCE!), but the gesture merits my forgiveness for the dirty protest all the same.