Furry Friends

We have settled into a happy equilibrium, my Surrogate Partner and I.

We have listed each other's analities, foibles and irritations, of which there are many for both of us (she reordered my appalling food stacking; I am on 'window closing' duty) and are happy in our accommodation of these.

We know each other better than most, and we just work together. We move fluidly around one another, except for the fact I am the most sickeningly hyperactive morning person, who has an awful habit of trying to converse with people about complex and emotional subject areas before 9am, and when her path is crossed prior to a intricate morning ritual that I have yet to interpret correctly (I am still graced with my Learner plates and she has to regularly advise me of when the lights are green and I can expel all the inane conversation I’d been choking on until that point).

And I have the assumed position of Dog Looker After, in order that my SP doesn’t have to trek home every day to let her two young and extremely insane puppies out.

I welcomed this position with a little hesitancy, not because I don’t like dogs but because I get the feeling they know who’s boss. And unfortunately it isn’t me.

We are, for the most part of the day, relatively harmonious. They sleep out in the sunshine, or pad around barking occasionally in the vain attempt to attract my attention (but at least it is wholly preferable to the clicking of a million hefty fingers across a multitude of noisy, poorly constructed keyboards). Yesterday for the majority of the day they slept on my bed next to where I was working, him breathing deeply and sighing in contentment in the window of sunshine that had conveniently spread across him, her alert, watching with her eyes closed (she’s damn clever), listening, listening, a chair movement, a text message, a tea cup lift (there were many of them).

As many gender divided double acts, they have assumed their positions naturally, he is bigger and stronger and damn good at biting people’s arms. Yet she has an awareness, an observation, an unpredictability that I find quite unsettling.

I walked them by myself yesterday. Terrified that they sensed my fear, I raised my voice several octaves as is apparently the assumed communication method, and ridiculously echoed their names over and over, scratching the top of my vocal chords in an effort to reach previously undiscovered notes (I should have hired an uncontrollable puppy when I was singing).

As they are boy and girl, I have been trialling a series of phrases, as ‘good boy, good girl’ seems far too cumbersome to say quickly enough for fellow dog walkers not to notice, as their dogs trot contentedly by their owner’s side mocking the fact that ‘my’ puppies appear to have developed the preconceived idea that they are not cross terriers but slightly wayward huskies, and have taken to dragging me helplessly along the concrete pathways.

It is outside, when other dogs are straying within approximately a mile of her, that I really see it.

He sniffs contentedly (with his surrogate owner helplessly gripping on to his lead behind him) around the nose of whatever dog happens to cross his path. She however turns to the devil incarnate. You know that bit in Ghostbusters where Rick Moranis is consumed painfully by the concrete dog? Yep, that’s the look she gets in her eyes. As he’s sliding miserably down that glass panel, and the concrete dog bears its teeth gleefully, its eyes flaring with fire, that’s the look. It scared me then and it does a great deal to unsettle me now.

She growls. She yelps. She yanks on her lead as if she really doesn’t mind if her walker’s arm is yanked out of its socket and comes along for the ride. Then, when her opponent, be it a rat-sized mongrel or a Great Dane, is suitably terrified and has either escaped to the comfort and safety of their owner’s legs or their owner has disgustedly called their little darling back, glaring at me with hatred as I battle helplessly with intertwining leads and bared teeth, then, to top it all off, she’ll bite her brother. I have tried smiling at the owners, or exposing them to the pleading look in my eyes, the desperation, but now I just keep my head down and scuttle off, enraging fight in tow.

Perhaps she is suffering a particularly miserable patch of PMT (which will hopefully resolved from Friday as she’s being ‘done’) and in which case I’d be happy to give her some space, hand her a hot water bottle and offer her some chocolate (dog friendly, of course). Perhaps she was born a stringent feminist or maybe she is just experiencing her teenage years prematurely (next she’ll be playing obscenely loud music and sulking because I don’t understand her). Unhappy childhood I’ve vehemently ruled out as she has the most dedicated, loving and committed owner in existence.

Whatever it is, yesterday was just a mere taste.

She pissed on my bed today.

Twice.

In their defence, they are, for the most part, extremely good. They are puppies after all, and I have learnt from my SP that whatever they do wrong, is our fault. They are merely half way through their toilet training and my bed obviously is a much more comfortable place to urinate than on the hard floor of the kitchen. On that note, I may have discussions with my SP about investing in some sort of fluffy covered toilet seat.

She’s clever. She knows what she’s doing. In her favour, she shrinks away, apologetic, clearly visibly upset by her ‘mishap’. But by then I’m left with a piss stained bed sheet and she’s enjoying the sunshine.

I am fond of her, she is beautiful and she curls up with me on an evening as if she is saying to me ‘all is forgiven’ and I am permitted to stroke her and love her as much as she sees fit, until she strides over to her owner and indulges in the same reception from her. Hang on, she’s a bloody cat isn’t she.

Maybe its me. Maybe I ask for it. Yorkshire Lass’s cat shat on my bed and then proceeded to avoid my room for weeks, as if to say that maybe I should think about sorting out that awful smell.

Tomorrow night we are going to puppy training class, in order that they might respond to me as a surrogate master, a leader, an all powerful entity that they will obey and tremble beneath (and snuggle up to on an evening).

I’m taking him.

And so, they are barking. I’d better go and attend to them, to investigate. And keep my door shut.