Boz the Dog was really quite content with life before the arrival of the young interloper, Mack. The latter arrived courtesy of my parents, who discovered very quickly that puppies are bastards. Cute bastards, but bastards nonetheless. So we took him in.
To put it mildly, Boz was disgusted. Suddenly her entire world, including her much-loved bed and toy pheasant, were invaded by an irrepressible, nippy, frenetic and heedless ball of scruffy attitude whose sole mission in life was to ride roughshod over her domestic contentment and repeatedly bite her on the arse.
Yesterday, Boz retired to the garden with the inevitable Mack in tow. For once, they seemed to be getting on quite well. Boz was obsessively watching the spawning frogs and Mack was obsessively watching Boz. Such was the lack of clamour, that my Darling Wife took her eye off them for a couple of minutes.
Next thing she knows, Boz is in the kitchen, woofing furiously in full Lassie what's-that-little-Jimmy's-fallen-down-the-well mode. Mack, it turns out, had managed to get himself stuck under the pond grate, head completely submerged. Two more minutes and he would have been a goner for sure.
One can only assume that Boz acted very much against her better judgement, choosing to do what was right rather than let the bum-chewing little fink buy the farm.
She's a dog with a moral compass, a remarkable trait that she has no doubt been regretting ever since.
Taking a slash
4 days ago