On 24 June Snoopy celebrated his first birthday. I can’t pretend that he’d slowed down in the 10 months since he took over my life. Indeed, if anything he’d become more hyperactive than ever – if that were possible. What started as twice daily walks had become jogs. I couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad development for one who had just turned 80.
Birthday indulgences included my allowing him to chew a rubber and rope toy on my stomach – while I was lying on the lounge trying to listen to relaxing music. That turned out to set a regrettable precedent.
At about that time Snoopy started to bark every time he went out into his fenced area of the garden. I never saw any intruder, so perhaps he was just seeking to scare away any potential trespassers on his territory as a precautionary measure. Fortunately both my immediate neighbours are occasional weekenders, but he’d occasionally do it even in the middle of the night, when I was concerned he might disturb other residents of Jenanter Drive. So I bought a device that claims to stop dogs barking by emitting a high-pitched sound inaudible to human ears. It had a range of only 20 feet, but I attached it to the doorframe of the back door and, as he started barking as soon as he was outside, I didn’t think that would be a problem. It had no effect. On belatedly reading the instructions, I discovered it was intended for indoor use. A pity that wasn’t stated in the source from which I ordered it!
Snoopy steadfastly ignored my calling him to come back indoors, until I finally resorted to rattling a packet of treats in the laundry. He ran in immediately to claim his reward for obedience – an undeserved but effective solution.
Early winter was unusually cold, and Snoopy usually spent the whole night in my bed, moving only in his attempts to snuggle up to me. One morning the temperature was close to freezing, and for once I was happy to have a hot dog hard against my back. Charlie Brown’s dictum “Happiness is a warm puppy” resonated with me… until Snoopy made the misguided decision that I would appreciate my back being washed by a hot tongue.
As I may have mentioned before, Snoopy tended to pee with excitement when greeting a familiar visitor, so I ensured that he greeted them outside. His welcome usually ended with him following the visitor indoors, but one day he decided that the small area of my one acre garden in which he was confined – except when on a lead – was less interesting than the rest of the garden. Either that or he thought it would be fun to have me chase him round a larger area than the lounge room. Catching him proved a huge challenge for an octogenarian, and it wasn’t until he stopped to inspect something that I got anywhere near him. Unfortunately, in order to grab him I had to throw myself under a bush, resulting in a grazed scalp and, more seriously, a broken tendon in my ring finger. Telling him off had no effect – and in any event I was too breathless to speak – so I shut him outside (in his fenced area) for an hour, in the vain hope that he’d get the message that I was displeased with him.
Snoopy likes to keep me on my toes: he’ll lead me to believe that he’s a creature of habit, and then do something unexpected. On winter mornings he usually stayed in my bed while I was having breakfast and my shower, only showing signs of life when I returned to my bedroom to dress – a predictable precursor to his morning walk. However, on one particularly cold morning I shut the bathroom door, with a fan heater on, while I was in the shower, only to hear him trying to break the door down to gain admittance.
By now I’d reduced Snoopy’s meals to one a day – dinner, which he usually finished in one go. He’d always wolf the roo meat, but occasionally he left some of the dry food I’d deliberately spread over it. Lest he return to the grazing of his younger days, I encouraged him to finish it, and then gave him a chicken neck as a reward. He needed no further encouragement. Thenceforth he speedily finished everything, ran to tell me he’d done so, and led me to the fridge where the chicken necks awaited.
One day in the General Store I met Frank, a miniature dachshund the same age as Snoopy. Although not unfriendly, Frank was docile; outside the shop, off the lead, he showed no inclination to race across the road, nor to wash the faces of two toddlers presented to him. I momentarily thought how much more relaxing my life would be were Snoopy more like Frank, but quickly decided that it would be boring. I must need a challenge in order not to feel my age!
Snoopy Snippets has now exceeded the word count of Toby and Me. I’m sure that Snoopy could offer me much more material but, for the sake of fairness, I’d like to declare it a draw – at 13 chapters each. I hope that regular readers won’t suffer any withdrawal symptoms.
A final word of advice – although I’m probable stating the obvious to anyone who has read all of these annals: if you want a companion to share a peaceful life, get a rescue dog; if, on the other hand, you want a life full of attention, affection, fun and laughter, with lots of exercise to keep you fit, a puppy is for you.
