August 2010 - Be careful what you wish for
I must be more careful what I wish for.
After a very dry month, heavy rain seemed heaven-sent. Or so I thought, until I came home that night, after an absence of barely three hours, to find Toby had dug up the garden, and spread black, muddy pawprints all over the floor and both lounges. I cursed him vociferously as I wearily wielded mop and wettex, and was still fuming when I finally got to bed. But eventually I reminded myself that it was my choice to give him the run of the living area when I'm out and that, if my floors were carpeted or my lounges upholstered, I would not do so. By morning all was forgiven.
On Good Friday I discovered (but can't pretend to understand) that there are limits to Toby's religious tolerance. Pictures on the TV news of Archbishop Jensen, Cardinal Pell, and even the Pope prompted no reaction. But as soon as an old photograph of the Dominican Don Salvado (the founder of New Norcia in Western Australia) appeared on Compass, Toby growled from the lounge. When the photo persisted, he growled more menacingly, with his nose to the screen.
In April I went overseas for almost four weeks, consigning Toby to the care of his favourite "uncle". Sadly, that doting carer's love was sorely tested, and on my return I received a disappointing report - in essence, A+ for temperament, C for behaviour and D- for obedience. Toby jumped into my car without waiting to thank his host for his hospitality, and his behaviour was exemplary for several days after we got home. It was almost as if he were trying to convince me that any complaints had been greatly exaggerated! How could I possibly believe that my angel had jumped up on and bitten the hands of visitors, chased cars, cows and horses, or peed and thrown up on a new carpet? Despite his best efforts to persuade me otherwise, it was clearly time to take training more seriously.
It's regrettable that greyhounds have a monopoly on dog racing, or Toby might be able to earn his own keep. It's true that Labradors have a reputation for lethargy, perhaps often deserved. But in Toby's case that seems to be a façade, designed to lull me into a sense of false security. Without an opportunity to put it to the test, I can't be certain that an electric hare would have the same effect on Toby as does a low-flying magpie, but if so I'd put my money on him. Happily, he's never caught one, and hopefully he never will. But he certainly doesn't conserve any energy in the pursuit.
Like most children, Toby demands almost constant attention, and he's not particular who gives it to him. Indeed, when I have visitors, he pesters them more than me, and seems perfectly content that I give my attention to them, rather than him. However, he strongly resents my speaking to anyone he can't see. He manifests this resentment by making it as difficult as possible for me to talk on the telephone.
He jumps on my chair, tries to push the phone out of my hand or me out of the chair - anything to divert to himself my attention from the person holding it, unseen and therefore neglecting him.
One morning I had to drive to Kiama for the first of many treatments for warts. It had rained heavily the day before so, mindful of the experience recorded at the start of this chapter, I put Toby and his basket in the laundry, leaving him access to the garden but not to the rest of the house. When I returned, three hours later, his face and feet were liberally coated with dried clay. A brief attempt convinced me that it would be impossible to remove the mask and booties - cute as they looked - without a substantial quantity of water. As my hands were partly bandaged, and I'd been instructed to keep them dry until the following morning, I rushed off to the supermarket to buy some rubber gloves. After a lengthy session with water, brush and towel, Toby was allowed back into the house. Rendering inaccessible the clay in Toby's enclosure, before he could get stuck into it again, proved to be more challenging.
Tony Barnett