A DAD'S LIFE:New arrival charms his way into the bosom of the family
‘AH, AREN’T they just the cutest? Oh my God, they’re gorgeous!” Non-stop I’ve heard this for the past eight weeks. Cute they are, poop they do.
I know it’s eight weeks because I’ve been counting down the days. At eight weeks we can give the pups away, vaccinated and ready to rock. The missus and I have been their pen-keepers. Every morning, one of us has stepped into the arena of filth, cleared them outside, donned rubber masks and gloves, and bagged their produce. This task, allied with knowing that they have homes to go to at the eight-week mark, has helped us turn our hearts to stone. We would not be overcome by the cuteness.
The missus is harder than me. Maybe because I duck the task most mornings, smiling into my coffee while listening to her dry-heaves from the utility room where the beasts are housed. She emerges growling and spitting, looking longingly at the calendar where a large red ring marks the departure date. I understand her pain, but don’t empathise enough to do the job any more often than is unavoidable.
They look like little men dressed in dog suits. They roll around the place all shaggy and happy. Already they are half the size of their mother who looks a petite debutante beside these jolly scruffs. But no, I will not be softened. They are not here to stay; we will not develop a relationship.
I’m lying reading stories to the girls at bedtime. The elder shushes me. “What’s that noise?” she asks. Our ears perk and tune into a squawking, cooing combination coming from downstairs. It appears not to be of any known language. We can hear yelps and barks in response and then the cooing, “Arentchoosocute, ohyesarentchooreally”, continues.
The younger twigs it before I can convince them of an alternative. “Mummy’s talking to the puppies!” We listen in a while longer and I realise she’s fallen in an utterly demented fashion for the cuteness. There will be no place to hide now. I must be strong in the face of the inevitable onslaught.
And here it comes: “Why can’t we keep them?” Ad infinitum.
“Because we have a dog. Because we’ve promised them to other people. Because I want a house that doesn’t smell of damp fur. Because I want to go away for the weekend without the logistics of sorting accommodation for a sled-pulling team. Because I want to be comfortable barefoot in my own home.”
“But why can’t we keep them? Why?” It’s that kind of rational adult-child dispute.
The missus falters and they fall on her like vampires. “Well, we could hold onto one . . . ”
I am eliminated immediately from further discussion as, having won, they turn their thoughts to choosing the chosen one. I am astounded once again at the depth and dexterity of their negotiation skills. Demand far more than you expect, harangue and cajole, display no sign of backing down and, when target has been reached, immediately move to advancing the sale. I should bring them to estate agents.
The missus is apologetic, but there is no disguising her happiness. “It’s only one; we’re not stuck with all of them. I’ll look after it. You won’t even know it exists.” Lies, damn lies, all of it. They have played me once again.
Three are taken and one remains. I have to get used to this fella so make eye contact. I know his name, but he doesn’t seem to have figured it out yet. He’s wandering round, amazed at the space he’s afforded now he’s not locked up 23-and-a-half hours a day. They’re the privileges of being the chosen one, I tell him.
He stays wary for about half an hour, then starts the cockahoop walk. He has the self-awareness of the super cool. He’s telling me: “I’m not going to bother with you until I know whether you’re worth bothering with. All I know is you cleaned the crap out of my pen for a while, but the other one, Blondie, she did it more often. I got her to start cooing at us, now I’m here by myself, with the run of the place. I think she’s the one whose head needs to stay turned.”
That may be so, young doggie, but I am the man of this house. You are the new buck, but still, a buck is all you are. Those who enter here do so in the knowledge that I am the master.
He cocks his leg on the coffee table and smirks as he pees.
abrophy@irishtimes.com