Misty's diary: does canine just mean crazy, or what?

Misty’s diary: reflections on the insanity of dogs

April 2015

OK. Imagine a really ugly plastic toy. Some misshapen representation of a character from a nightmare perhaps. It is painted a nauseous blue, which some clashing red and yellow. Somehow all the more off putting for, rather than despite, being faded.

Basically, it has no redeeming features. I think it’s supposed to represent some kind of bird but, frankly, I’ve seen birds that looked more attractive, more cheerful even, while caught in my claws.

A toy? Or just an excrescence?

Seems to me bad enough to have one in your living room at all. But if you could bear its presence, would you care where it was in the room? Somewhere out of sight, perhaps. But at the kitchen or the front door end – who in their right mind would care?

Next imagine the mentality that makes you feel that fetching said toy from one end to the other is a matter of overwhelming urgency. Justifying the expenditure of frightening amounts of energy – and not to fetch it in calm and dignity, but at top speed, claws scraping and slipping on the floor, with two or three little leaps thrown in for sheer exuberance.

All this despite the fact that the toy is doing absolutely nothing. Lying on the ground. Motionless. Soundless.

Having caught it, thanks, you seem to believe, to your prompt and swift action, you pounce on it, growling with menace that would barely be frightening if it were twice as terrifying than it actually is. The growling, no doubt, is intended to overcome the last traces of the toy’s resistance. Which it isn’t offering.

That all seem senseless? You’ve not heard the half of it.

Because, having wrestled to the ground a foe who may be dastardly but, if you’re honest enough to admit it, also lifeless, and already lying on the ground anyway, you seize it in your mouth. And dash back to the other end of the living room with it firmly clutched in your jaws. No doubt this is to prevent its effecting its escape, though frankly nothing would be more welcome than to see it vanish into the remote distance, and it isn’t in any case making an attempt to get away.

Having courageously got it back to the sofa end of the sitting room, what do you do with the hapless adversary?

You hand it back to the very domestic who flung it to the far end of the room in the first place. And promptly does it again.

At which point the whole process starts over again.

Honestly, who invented dogs? Or, more to the point, why?

That being said, I’ve got to admit I’m getting used to having Luci around here. To be absolutely honest, she actually livens things up a bit: dull she isn’t, whether she’s chasing an ugly toy, or just trying to work out how to use the cat flap – my cat flap – she’s hilarious to watch. And I’ve got her trained, so she understands who’s due respect and who isn’t.

Beginning to get used to her

Not that the respect was ever the other way round. Whatever Domestic Number 2 says. He really thought I was scared of that little bundle of fluff? If I didn’t push past her in the doorway, it was because at the time she was new to the place and I thought she was a guest. Scared! Wash your mouth out.

Anyway, there’s no doubt who’s scared of who now. I’ve been on her back a couple of times now, let me tell you, and sunk my teeth into her neck.

Well, perhaps not her neck exactly. There’s so much hair there. But I sank my teeth anyway. It was quite satisfying. Especially when she ran away squealing.

That upset Domestic 2. Would you believe he kicked me? I don’t know if he thinks that’ll stop me training her. She needs the training, she’s going to get it. And I may deliver a little more to him. Doesn’t do him any good, evidently, but I enjoy it.

Meanwhile, at least I’ve got Domestic number 1. Who’s got me my own toy. A rather superior one, I’m happy to point out. A toy one can enjoy in a dignified and intelligent way.

There are good toys. And Luci's toys

No fool, that Domestic 1.

This is how playing should be