The Secret to Successful Dog Training is Firmness

Norbert

Chapter 29

The Secret to Successful Dog Training is Firmness

The high iron gates close automatically behind us, exactly like being released from prison. I fully expect Weggie to make a run for it, but he stands still and sniffs the air of freedom.

I point west. ‘The Hardfist is that way.’

Nunky points east. ‘The pasty shop is this way,’ and sets off.

I follow and Weggie tags along behind. ‘Why do we need pasties?’

‘Weggie wants one for his tea. He’s so excited.’

The dog waits docilely with Nunky outside the butchers whilst I buy the pasties. He keeps in step to the bus stop. So far, so good.

I am so nervous my mind goes blank as the bus pulls up. ‘A single to where we live, please.’

‘Where’s that?’ asks the driver.

‘Right outside the bus stop,’ says Nunky.

‘There are hundreds of grannytickling bus stops in Macarbrough,’ says the driver.

‘We just want ours,’ I say, ‘because it’s right outside the house.’

‘How will I recognise your house?’

‘I will be in the front room waving at you when you pull up,’ says Nunky.

‘Oh, I know where you mean. I see you regularly. You’re mad as a ship’s cat.’

Nunky flashes his bus pass and says: ‘No I’m not, I’m special.’

The driver looks at me. ‘That’s two pounds eighty, and fifty pence for the dog.’

‘Weggie has to pay?’ Nunky enquires.

‘The standard fare for dogs is 50p, yes.’

‘But Weggie is special like me,’ Nunky pleads.

Weggie, meanwhile, saunters up the bus, chooses an occupied seat and stares at its occupant. Within five seconds, the man moves upstairs. Weggie jumps up and sits by the window.

The driver sees this in his rear view mirror. ‘He’s sitting down. Dogs are not allowed on the seats.’

Nunky wags a finger in his face. ‘He’s paid fifty pence, he’s surely entitled to a seat?’

‘I don’t make the rules. It’s company policy.’

I hand the driver the money. ‘Go and sit down Nunky, it’s all right. And ask Weggie nicely if he wouldn’t mind sitting on the floor.’

At this moment, I think someone must have walked past on the pavement with a dog on a lead, because Weggie lets forth an angry bark. An old lady occupying the seat in front, reading a newspaper and oblivious to the commotion, jolts forward in surprise and breaks her nose on the seat back. They call an ambulance and we are ejected, but I do at least get my fare refunded.

‘I’ll take you to the European Court of Canine Rights in Barking,’ Nunky yells at the driver, as I drag him away.

*

We have in our new house what the landlord described as a box room. It is not compulsory to fill it with boxes, however. People use them as a home office or a children’s bedroom or a spare bedroom for small guests, like me. Nunky and I agreed that our box room would be the kennel for our new dog. It already contains a basket lined with bedding and numerous toys, like balls, rubber bones, chew sticks and things which squeak. A collar and lead hang behind the door.

I place the Cornish pasties in the oven whilst Nunky gives Weggie the guided tour.

‘This is the kitchen, where we cook, store all our food and do unspeakably vile things like the washing up. Nunky doesn’t like washing up, Weggie.’ He points through the door into the lounge. ‘We eat in there whilst watching the telly, which is the black thing in the corner. It’s actually a lot more interesting than it looks, because it isn’t switched on at the moment.’ He puts on a stern voice. ‘However, I will not allow you to eat human remains in the house.’

‘Nunky, I think the man was exaggerating for dramatic effect. I don’t think Weggie actually eats people.’

Weggie cocks his one and a half ears and glares at me defiantly.

Nunky continues. ‘But if you do prefer to chase down your food, I can highly recommend Meals on Wheels.’

‘I would have no objection to you eating cats,’ I say to Weggie. ‘I hate cats. They bring home dead birds and I hate birds even more. If I see a dead bird I go all scrittly.’

‘You are asking too much of him,’ Nunky fumes. ‘He’s only a dog. You can’t expect him to understand words that don’t exist, like scrittle. You made it up.’

‘It’s the only word that accurately describes what seeing a dead bird does to me,’ I argue.

‘Take no notice of the silly man, Weggie.’

I have to smile as Nunky says: ‘If you wouldn’t mind following me upstairs, I will show you to your room.’ Like he’s a hotel porter or something. I think it’s already working.

By the time they return, dinner is ready. I cut Weggie’s pasty into four pieces, pile on some potatoes, carrots and sprouts, cover the plate with Ahh Bisto and place it on the kitchen floor. We both stand back quickly and huddle in a corner.

Weggie walks over slowly, looks at the plate, whines and then looks at us. We shrug. Weggie very delicately picks up a sprout and throws it across the kitchen with a sideways sweep of his massive head. We both duck. He noses off a second sprout and back-kicks it with his right front paw.

‘Maybe he doesn’t like sprouts?’ Nunky ventures.

‘Or he’s an out and out carnivore. If so, it will take him all night to remove the veg. I shouldn’t have sliced the carrots so small.’

Nunky takes a deep breath and creeps over, picks up the plate and with a knife scoops all the sprouts off into the pedal bin. He then leans down again and says: ‘Is that all … arrgh.’

Weggie nearly takes his fingers off.

*

We settle in front of the telly and eat. Nunky, I can see, is restless.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing important, mi babby.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I think there will have to be some slight adjustment to the sleeping arrangements.’

‘We’ve been through this, Nunky. The dog can’t sleep in your room and especially not on your bed. We agreed, remember?’

‘Weggie doesn’t want to sleep in my room, but he doesn’t want to sleep in his room either.’

‘Well, I suppose we could put his basket downstairs, either in here or in the back parlour. But I won’t allow him in the kitchen.’

‘He doesn’t want to sleep in any of those rooms, mi babby, and he says the basket is too small.’

‘Well, in that case he can ruddy well … Wait, you’re not suggesting?’

‘I’m afraid so, mi babby.’

‘Weggie,’ I yell. ‘Get in here.’

He saunters in.

Nunky places his plate on the carpet and Weggie licks it clean.

‘There is no way you are taking over my room and sleeping in my bed. This is not the three grannytickling bears.’

Weggie sits down and says with his eyes: ‘Have you finished with that?’

I lay my plate on the floor. It gets cleaned.

‘It isn’t going to happen,’ I say to Nunky. ‘No way.’

Nunky rubs his hands and picks up the two pristinely clean plates. ‘My turn to wash the dishes, I believe?’

‘At least wipe them with a tea towel before you place them in the cupboard.’

Once dinner is over and the washing up done, I go upstairs for the collar and lead. ‘He’s your dog,’ I say to Nunky. ‘You do the honours.’

Nunky holds up the collar. ‘Come here, boy, it’s time for your first walkies, apart from the long walkies home because mi babby got us thrown off the bus.’

I wring my hands, silently.

The indifferent look suggests that Weggie doesn’t understand the concept of walkies.

‘Get on your hands and knees, mi babby, so I can demonstrate.’

‘No way. There is a woman in our Coagulation department who pays GT to clip her on a lead, walk her round the bedroom and then he does it to her doggy fashion.’

‘Does what? Dresses her up?’

‘That’s what I thought, but doggy fashion is evidently the way they make puppies.’

Nunky bravely approaches and, miraculously, has no trouble fastening on the collar and clipping on the lead. ‘There, see, no problem whatsoever. You get a doggy bag out of the drawer in the kitchen and we’re good to go.’

‘We’re taking him round the block, not for a four course meal.’

I am amazed to discover that a doggy bag is not just something you bring home from a restaurant. ‘We have to pick his turds up?’ I gasp, tucking one in my pocket. ‘I’ve been using these to wrap my sandwiches in.’

Nunky points out the special bins as we walk round the local park.

‘You mean that red thing at the end of Smut Street isn’t a post box?’

‘No, it’s a poo box.’

‘In which case, we need to fill in another Council Tax form.’