In the doghouse

There are times when I want to cuddle Mort and shower him in kisses, rainbows and tiny fairies.

Then there are times when I feel like giving him a swift kick up the bum.

(For the clarification of any animal welfare individuals reading this, I don’t give a swift kick up the bum. I usually try to convey the strength of my feelings with a significant Look, but I’m not sure Mort really knows what it means. Or cares).

This evening, Mort is being….how can I phrase this nicely? Trying.

Dan is working late, which always means that he is unsettled and constantly on the look out.

But that I can deal with. What is pushing me to the limit of my already shaky sanity is the relationship he seems to have created (in his tiny mind) with the dog next door.

This dog has been there for a while, so I can only guess that Mort’s awareness of her has piqued because she is in season. Or he has realised what she looks like. Mort has a definite type – he likes big, black dogs, that slightly resemble him. Freud would have a field day.

He is impossible. In his mind, I’m pretty certain he’s convinced he’s Frank Sinatra. He saunters up to the top of the garden, and pokes his nose through the tiny gap in the fence. He tries so hard to play it cool.

But fails miserably. The minute the object of his desire moves or barks, he starts barking manically, wiggling his bottom all over the shop and then doing some kind of slow motion run across the lawn, before returning to his original spot and shouting some more abuse at her.

Smooth.

When such an incident happens, I may as well not exist. He doesn’t hear me shouting at him, he doesn’t hear the treat box I am manically shaking around like a crazy woman and he definitely doesn’t care when I slam the door in a dramatic fashion and flounce off, only to return five seconds later.

Part of me feels like leaving him out there to get on with it. But I’m not sure my neighbours really want to listen to a Dachshund’s attempt to get his love on at full volume. Also the lady dog in question happens to be flipping enormous, and I’m not sure our fences were designed to handle an amorous Rottweiler. Or angry. I can’t quite decide.

What I do know is that I’m cheesed off. I saw red earlier and stormed up the garden screaming “MORRRRRT!!!!” Does he react to that? Does he hell. My frustration is partially fuelled by the fact that our neighbours do nothing about it – they frequently leave the dog in the garden, and then go out for several hours. Nice. Nothing like considerate neighbours.

All I know is that I wanted to spend tonight reading a magazine and relaxing. What I actually ended up doing was chasing Mort around the garden in mismatched pyjamas, screaming his name at the top of my lungs (apologies to any French people nearby. Sleep easy, I’m not the Grim Reaper).

But I’ve finally got him inside. And inside is where he is staying. I don’t care how much he wiggles his bottom.

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