I’ve long thought that The Boss takes certain things far too seriously — things like loyalty, fidelity and trustworthiness — and fails to consider that a dog has priorities that may not always align with those of his owner.
For instance, the other day he suggested I come down to the pump to keep him company while he cleaned out the filter, which I would normally do for a change of smells and scenery.
Just as we walked towards the back door, though, I heard the Missus walking the other way, towards the garage where the dog food is kept. I am never more attuned to these things than around five o’clock, which is my dinner time.
My inner clock possesses Rolex accuracy: The Boss knows it but he was thinking about the pump (although he can find a way to delay my pleasure, at times).
Of course I dutifully followed him down towards the river, but at the moment I sensed he was focused on the job ahead, I slipped quietly to the rear and made a run for the garage where, sure enough, New Boy was already into his pile of kibble and mine was looking lonely on the bench.
Fortunately, the Missus was looking around for me: “Ah, there you are, General,” she said, as she kindly laid the bowl down. I was just in the nick of time.
I don’t know when The Boss noticed that I had shot through, but he’d put two and two together and was clearly about to make a point of it when he came inside. Not for the first time, he reminded me of Greyfriars Bobby, the Skye terrier who made a name for himself in 19th-century Edinburgh for minding his owner’s grave for 14 years.
Bobby’s owner, John Gray, worked for the police as a nightwatchman and was required to have a dog with him — and Bobby was it. Gray died in 1858 when Bobby was three and they buried him in Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh’s old town — and Bobby slept on his grave every night for 14 years, until he died himself in 1872.
Local traders kept feeding Bobby and a year after he died an English philanthropist, Lady Burdett-Coutts, was so charmed by the story she commissioned a statue of him, on top of a drinking fountain. They placed it on a corner opposite the graveyard. The Boss has seen it.
He looks at me accusingly when he relates this story, implying I am not made of the same stuff. If I so much as yawn and look away, he’ll press the point with the story of Hachiko, the Japanese Akita dog that spent nearly 10 years returning to Shibuya train station every night, to wait for his long-dead owner, Hidesaburo Ueno.
Hachiko was only two when Ueno, a university professor, died suddenly at work in 1925, and the hound kept turning up until it too died, in 1935. The locals fed him dutifully, impressed by his devotion — and made a great fuss of him after he died and built a statue of him as well.
Clearly, The Boss thinks there exists, in my character, indications that I could perform less impressively in the same situation — but it seems to me he wouldn’t know about it anyway.
If you ask me, he’s been reading too much about The Donald, who demands absolute loyalty from everyone around him. It’s not an attractive attribute, I tell The Boss — although I desist from suggesting loyalty needs to be earned. No need to complicate my life. Woof!