Tim Dowling: the time has come to enrol at dog school

My wife and I walk into the kitchen on a Monday afternoon, after a long weekend away. The oldest one and the middle one are sitting at the table in front of their laptops, surrounded by dirty mugs and plates.

“Another working from home day, I see,” my wife says.

“Yes,” says the middle one.

“How was it?” says the oldest one.

“The weather was appalling,” my wife says. “Your father hasn’t spoken since the dog ran off at a farm shop we stopped at on the way back.”

Everyone turns to look at me. I say: nothing.

We’ve stopped at the same farm shop before, because it’s convenient and has a dog run – a big fenced off field with a gate just beyond the car park. But on busy days the top part of the field becomes an overflow car park, and the gate remains open. Today was a busy day.

My wife went off to the farm shop while I took the dog to the field, on a lead, with a ball. It was clear from the moment we left the car the dog would have preferred to go with my wife.

“That’s life,” I said as we tramped across the wet grass. “We don’t always get to do what we want.”

By the time we reached the far end of the field the dog was fixated on the ball in my hand.

“Sit,” I said. The dog sat.

“So,” I said, “I’m going to unclip the lead now, and then I will throw the ball.”

The dog looked at the ball in my hand, then at me, and then at the ball.

I unclipped the lead, and held up the ball. The dog stood to attention, staring at the ball. I threw the ball downhill, toward a corner fence post. The dog watched it go, and then turned and ran in the opposite direction, across the field, through the gate and across the car park, in the direction of the farm shop.

By the time I got to the shop entrance, I was out of breath.

“Black dog?” said a man standing there.

“Yeah,” I said, panting.

“That way,” he said, pointing to the farm shop.

Inside the shop another customer took one look at me and immediately pointed down an aisle. At the end of that aisle someone else pointed me up another. In this manner I was directed out the back door, across a paved dining area and eventually round to the front door again. On my second trip through the shop I spotted my wife standing in a queue.

“The dog’s gone,” I said.

“Gone where?” she said.

“Dunno. I thought I was quite close to catching up at one point, but now the trail has …”

“There,” my wife said, pointing out the window, where a man was standing by a picnic table holding the dog by the collar. I walked back out through the sliding doors.

“She’s very sweet,” the man said to me, causing me to roll my eyes and snort at the very moment I should have said thank you.

Back in the kitchen, my wife is opening the post. “Oh look, the dog school enrolment has arrived,” she says.

“Dog school?” says the oldest.

“I’m afraid so,” my wife says. “She’s spoilt and badly behaved.”

“No!” says the middle one, holding up his right hand. On his command the dog spins clockwise, sits, lies down, rolls over.

“This is actually an application,” my wife says, reading.

“Do I have to go to dog school?” I say. “I don’t want to go to dog school.” It’s the first thing I’ve said in three hours, and no one pays me any attention.

My wife picks up a pen and starts filling in the first page of the application.

“Jumping up at people,” she says. “Tick.”

The middle one turns his back to the dog, and the dog steps between his legs, sits and looks up at him, awaiting the next command.

“Pulls when walked on a lead, tick,” my wife says. “Runs away and will not return when called.”

“Tick,” I say.

“Christ, I hope we get in,” my wife says. I turn to the dog.

“I don’t see you making it to the interview stage,” I say.

“You’ll have to be home schooled!” says the middle one. He slaps his chest, and the dog jumps up at him.

“Don’t teach her that,” I say.

“She won’t like school,” my wife says, “but she’s got to learn.”

The dog and the middle one begin to dance.