Thursday, 26 September 2013

dog or doggie?

Back in the day when we still qualified for the "newly-wedded-kuppel" tag, self, A and G were out for a walk. (G is our son by adoption - albeit canine - and is weird enough that he fits right into the family) And I simply LOVE calling out to the two of them, together. It sounds like I'm this sweet, old-fashioned wife who will never take her husband's name. How I love delusions, particularly the delightfully tinkly noise they make when they break.
So, we were out for a walk and G was very keen on showing off how he could piddle with one leg raised. The background was that we had just been for a trip to nani's with cows and other dogs (we didn't take them on the trip. Nani had them at home, in case you were wondering). G had made friends with our outsize German Shepherd, Tiger. Of course, when I say made friends, I use the term loosely. Their friendship consisted of G nipping Tiger unmercifully till the poor sod would give up and play with him. My little mutt also corrupted the easy-going, obedient Tiger enough to dig a nice big hole in Nani's lawn when they were both tied up for a bit so that we could breathe. Amongst other lectures that Tiger presumably read to am impressionable G, was one on how to pee.
"See here, youngster. Only puppies and lady dogs need to sit and pee. Us tough types, we stand and do it, see? Here's how."
The lecture probably worked, since our little fellow decided to give his new skill an airing when we were back in the big city. Unfortunately, he was a little over-enthusiastic and, well, he overbalanced. I was just wiping the helpless tears of laughter from my eyes, (Well, yes, he's my son and he was embarrassed as hell, but what's a woman to do?) when we were accosted by a fellow-walker, who had all manner of questions about G. "Is he real?" (We still get that a lot thanks to the disgustingly cuddly looks G has) "How much for?" "What breed?" Do we ask you questions about your family, Mister?
But he made up for all of that when he cleared his throat and asked in what was probably meant to be a genteel manner, "Is it a dog or a doggie?" It took us a while to figure out what it meant. A was quicker on the uptake and responded in a commendably clear voice, "Dog" while I made my escape, pretending that G was pulling on the leash.
Cut to about half a dozen years later. I was still in the labour room about an hour after delivering our daughter, cuddling her in an exhausted haze, after a much welcome hot cuppa chai when I realised that I was being spoken to.
"You're happy? It's good that you're so happy. Even educated families are not happy when daughters are born. But you can have a second child, no? This is only your first one."

Now, I'm not that fussed about whether puppies are dogs or doggies.  I love my puppies. All of them. Even the ones that are six feet tall. But I do get fussed about outright bitches, so it's just as well that she left the room really soon else I was seriously considering throwing something at her and claiming temporary insanity.

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