The MacNaughties love it when the wellies come out. A pair of well-worn gumboots can only mean two things. Either it is time for walkies. Or it signals a spell in the garden.
Because, hurrah, spring is officially here. The sun has been shining and the chief and I are making hay. Which is not quite as exciting as it sounds.
In the overgrown MacGregor plot it is a case of weed-pull, leaf-lift and bramble-wrestle. Hardly favourite jobs at any time. But not so tiresome when being done under bright blue skies.
When the wellingtons go on there is always great excitement. This simple act of pulling on sturdy footwear is a forerunner of freedom. It evokes exploration. It suggests a quest.
Our hairy hounds sense excitement. Ears go up, tails wag and loud barking ensues. ‘Boots On’ is the cue for adventure and, as a phrase, should be more widely used. A friend of ours never utters the ‘w’ word. But when she comes out with ‘Boots On’, Bruce the Cairn Terrier goes stir crazy.
So, as the better weather beckons, get them on. Think about it. If you walk two miles a day with your dog, by the time he or she reaches the grand old age of twelve, you may have covered ten thousand.
Which is some distance. It is the length that Robert Burns is willing to go to find his love – and twenty times more than the stretch the Proclaimers are offering.
It is an awful lot of putting one foot in front of the other. It is better than a gym membership which you will never use.
So get out the lead. And if you don’t have your own MacNaughty, beg, borrow (but don’t steal) one. For a start you can have our Norfolk who, aged nine, is becoming a law unto himself.
Rummie has stopped coming when called. He has taken to rolling in mud. This week I was so fed up that I offered him to the postie who seems to like him.
The latest crime? Climbing up onto the kitchen table to help himself to a cheese and chive dip. I do catch the little beggar before he gets too far into the tub. And I think momentarily about smoothing the stuff over and feeding it to the MacGregor…
But into the bin it goes. Much to the chagrin of Barra the Cocker who sees all emptied cartons as his to lick clean.
I will have my revenge. This week is clipping time. It is when dogs spend a morning at the grooming salon.
The spaniel likes to look smart and relishes the attention. The naughty Norfolk hates it. His hair is combed out, rather than being cut. I imagine it must nip ever so slightly. Then he who has an aversion to water must be soaped and cleaned.
He will no doubt come back bearing a grudge. Which, of course, always disappears when the boots go on…
