The Dog's Heart

 By Ashley Lister

 I’m writing this after returning from the vets. We spend a lot of time at the vets. We spend so much time there that the receptionist recognises Tracy’s voice when she makes a call.

Mo, the cat, is the sickliest of our brood. Mo has suffered from a stroke, bladder stones, diabetes and obesity. He’s managed to overcome all of those ailments and, thanks to a good vet, he continues to thrive.

Of the dogs, Mr Giles is the most consistently unwell. He’s a regular visitor to the vets – so much so I’ve begun to suspect he just goes for the thrill of having his temperature taken. Mr Giles has less eyeballs than most dogs, but this doesn’t stop him from living life to the full.

However, this time it was Dru’s turn to visit the vets. Dru has developed a habit of eating paper. She eats wallpaper, post-it notes, tissue paper, copier paper, student homework, money and poetry books.

I have described this as life-threatening behaviour because, if she eats another of my treasured books, I’ve promised to kill her.

After discussing it at length at home, we concluded that it seemed like Dru was either suffering from a dietary deficiency or she was becoming mental. Either way, we both knew that professional help was needed.

The vet was thorough. He took her temperature. He listened to her chest. He discussed her symptoms and we talked our way through the way the condition was presenting itself.

Through the course of the consultation we learnt that Dru has a heart murmur.

It’s not a major heart murmur. On the scale of heart murmurs Dru is scoring one or two on a scale that goes up to six. The vet only mentioned this so we’re aware of the condition and considerate of the fact that she needs to avoid stress and exertion. He wasn’t advocating any treatment other than an awareness of her condition. But it’s still a worry.

So I’m sitting here with a dog on my knee, wondering what she did to deserve this condition and trying to think what I can do to make her feel better.

And, until I can think of something that will make her feel better, I’m feeding her another poetry book.

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Happiness is not a warm puppy

 by Ashley Lister

 Charles M Schulz* said, “Happiness is a warm puppy.” I beg to differ on this point. I can illustrate my argument with the following experience.

As some of you may know, I regularly sit in front of my computer and write. I have an ergonomic keyboard. I have a swan-necked monitor stand. I also have an extra large office chair.

The reason for the extra large office chair is because I’m a dog owner. We have four dogs, named after characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Drusilla, Spike, Anya and Mr Giles. Some of the dogs regularly demand to share my chair whilst I’m writing.

They have a routine.

Dru shares the chair with me first thing on a morning, taking the 5:00am until 7:30am shift. On a weekend Spike and Giles compete for chair-sharing privileges from 8:00am until 10:00am. None of them are bothered about sharing a chair from 10:00am until noon. After noon it’s usually Dru who sits at the back of the chair whilst I sit at the front.

This is not a convenient arrangement.

Dru has some mobility issues. She can’t jump into the chair. She demands help. But I’m a responsible dog lover and I’m helpful so I lift her into the chair and she sits behind me. She’s fat, so she takes up most of the chair’s seat. And she snores whilst she’s asleep back there but I have to admit it’s a comforting sound.

She was sitting behind me the other day. I was busy writing. And that was when I made the discovery that happiness is not a warm puppy.

At that moment I did feel warm. I felt warm around my backside – where the dog was asleep.

“Wow!” I thought. “This dog generates so much heat my arse is sweating.”

It was a whimsical thought. I placed a hand between the dog at my rear and the seat of my jeans. I was curious to know what my hand would make of the heat being generated from the super-warm dog behind me.

My hand came away wet. Yellow liquid dripped from my fingers. The yellow liquid stank of dog pee. The dog had peed on my backside whilst I was writing.

I cursed.

I was outraged.

“Your dog’s just peed on my arse!” I told my wife.

She brayed sympathetic laughter. I’m exaggerating about the sympathy. I’m fortunate she didn’t try and camcord the event and send it in to Harry Hill.

So I had a warm dog – probably a decade older than most puppies – but not a lot of the happiness that Charles M Schulz predicted.

And what lesson have I learnt from this experience?

Actually, I’ve learnt a very important lesson. For all those writers who’ve ever wanted to be showered with gold by their adoring fans: be careful what you wish for, it might come from a warm puppy.

* Charles M Schulz’s real name is Charlie Brown and he is the father of Snoop Doggy Bag.

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