Diary of a Dog-Sitter — Day Four
Wellies and Wet Dog
Oh dear. Or rather, Eau dear. The first autumnal storm has arrived, and it’s chucking it down outside. But that doesn’t bother Betsy. She still wants to go out. It’s 7 am. We always go out at 7 am.
And that’s when I remember how lucky dogs are. Always ready, whatever the weather. What’s the outdoor clothing industry saying? There’s no such thing as bad weather, just a bad choice of clothing.
Well, Betsy’s clothing is perfect, no matter what the weather. Me? I need waterproof trousers, wellington boot socks, wellington boots, and a heavy waterproof raincoat.
As I battle to force a welly-boot-socked foot into a wellington boot (why does it feel like you always need three others to help pull on a wellington boot?) Betsy just sits there disdainfully, unimpressed. All this extra effort is merely delaying the moment of walk gratification. I am such a failure.
Finally, we get going, and only now do I realise how much the weather Gods have got it in for me. Betsy slices through the gale force wind like a missile. Me? The extra waterproof material covering practically every inch of my body acts as a sail and catches every gust. I struggle to stay upright. I swear the Spanish Armada set sail with less material.
While I struggle to lift my legs over stiles, Betsy sneaks underneath them. Where before was dry earth, this morning is a mud bath, with the added ingredient of cowpat. Her white underbelly fur is now black, and congealing with cowpat.
There comes a moment in every dog walker’s life when they can see into the future. For me, it was when I spotted the pheasant, trying to shelter from the storm under a hedge.
Betsy’s eyes latched onto it a millisecond later, but in that time I knew immediately what would follow.
She lunged, the pheasant flapped frantically, the extending lead met its maximum length, and suddenly, I was flying through the air far better than the pheasant.
It was a brief flight. My landing was soft. And wet. And muddy. If only I’d worn swimming goggles. And a face mask.
As I wiped the muddy water from my face, I heard the frenetic flapping of pheasant wings disappear in a gust, as Betsy looked back and me and wagged her tail. Then she bounded back to me, and shook. Vigorously. I shouldn’t have licked my lips. One word. Cowpat.
Of course, the walk is only part of the joy of such weather-related incidents. There’s also the joy of trying to dry off the dog before letting them loose inside the house.
This requires at least two towels (one for Betsy to play with, while I try to dry her off with the other). And why, after five minutes of vigorous rubbing, is the towel saturated, and Betsy no drier?
Still, with her (sort of) sorted, I let her into the house so that I can finally extract myself from the anticyclone that’s now erupting within the confines of my wet weather gear. Is it me, or does the putting on and taking off of this wet weather gear more than double the time taken for a walk?
Once extracted, I can relax. Or can I? For as soon as I step inside the house, it hits me. That unmistakeable aroma. Eau de wet dog.
Read Day Five’s entry here:
https://readmedium.com/diary-of-a-dog-sitter-day-five-7f8e8c23558b
Read yesterday’s diary entry here:
