🐾 Of Squirrels and Self-Control

I am a patient dog. As a member of the noble Great Pyrenees breed, I have been trained in patience at the prestigious Royal Academy of Exceptional Canine Behavior, graduating with the honor of valedictorian of my class.

My skill in patience — if I may say without arrogance — is not the variety of patience one sees in a lesser dog, one who waits with  slobbering tongue in anticipation of a casual toss of a tennis ball or a biscuit treat after scarfing down a bowl of kibble at supper, despite not realizing it’s a treat at all, but a means of cleaning kibbled-caked teeth.

Make no mistake. My patience quotient has been cultivated through extensive study of the science of contemplating the heavens in order to exude an air of quiet nobility, a quality common dogs can look up to with awe and wonder.

It was in this rarefied state of patience that I sat upon my veranda at Wagamore Abbey, my country estate. I gazed upon the rolling hills in the distance, the lush, green manicured lawn stretching for acres, and over to the precision of linden trees standing at attention like royal palace guards, while my precious English rose garden perfumed the air.

I crossed my paws neatly upon my lustrous furry chest, my tail draped like an elegant banner behind me. The afternoon breeze tickled my nose as well as the tops of the magnolia blossoms. I paused in hopes of hearing those flowers giggle upon nature’s loving touch.

I breathed in and out, waiting and watching with all the patience I could summon to endure a dray of squirrels that had trespassed onto my property. But their zigzagging about my garden and scurrying up my linden trees gave me a dizzying effect.

Oh, how they twitched, how they darted, hither and yon. It is the greatest test of my discipline that I did not indulge in a base chase of the rascles like some common terrier who lacks the very patience I, myself, have acquired. I will not be drawn into their chaotic squirrel dance that reassembles more of a drunken jig as an accordian is plays than an elegant waltz with a full orchestra.

I simply needed wait for those bratty little rodents to wear themselves out and head for a more welcoming playground — anywhere else but my private garden would please me to no end.

I closed my eyes, drawing in the perfume of the roses, and joining the hummingbirds and honey bees doing the same, as I imagined myself to be a marble statue. The dignity of any Great Pyrenees deserves to be cast in stone. But just as I escaped the squirrel chaos before me with a pleasant vision inside me, a vile scent pervaded the air.

Not squirrel scent. Nor that of a skunk. My sniffer picked up a foul tinge to the normally pleasant aroma of my garden. I surmised it wasn’t even the smell of wet earth, which would do much harm to my coat if ever I forgot an umbrella. 

No. Something fouler, more offensive was afloat on that spring afternoon. My fine-tuned nose was picking up the unmistakable stench of a pack of dogs.

The Theft of My Journal

I rose with deliberate grace from the veranda and made my way down the marble steps, and past the koi pond where the fish drifted in delicate circles.

That smell — the interlopers were near.

I rounded the rose hedge just in time to see it: a pack of scruffy, laughing, wagging mutts, bounding across my garden. At their feet —
My journal.

My journal, pried from its hiding place beneath the old magnolia. Pages torn free, pages read aloud, pages mocked with yips and snickers. My deepest musings, my quiet reflections, scattered like autumn leaves beneath their muddy paws.

I let out a low, indignant huff.
To bark would be undignified.
To lunge would be unthinkable.

Instead, I turned away, heart heavy, paws trembling faintly. I retreated to the koi pond, where I settled into a meditative pose, shutting the world out.

🐾 Echoes of My Own Words

There are moments, dear reader, when the mighty must make themselves small.

I, Sir Woofington of Wagamore Abby, fabled scribe of canine tales, found myself curled not in a noble pose, nor in a poised recline, but in something rather like a shivering, overgrown furball wedged behind a marble planter. One could almost describe it — with only mild dramatic flair — as a fetal position.

My red bow tie, once the proud ribbon of my identity, now sat askew at my throat, damp with nervous panting. My round red spectacles teetered on the bridge of my nose, threatening at any moment to slip entirely and clatter to the stone.

I wanted to disappear. To sink into the earth like an embarrassed root vegetable.

But alas — I was a rather large, rather fluffy Great Pyrenees, and there was precious little around me that could fully camouflage my rotund majesty. So I did what I could: pressed my tail flat, ducked my head low, and prayed to the quiet spirits of the garden to render me unseen.

Beyond the roses, the pack roared with laughter, their paws thumping in the grass like an ill-rehearsed drum circle.

“Listen to this one!” barked the Shepherd mix.

A page rustled — I could hear it, sharp as the crackle of autumn leaves — and then came a voice, reading aloud:
“‘To wonder if one’s greatness can bloom unseen — what a tender, foolish ache it is.’”

A pause. Then a sharp whistle.
“Wooooooof!”
“Bravo!” barked the Labrador, his tail thumping.
“Who wrote this stuff?” yipped the Jack Russell. “It’s genius!”

I froze. My ears twitched.

They were… applauding?

From my hiding place, I peered cautiously through a veil of rosebushes, their petals brushing against my damp nose. My heart, which had been drumming a panicked rhythm just moments before, now beat an entirely different tune — a confused, astonished flutter, like a moth caught beneath a lampshade.

I watched them: the Spaniel waving a page aloft like a trophy, the Basset Hound solemnly nodding along, the Golden Retriever rolling on his back in gleeful delight.

They weren’t jeering.
They weren’t mocking.

They were… delighted.

My cheeks burned beneath my white fur. I felt a heady, confusing swirl of humiliation and pride, like a dog who has accidentally caught a ball he meant only to bark at.

And yet — I did not rise. Not yet.
No, no. A gentleman does not simply leap into the middle of a crowd, even if they are, improbably, admiring his prose.

Instead, I adjusted my spectacles (careful, careful), tightened the knot of my slightly drooping bow tie, and crouched a little deeper into the shadows. My rotund frame was not exactly designed for stealth, but I did my best, arranging myself like an oversized garden statue among the ivy.

Let them revel. Let them recite and bark and cheer.
I would watch — and wait — until the moment was right to step forward.

After all, dear reader, one must not merely reclaim one’s dignity.
One must choose the moment to rise.