Posted on Saturday, November 7, 2009
in Family, Philosophy
It’s a horrible fact of life that you often don’t realise you’re in love until it’s too late.
Maybe that’s the definition of love. When suddenly a soppy film which you ardently took the Mick out of before, makes total sense, enough to make you cry because now you know what it might feel like to lose your husband, or your child, or even your dog. Your empathy forces the point home.
101 Dalmatians did it for me. I watched Mr. Whatsit celebrate the birth of Pongo’s puppies with pride and glee and suddenly I cried and had to switch it off. I gazed at Wouldye lying on his blanket, once a dog as black as tar, now tinted with silvery shades of white and grey. It hit home that there would be a day when he would find it hard to get off that blanket… a day when he would no longer have the enthusiasm to leap off a ten foot boulder into a river to retrieve his stick, and would no longer have the energy to switch to vicious alert on hearing a strange noise outside. Someday I’ll lose my best friend and now I shed tears because of the day I gave the command; “Off with his balls!”
I should have thought twice about exactly how much of a pain in the ass his testosterone was when he was a puppy. It would have been entirely worth it if I had just put up with that infuriating enthusiasm, and waited for a batch of puppies or two to appear (which makes me wonder… exactly how difficult would it be to pimp out your dog?) I doubt Grandad would have put poor Sandy through the ordeal, though how amazing those puppies would be – it just doesn’t bear thinking about!
Poor Wouldye. I’m so sorry, dude. I should have given you at least one romantic fling before I condemned you to solitary. There’ll never be another one like you.
P.S. Good dog.