A young grandchild means new tricks for dog and man alike

Preparations then begin for breakfast, including Vegemite toast soldiers, which happen to be my favourite. Scandalously they are not offered to yours truly, who must sit patiently beneath Pip’s high-chair, hoping to benefit from the proverbial “slip ’twixt cup and lip”.

Some days, I wait patiently and there’s nary a slip. Other days, it’s raining toast. Tip: the working dog is at his best when properly fed.

Of course, my main job is to keep him safe. That’s the minimum you can expect from a kelpie. If I had a business card, it would say: “Herding. Circling. Protecting. Ring now for our attractive rates.” But with this child, that basic task is harder than it sounds. You’d rather try and tame a mob of sun-crazed cattle.

Fuelled by the toast soldiers, Pip is released from his high-chair. He runs the length of the corridor, giggling and squealing, touches the front door, runs back, touches the back door, runs back, and so on.

This is repeated ten times, me trying to keep up with him, barking as I go, the two of us shoulder to shoulder in the narrow space, tumbling against each other on the turns, the older couple constantly telling me to “calm down” as if such a thing were even possible.

Next, with Pip momentarily exhausted, they all sit down in front of the television and watch a show about a family of blue heelers who behave like humans. Talk about downward social mobility. I’d rather see an animation about a family of humans who make the ambitious decision to live like dogs. Now, that would be uplifting.

Anyway, after what seems like three hours of Bluey, we at last go to the park. I consent to being tied up to a post, while the child attempts to put himself in peril, using all available equipment.

Loading

It vexes me to be unable to perform the protective activities for which my breed is known. I grumble to make this point, but Man says: “Dogs aren’t allowed in the playground; it’s as simple as that.”

Man does not offer to complain to the council. Nor does he offer to build a new playground that would be accessible to dogs. Just a meek acceptance of the rules. We then march back up the hill, Man making heavy weather of pushing the pram, carrying the child, and holding my lead.

Sometimes, I think, Man is showing the strain. By the time Pip leaves at the end of the day, he’s a shattered wreck.

In the sudden silence once the front door closes, he lies on the couch, groaning, before slipping into a fitful slumber. As he snores, I take the opportunity to examine him. I notice he has playdough in his hair and crayon marks on his shirt. His jumper is on inside out. There’s a Band-Aid stuck to his sleeve from the moment when he tried, and failed, to attach it to Pip’s sore finger. He has food all over his pants.

At this moment, I come to a realisation. I’m not the only one facing new challenges. My friend, Man, also has new responsibilities and is trying to rise to them. And if an old dog like Man can learn new tricks, why not a young one like me?

Hope all is well in the country,

Love, Clancy.