Frances whit­ing

JUST LIKE THE KIDS, MY DOG PRE­TENDS NOT TO HEAR ME IF THERE’S A SWIM­MING AD­VEN­TURE TO BE HAD “WIL­SON IS AN EVIL GE­NIUS. HE ONLY GETS LOST IF THERE’S SOME­WHERE FANCY TO GO”

The Sunday Mail (Queensland) - Stellar - - Con­tents - Frances.whit­ing@news.com.au

The Ad­ven­tures of Wil­son the Won­der­dog, Part Three. This week’s in­stal­ment in the merry life of Wil­son the Won­der­dog sees our hero swim­ming in a creek, as he loves to do, and then not get­ting out of the wa­ter when he is called, as he also loves to do.

I be­lieve he has learnt this trick from the chil­dren, who – just as chil­dren have done since cave moth­ers used to yell, “Yog! Bog­ger! Come out of that rock pool this instant before that ptero­dactyl eats the both of you!” – pre­tend they can­not hear me when I ask them to get out of the pool.

I try to ex­plain to them I know what they’re do­ing be­cause I used to do ex­actly the same thing.

Since the dawn of time, the “not get­ting out of the wa­ter” trick is to sub­merge your­self com­pletely just as your name is be­ing called. Then, when you’re no longer able to breathe, shoot out from the wa­ter for a brief sec­ond, only to sub­merge your­self once more, so you can later claim “I didn’t hear you!”

This ex­cuse, of course, com­pletely negates the fact that while they may not be pick­ing up the nec­es­sary au­dio sig­nals, the sight of their mother stand­ing be­side the pool, shout­ing and em­phat­i­cally point­ing to land, might give them a clue. But no.

Any­way, there was Wil­son the Won­der­dog splash­ing about in the creek one mo­ment, and then, when I called him, he was gone.

I did not panic. In­stead I am­bled on, se­cure in the knowl­edge that any sec­ond now my phone would ring and some­one would tell me they had Wil­son “at the cafe”, or “at my house en­joy­ing a bone, I hope you don’t mind”, or “out­side the restau­rant just hav­ing a bowl of wa­ter”.

Wil­son, I have come to be­lieve, is an evil ge­nius.

He only ever gets lost if there’s some­where fancy for him to go. This is not a dog that finds him­self at the end of the rail­way line. Oh, no; this is a dog that can sniff out the all-you-can-eat break­fast bar from a kilo­me­tre away.

And so, just as I knew it would, my phone rang. A woman said she did have Wil­son, and she hoped I didn’t mind that she was just “dry­ing him with the hairdryer” be­cause, and I quote, “the poor thing was sop­ping wet”.

Yes, I wanted to tell her, it is be­cause he has just been romp­ing around in the dog­gie equiv­a­lent of Wet’n’wild, but no mat­ter.

I went to col­lect him, and found him beau­ti­fully dry and eat­ing a bis­cuit. It re­ally is a dog’s life.

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