Out-witted by a crafty cockapoo

AS I’ve mentioned a few times in this column, I have two dogs. Anyone who owns dogs will know how much fun and fulfillment they bring to your life, and I wouldn’t change them for the world.

My two each have their own personality traits – characteristics we like and a few habits we’re not so keen on, but that’s all part and parcel of dog ownership.

Our youngest dog, Labradoodle Honey, is usually fairly easy-going. She can be quite timid and she likes to lick our faces, but she’s loyal and protective and very easy to train.

Rupert, on the other hand, has quite a few annoying quirks. He’s by far the most affectionate dog I’ve ever owned, and he’s bursting with personality. He’s so placid and friendly that he has never once growled. He doesn’t have an aggressive bone in his body.

But he does have a slight theft issue. He’s been known on the odd occasion to pinch food from the kitchen counter, and he regularly steals tissues from the bedroom bin.

That’s not his worst trait though, not by a long shot. Because Rupert is also clever. And there is nothing more complicated than a clever dog.

We noticed it when we were first training him as a puppy. It was astonishing to see how many words he recognised, but training a clever puppy brings challenges.

They can understand what you’re asking them to do, and they know if there’s going to be a reward, but they can also work out when there isn’t likely to be a reward and, if they’re going to have to do something just to please you, they’d rather go off and play with their ball.

He’s also worked out that, if the reward is great enough, there’s merit in accepting a scowling as a consequence.

For example, if there’s a carrot cake on the kitchen worktop and he can reach it, he’ll obviously get a telling-off, but he knows the reward of free cake is richer.

He’s a great problem solver too. We’ve yet to find a canine puzzle toy he can’t master in a minute or two, and he’s not a dog that would ever be caught by the old stick not fitting through a gate scenario. He’ll work out the gate’s too narrow, drop the stick, and bark at us to haul it over for him.

We were once sat with the dogs in a nice pub, having a meal. We were right at the back of a small restaurant area and the dogs quietly settled down while we polished off our main courses.

Rupert had a good view of all the tables between us and the doorway but, and we hadn’t realised it, while we were eating he’d been sat carefully watching each table and memorising which ones had visibly dropped even the smallest morsel of food.

And, as we left the table to go and pay in the bar, Rupert’s grand scheme was revealed. The little monster had spent his quiet time constructing a mental map of where every last chip and pea had landed, and he’d even concocted an order in which they could all be reached.

So before we could even comprehend what he was doing, as we led him down to the bar his muzzle darted from table to table, scooping up all the discarded food in a perfectly choreographed sequence, and he arrived at the bar with an intricately-planned and, frankly, well-deserved mouthful.

The way he works things out is astonishing. But his latest scheme is quite problematic. He’s worked out the exact moment I decide to head home while we’re out on a walk. And he stands his ground.

As clingy as he is, he knows I won’t leave him, so I’ve given up trying to hide and scare him into thinking I’ve abandoned him, because he just stays there, lying on the grass, absolutely refusing to move, safe in the knowledge I’ll soon reappear from behind the bush.

And when I do eventually sound angry enough, he’ll get up and accept his fate. But here’s the clever bit... He leaves his precious tennis ball behind as an insurance policy.

And he knows I won’t go home without the tennis ball because I’ll eventually have to buy him some more.

So I admit defeat and go and get the ball, which means I’m back out in the middle of the field where we started and, in Rupert’s eyes, it’s a clear win. The walk is back on.

This absurd stand-off continues until I capitalise on the advantage of opposable thumbs and put him on the lead.

You might think owning a clever dog brings advantages, and in many ways it does.

But when you’re standing in the middle of a field and it dawns on you you were just out-witted by a five-year-old cockapoo, the novelty quickly wears off.