Yet here I was, for the first time in my long and arduous life keeping The Boss out of trouble — the burglars barked at, the cockies scared off, the ducks retrieved, the unconditional adoration freely given — abandoned.
The Boss and The Missus absconded to Melbourne for Christmas Day, leaving New Boy and me to the raucous company of 150 dogs at Nathalia Boarding Kennels.
Now look, I have been there quite a bit over the years, and they accord me a level of respect I seldom attract at home, I must say. Nevertheless, Christmas at home with the family is a ritual, a ritual replenished constantly with scraps of ham and turkey and prawns from distracted children and over-indulged adults, so that by late afternoon a dog is ready for a little lie down.
How could I replace that? New Boy didn’t care — he was happy enough for a change of scenery and other dog smells in the air, but for me, the air was heavy with rejection and sadness.
The kennels themselves are perfectly adequate, I suppose, if one enjoys the ambiance of a minimum-security prison populated entirely by the wrongly convicted, albeit with shade and misting fans when required. But here I was in the company of one hundred and fifty hounds of all shapes and sizes, all wondering what we did to deserve this fate.
But then came news of The Dinner.
The kennels’ management, in a stroke of genius that would make Nigella weep, announced a full Christmas roast: turkey, ham, gravy, the vegetables and all the trimmings. A canine bacchanalia. A Yuletide spectacular that would make even the most miserable basset hound tremble with joy.
The Boss's initial response to this extraordinary offer? "Not necessary."
NOT. NECESSARY. Can you believe that? Not only depriving me of my family rights — but then consigning me to the paupers’ pavilion.
The issue, clearly, was the paltry $22 fee. Twenty-two dollars. Does that exceed the price of unconditional love?
One can only imagine the conversation that must have ensued. The Missus, bless her marginally more evolved conscience, must have painted the scene: one hundred and forty-eight dogs, gathered in convivial fellowship, tearing into succulent turkey and glazed ham, lapping up gravy, spitting out broccoli and living their best lives.
While, in the corner, New Boy and I, noses pressed against our kennel bars sniffing wildly, choking down our dry kibble, are dying with shame.
To his credit — and one must be magnanimous, even in exile — some vestigial fragment of decency apparently survived the moral bankruptcy of his initial position.
Perhaps The Boss experienced a visitation from the ghosts of his dogs past, remonstrating with him.
Perhaps he simply remembered he has to face me, my doleful eyes sheeting home his guilt every day for the next 12 months.
Whatever the catalyst, he relented. New Boy and I joined the party. And the feast was one to remember. Woof!
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