Responsible pet ownership isn't a walk in the park (with the dog) after all.
I have wanted a dog ever since I learnt what the word "dog" meant. I have fought valiant battles with those unrelenting tyrants who seem to possess not a drop of the milk of human kindness, the parents, trying to convince them to let me get one. I am always waved away with a bald "No". The situation has not improved in the teenage years because I am apparently more irresponsible than ever. Considering the amount I contribute to annual family spending by way of the phone bill, is the terse reply, you'd think there was an extra mouth to feed in the house anyway. Ha ha.
Further interrogation, a desperate mix of tears, tantrums and honeyed coaxing, would result in being irritably told that someone who can barely remember to bring down her own laundry is incapable of looking after a dog. Now, I sobbed, we'd gone off the topic - what do a bunch of smelly socks have to do with pets? Besides, I could look after a dog. I would take it for walks, I could carry it around in a handbag like Paris Hilton if my stingy parents would give me enough pocket money to buy a large enough handbag, I would get pretty accessories for it and put bows on its head and stuff. You know, the works. I had it all sorted.
"And who's going to clean up after it?" mum demanded. Well, I'd assumed that any excrement could always be sucked up into the unknown depths of the vacuum cleaner like everything else in the house is... but no, snapped mother dear, firmly. I was not getting a dog.
I now have to make do with the next best thing, which is playing with neighbours' and friends' pooches. Happily enough, I happened to be at Cupid's house on the day he was grudgingly due to receive a bath. Cupid is a massive, slightly over-excitable white spaniel. He adores every inch of his adopted human, Nonie, a friend who's just started university. That is, he adores her until she decides to give him a bath. Then, judging by the pitiful cries emanating from his throat, the huge liquid amber eyes gazing up mournfully at you, the tail tucked firmly between the legs and the whole air of someone who has seen life and discovered its manifold sorrows, you'd think you'd thrown the canine into a Mediaeval torture chamber.
Convincing Nonie to let me stay on after lunch, in time for Cupid's bath, didn't take long, though Nonie issued a warning that it wasn't all that exciting. Oh yes, it would be: here was a chance to pick up some tips, get hold of a dog, any dog, bring it home, give it a bath and show my misguided parents that I could easily look after something other than myself.
And so we began. Cupid was dragged by the collar to a wide open terrace on the roof, where he howled in agony, evidently knowing exactly what fate awaited him. He'd been in the garden digging up the nasturtiums, and was completely covered from head to paw in mud. "Right," muttered Nonie grimly, "hold him still." I held him still and he licked my nose with a slobbery tongue. I relaxed my iron grip and scratched his ears. Nonie advanced with a hose spouting water. Cupid bolted. "Cupid!" screeched Nonie, and a frenzied chase ensued. Capturing a mutinous-looking Cupid, we hosed him down, in which process I got thoroughly drenched. Nonie huffed and tentatively poured her Dove Hair Fall Therapy shampoo along Cupid's back. Cupid leapt up as if stung, and I hastily tightened my hold on his collar. We scrubbed demurely for half an hour. He tugged, barked, rolled over, tried to bite our heads off, and yowled in anguish. I got a faceful of soapsuds and nearly damaged a newly painted nail, but at long, joyous, last, the mud was gone. "Now," said Nonie, pleased, "we condition him." I subjected her to the choicest of my evil glares.
Cupid ended the ritual with drying himself as violently as he could, taking care to douse us both. Holding his head up, he walked smartly to the door, the vision of poise and haughty aloofness. For all he cared, was the clear message, no human could ever have sullied his dignity by subjecting him to the ignominy of a bath. Nonie and I smiled exhaustedly and followed him. Suddenly, we stopped. The same thought had occurred to us both.
Without another word, we raced downstairs and burst into the garden. And there was that creature, that innocent-looking wolf in sheep's clothing, that craftiest of all four-legged organisms to ever have received a bath. Cupid was back among the nasturtiums, every square centimetre covered in what we were forced to admit was incontrovertibly mud. Maybe I'll think twice about getting a dog after all.
The writer is a 16-year-old student in Dubai
