Five ways my dog tries to hoodwink me – and one reason why she is (almost) never successful

As regular readers will know, I am the proud owner of a rather adorable Labrador called Molly. But like most Labradors she has a rather dubious approach to personal hygiene. She likes nothing better than to charge through the mud, roll in something disgusting (the slimier and stinkier the better) or pick up the thing she’s just rolled in and run around with it in her mouth.

Her preferred time to indulge in such activities is, inevitably, (a) when I’m in a hurry, (b) when I’m wearing a suit or (c) when we’re standing in front of a bunch of prim, disapproving elderly ladies just outside the church. But if I’m on the ball then I can usually see what’s about to happen and take appropriate steps to intervene (i.e. shout, scream, throw things and generally try to be more exciting than a piece of badger poo).


Would this face lie?

This does not go down well with Molly, who is clearly outraged that I could even think that she would do something so heinous as to roll in faeces or hurl herself joyously into a sludge-filled ditch. And to cover up for her attempted misdemeanour, she has a range of strategies at her disposal. Here are my top five.

1. The wee. I was just stopping for a wee. Look, I’m weeing. You never trust me. This is outrageous.

2. The sniff. I was just stopping to sniff this blade of grass. It’s quite a fine blade of grass, wouldn’t you agree. Very green and … er … grassy.

3. The other sniff. I wasn’t going to roll in it. I was just going to sniff it. Honest. Look, I’m only sniffing. Sniff. Oops, I swallowed it. Butterfingers.

4. The fetch. I think I dropped my ball down there. I’m just going to get it back. There it it. I can see it. I can almost reach it. Almost. Just a little bit more. A little stretch. Splash.

5. The you can’t get to me in time. Look, fat boy. I’m standing right here next to this steaming pile of excrement and you’re a good fifty metres away. Even if you were Usain Bolt, which you’re patently not, there’s no way you can get here before I’ve had a good old roll. Sure, I’ll be in trouble and I’ll need a bath, but to be honest it’s sooo worth it. So here goes. Get running, chubbs.

Luckily for me, though, Molly’s plan to get as mucky as possible as frequently as possible suffers from one minor snag, which means that no matter how hard she tries she’s hardly ever able to completely pull the wool over my eyes.

And this snag is that whenever she spies an opportunity to do something disgusting, she approaches her task with such obvious glee – huge grin, eyebrows wiggling with anticipation, tail waving like a giant orange flag – that anyone within half a mile can tell exactly what she’s up to.

Guile, it would appear, is not a word that exists in Molly’s vocabulary. But she certainly does a good line in exuberance, excitement and general enthusiasm. And this, as dog owners across the world are well aware, is what Labradors are all about.

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