Of crackers and compensation

The labs are irritated with me today.

We had a minor disagreement this morning, on the subject of the number of chew sticks they should be allowed to eat in a day. The usual, negotiated, limit is one a day. It goes up to two each on days of high stress (e.g. when I’m late getting back from work, when I want to go out in the evening, when the rain cuts short their walk, or when the Talking Lift has been particularly voluble). But more than two, it is now well acknowledged, is a road straight to hell in the guise of violently upset stomachs. Years of bitter experiences laced with spoonfuls of Dependal-M have eventually settled down to a more or less amicable agreement to adhere to the rule of two.

It was Boogie who led the assault this morning, with the argument that their particularly mature handling of the crackers this year called for a reward of some sort. It wasn’t just Diwali they were coping with, she reasoned, it was also multiple other irritants that have recently been introduced into our lives.

The Talking Lift, for example, is something that no self-respecting dog should be expected to adapt to at this late stage in life. Anything with a nasal robotic voice that belts out instructions to please-close-the-door every few minutes must be regarded with deep suspicion. As technology goes, this is definitely one of the world’s sorrier ideas. Mercifully, we don’t have to get into the blasted thing because we live on the ground floor. Even so, that voice is a particularly penetrating one and tries one’s patience. Besides, why don’t people listen to it and just close the silly door, Gypsy would like to know. Why must the door be left open to whine at us through the afternoon?

Then there is the Singing Doorbell. Now, nothing wrong in principle with a doorbell that sings, as long as you know that’s what it does. A dog likes to know what’s what – order and predictability are vital, according to Boogie – and if you’ve been brought up to expect doorbells to ring you can’t suddenly find them singing. And a different song each time, too. Leaves no room at all for the conditioned response to develop. Embarrassing for a dog to not realize the bell has rung (or sung, in this case) and not be the first one at the door.

And finally, the biggest outrage of all is that yappy Lhasa Apso upstairs. Never before has another dog lived in the same building as us. And not only does he have a strategic advantage, being on the top floor, says Gypsy indignantly, he is also smaller and furrier and therefore more popular with the younger kids. The only consolation in this sorry state of affairs is that he has to ride in the Talking Lift thrice a day.

Hmmm. It is obvious where this is leading, and I must admit I'm impressed by the force of the argument. They actually have me feeling vaguely guilty, the wily things. The subject of chew sticks has however remained non-negotiable so far. We’re sulking in our respective corners, neither side willing to yield an inch.

And they’ve been behaving perfectly today. No paw marks on the futon. No ball thrown under the bed for me to retrieve. No barking contest with Lhasa upstairs. No arguments with the Talking Lift. Damn.

Why do I have a feeling I’m going to crack under the strain soon?