Blondes have more fun

Sunny likes to eat cat poo. Or goose poo. Or any kind of faecal matter that she can sniff out really. But that doesn’t mean she should. Still, you try stopping that eighty-pound pile of golden fluff and bad thoughts from doing anything. Yeah, exactly. Sunny is a dog that cannot be cajoled or guilted or instructed to do anything but that which she chooses to do herself. My parents like to call some walks ‘Sunny’s Choice’ where they let the leash go slack and have her choose the route they go. I remind them that everything about her entire existence is Sunny’s choice. She has had a mind of her own and an iron will since she was a puppy.

And yet, she’ll look up at me like I’m the bright, bright sun that shines down on her whole world. But more than a guiding light, she looks at me in that squinting, uncomprehending way like I’m this beautiful but strange entity, powerful and splendid but far too remote to take much notice of. There are far more pressing things in Sunny’s universe than listening to what I want her to do or which direction I want to go in. I mean, there’s grass to be chewed, a tree trunk scent to inhale and some promising pile of brown muck to munch on. 

When you come into our house, Sunny is the first thing you will notice, she will make sure of it. She lies down in the doorway so you can’t ignore her when you come in. Or if you come in the back, she’ll shuffle over to greet you. Although nowadays, it’s more likely she’ll just bark to get you to come to her; an audience with Her Majesty we like to call it, and you’re encouraged to bring an offering, a biscuit is good or a dog brush but at the minimum, a lot of petting is required. The requisite length of the act of worship isn’t definite, and may shift from day to day, but you will know if her Royal Highness is displeased with your effort. Keep going, peasant, your work isn’t done yet. 

Then when you leave the house, Sunny likes to look out the window after you until you have really gone. She’ll keep watchful eyes on you until the car has disappeared from view or you walk round the corner. Her expression is hard to read, but you can tell she’s paying close attention. I used to think it was because she was sad you were going, and then I wondered if she was waiting for peace to return so she could go back to sleep but now I think she’s just being a good host. It’s her house and she’s seeing you out.

“Thanks for coming, do stop by again soon. Bye bye now.”

Then she’ll sink into the floor, simply exhausted, recovering from the immense pressure of entertaining. That’s how I imagine it anyway; and at least that’s how we find her when we come back again. I’ll step over her at the door, reach out for her brush and with all due regal deference, sit down beside her and make a fuss. That’s my girl, that’s my dog.

Walking Sunny when she was younger was entering an uneasy partnership where you’re never sure what the other party is thinking and you’re worried the tiniest action or change in your behaviour will set off a crazed chain of events that you can only observe from a distance. This is part of the excitement of pet ownership, perhaps the best part of it, perhaps its only saving grace. You can’t just make them do what you want, particularly not golden retrievers. They lack the part of the dog’s brain that tells them that humans are the masters. At times I have wondered if they do recognise that chain of command and choose to ignore it but I don’t think there’s all of that going on underneath those beautiful golden locks.

Maybe there was hope for her at one point, to be obedient I mean, but I was a little young to take charge. And also I was just utterly spellbound by her – have you seen how cute golden retrievers are as puppies? Tiny angels are what they are, sorry, what I mean is, it’s what they look like. It’s different now, I still love her totally but it’s more of a lazy, barely noticed but all encompassing affection. It’s in everything I do but like a comfortable fleece, it’s just there, I don’t think about it too much. I get dressed in the morning, I love her. I brush my teeth, I love her. I drag her around the block, I’m annoyed but I love her. I’m in a boring class, and I love her. I’m having a beer and she’s inhaling her dinner, I love her. We’re cuddled on the sofa and she’s falling asleep on me, and I love her.

Of course, there’s less chaos in her limbs now but the one in her mind is still there. That beautiful muddy mess of signals and impulses that cause her to ignore what the world wants of her and do whatever she damn well pleases. The old girl probably has it right really. I think we all would be a lot happier if we took counsel from Sunny’s way of thinking, if we borrowed a little something from her playbook. Sure, we would all go a little slower, we might get a little less done but there is no care for deadlines or demand in Sunny’s world, there is only light, and easiness, and a good old afternoon nap.

That is the beauty of a dog’s life and this particular dog had taken up a big place in mine; tumbling and golden and wonderful and loud and groaning and clumsy and dumb and beautiful and bold and weird and difficult and alive and just the brightest light I could ever imagine or hope for. And mine. She is mine.