Lyle is now fourteen weeks old. Much of the time he, like the little girl with the curl, is very, very good.
He walks off his lead.
He comes back to me if I offer roast chicken. He knows his name and appears to know the command ‘sit’ especially if I have a handful of roast chicken. He grows apace.
He loves visitors and all other dogs. Even if they don’t love him quite as much. His, imported at vast expense, collar sets his golden hue off to perfection.
He aced his first obedience training this morning (with the help of some roast chicken) and made friends with Buddy, another Cockapoo who makes Lyle look like a steroid taking body builder. Perhaps it’s true what the say about big paws.
He loves his food.
He sleeps through the night and has been accident free in his bedroom for simply weeks.
What a good boy you are, Lyle.
Why then does my delicious green pashmina have holes in it? Why are all my rugs ‘hidden’ in the living room?
Why are the curtains draped over the sofa?
And why does my kitchen look like the set of Les Miserables?
To your right, my first attempt at preventing puppy Lyle from weeing on the kitchen floor.
The jungle gym nature of my efforts added not only a game-like quality but a frisson of fun to peeing indoors.
Barricade Series Deux has proved to be somewhat more successful. So far.
So what if in these balmy Spring days the Shires are enjoying, Mr Carmichael and I cannot access our deck or indeed a third of the kitchen.
So what if I have to lock (literally) doors behind me.
It’s all in a day, pleasing puppy. Well, that’s what I tell myself as I sit here in muddy track pants and remember trips to London town perusing galleries and shopping emporiums for simply hours.
Don’t get me wrong. I am loving (almost) every minute of it and you know what’s even better? I think he is too.