Balzac, royal dog of Madagascar
I lost it last Friday. It had not been the easiest of mornings: the alarm clock had somehow slipped, so that I overslept and was unable to have my usual shower before the arrival of the builders. That was a bad start. Things gently slid downhill, with torrential rain and the ferrying to and fro of cups of tea and the attempt to keep No. 8 tidy. The last straw, however, was when I saw that the dogs' water bowl was empty and went to refill it. Balzac, dog no. 1 (i.e. pack leader with a vengeance) looked at me from his basket with incomparable disdain and contempt. It didn't help my self-esteem. Something snapped at that point.
I have to explain to people that Balzac is a Coton de Tulear, companion dog to the aristocracy of Madagascar. You would have thought that by now the snootiness of the bloodline would be a tad diluted. It appears not. Together with his small Shi-tsu companion Oscar, this dog is fed and watered at regular intervals; taken out three times a day for small excursions round the neighbourhood; ferried to and from the beauty parlour every few weeks. The rest of the time is spent lying in one of his baskets, surveying his environment with total contempt, if not simply closing his eyes and ignoring it.
I have tried in vain to assert my superiority over this animal. If I arm myself with morsels of food he makes some effort to be obedient in order to earn a reward. But, contrary to all training manuals I have read, the lesson does not seem to sink in, and without the temptation of food he relapses into his natural state of selfish indiscipline.
The nub of the matter is that this dog has been taking total advantage of me for years, and I have encouraged him to do so. Solutions on a postcard please, sent to the Dog Kennel. Balzac will have moved into the main house by then and locked me out.
Antony Mair
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