Vicky Ewan: A tale of obsession, chaos, and canine joy

I believe it may be time for another Miss Pupdate, as it's been an unforgivably long while since I last wrote about our darling dog.

For quite some time, her absolute favourite toy has been a squeaky plastic ball of a vivid orange hue, its dimensions approximately twice those of a tennis ball. Other playthings—rubber chickens, chew ropes, and a noisy and very pink pig—have come and gone, their days in the sun brought to a premature close by Miss Pup’s overenthusiastic attentions or capricious indifference; only this one ball retains her constant adulation—and what an adulation it is.

She carries it wherever she goes, whimpers piteously should it roll somewhere even vaguely inaccessible, and has even been known to sleep with it, determined that she not be long parted from the object of her most devoted affections. On occasion, it has disappeared for sustained periods, its whereabouts unknown, and, although she doesn't exactly mope, if initial searches prove unfruitful she is restless and unsettled; her relief at their eventual reunion is palpable and touching.

In recent weeks, when our pooch hears any member of her family entering the house after an absence, and once she has zoomed her way around the lounge and received her quota of fuss as is her wont, she has taken to grabbing the ball in her jaws and staring beseechingly at the new entrant until, defeated by her imploring gaze, they signal that it is, indeed, playtime. She will then hurl herself downstairs, hitting only one or two of the twelve stair treads in her frantic eagerness, and race to the back door to wait impatiently for the slowpoke human to catch up.

My elder son may well have taken her outside more than once during the earlier part of the day, but when I return from work, she clearly believes it is both my duty and her right to indulge her whims, and she is quietly insistent: poised, tail wagging, at the threshold until I succumb. Now, I have never made any pretence of being sporty, an observation which my PE teachers at school, Mrs Butcher, Mrs Baker, and Mrs Candlestick-Maker (I may have invented sundry names for poetic purposes), would attest with undue and unflattering haste. Even so, you would expect that this simplest of requests—kicking the ball a sufficient distance to accommodate a healthy canine sprint—would be within my capabilities.

Alas, I frequently lack the coordination for even this basic task and will often miss-kick, fail to kick, or kick too hard; a pathetic show, I admit. Unperturbed, Miss Pup will merrily compensate for my shameful lack of skill and will inevitably create far greater entertainment for herself than my deplorable efforts provide; she tackles me if I take too long to pass the ball, fetches it, drops it, runs after it as it rolls away, kicks it with her front paws, chases it again, fetches it, drops it… etc, etc.

It's clear that she harvests a huge amount of happiness from this rather shambolic game and expends substantial energy on it, to boot. Watching her antics is an unalloyed joy, but the most amusing sight manifests itself when daylight has dimmed, and the external sensor lights have extinguished themselves. If, in this twilit scene, I manage to succeed in sending the ball flying off a respectable distance, I will watch her sprint away and eventually be swallowed up by the darkness, her black coat providing the perfect camouflage. I am only persuaded that she has managed to retrieve the ball when I hear the telltale squeak it emits when pounced upon.

Shortly thereafter, my eyes, peering into the gloom, are able to perceive the neon sphere cavorting toward me at dog-head height, bobbing through the darkness suspended in the invisible grasp of her jaws, seemingly traversing an unseen path. Shortly thereafter, I can gradually make out her nose and streamed-back ears as she hurtles at full tilt in my direction, bearing her prized possession aloft in triumph; the illusion is revealed.

We have had a few near misses with this precious toy when it has been launched (once by Miss Pup's frenetic antics, but more often by my ineptitude) into the stream beyond our driveway. Thus unfolds a dangerous rescue mission that involves me scrambling down the bank, negotiating warped wire fencing, roots, branches, and other uncomfortable protrusions en route, and wading through the water—appropriately shod or not.

The first time this mishap occurred, I was touched by Miss Pup's evident concern for my welfare as she panted anxiously above, awaiting my safe return. As I battled courageously through the obstacles, my head was filled with moving images of her proffering a helpful paw to assist me back onto dry land amid a hero's welcome and covering me in slobbery kisses as a measure of her undying gratitude.

Well, no sooner had I reached the bottom of the bank than that bubble was swiftly popped; barely sparing me a cursory glance, my darling doggy seized her beloved ball and ran off into the house, clearly eager to safeguard it from further misfortune, and caring not a jot, apparently, for its valiant retriever. As I scrabbled up the bank, my feet damp inside my inadequately tall shwellies and my skirt snared at every arduous step, I reflected ruefully that the safety of this vibrant globe was, indisputably, Miss Pup's no. 1 priority; I was merely a vessel. All I can do is keep bringing it back. Either that, or learn how to kick it in a straight line. Neither of us holds out much hope.