Dog behaving badly

This weekend I wandered lonely as a cloud through the Lake District. Actually, that’s not strictly true: you, me, Simon and friends holed up in a cottage for the weekend and spent a few days yomping companionably through Wordsworthian countryside, eating communal curries and generally enjoying a bit of fresh-air fun.

Not that you can remember anything about it. You were unusually quiet, rocked to sleep by the swish-swish-swish of amniotic fluid as I stomped-stomped-stomped over hill and dale. Highlights of the weekend included playing with the kids (Louis and Finn, aged two and three) and wondering if you’d be as lovely as them; looking at the looming Langdale hills, which encircled us as we tried (in vain) to find a pub that served food after 2pm; your Dad finding a ‘frog’ in the outside toilet, rushing in to get the camera and then realising that said frog was one of Finn’s toys (to be fair, it gave me a bit of a fright as I sat on the bog at 2am); green custard with a carved broccoli frog bobbing on top (made in honour of Simon’s froggy faux pas); singing the Rocky theme tune to Pete as we celebrated his success in last week’s Iron Man; and finding a series of pools and waterfalls about an hour’s walk from the cottage, perfect for swimming.

I didn’t go in. Claire reckoned the cold might bring on labour. I lounged, whale-like, on the shoreline, eating egg sandwiches and taking pictures of the boys as they launched themselves into the icy depths.

The dog, too, was quite keen on the pools. He ran around in frenetic circles, leaping in and out of the water, wiping his muddy paws all over the towels, shaking on the sandwiches and barking at dogs, rocks, sticks, people, children, sheep, rubbish, Iron Men, the camera, you, me, your Dad… and when he wasn’t barking he was whining, quivering or getting under people’s feet. He went deaf, too, seemingly unable to hear the pleas of ‘sit DOWN’ from me and ‘calm DOWN’ from Simon.

In the end we had to take him off, out of sight of water, to calm down. I wouldn’t mind but he’s thirteen – this is not behaviour that befits a geriatric canine.

And then I started to worry. That dog has always had a mind of his own. I’ve tried everything: obedience classes, denial, praise, special leads, special toys, pockets full of doggy treats, cheese, pieces of chopped liver, water pistols, whistles, a sly kick to the backside… nothing has ever worked. But at least, I thought, the bugger had mellowed with age.

He’s currently lying in his basket, dribbling. Don’t be fooled by this cute demeanour. He is a Devil Dog.

So my fear is this: if my (beloved) mutt runs rings around me after thirteen years of ‘training’, what hope do I have as a mum? Am I doomed to be a bad mother? Will you be a vile child? Ah, sweetheart, how are we going to work out this crazy thing called parenthood? Clearly, I haven’t a clue.