BARNEY














Barney came into my life eight years ago. I had moved from Northcote to Richmond with my two dogs, Blanche and Buddy, who quickly discovered an escape route under the house and out into next-door’s drive-way and were off and away. Blanche came back, but I never found Buddy, and Blanche was missing him, so after a decent interval, off I went in search of a new playmate.
A visit to the dog-home is ultimately distressing, so many pups that need a new home you can never imagine there would be enough people wanting to provide. It is hard to be practical. That gorgeous little puppy that will grow to be the size of a small horse is not going to be suitable for a smallish inner-suburban back yard. Row after row of dogs just wanting to be loved, and in the last cage of the last row, a small, fully grown, tan and white whippet-cross, who stood up, cocked his head to one side, took a long look at me and seemed to decide he was going home with me. He won.
Blanche adored him and promptly elected to take bottom rung on the new pecking order. Barney seemed rather more ambivalent about her, she was fun to play with, but if I was around, well, it was just all about me. Blanche died three years later, at home. Barney was there, and he knew something was going on, he stayed close, and when she’d gone had a long sniff around her, registered in whatever way it is a dog does that she was gone, and that was that.
He never showed any signs of pining for her. It’s like her passing released his independence. Or maybe I just noticed it in him more. It was a relief I must admit, I really wanted to get out of the two-dog thing. We moved again within a year, my own house this time. “His” backyard (but I’m always welcome to join him), “his” two chairs, even “his” bedroom, which he graciously gives over to guests.
He’s getting older now, but still each day I am that little bit more grateful that I have him in my life. He is my sanity, my sounding-board, my chastener, and a constant source of amusement and fun and affection.

Some of the things I love most about him;

· The huge welcome I get every time I come home, be it 5 minutes or 5 weeks, no matter, it always seems like it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened in his life.
· Rough-housing on the floor (me being a kid again)
· How he treats his evening snack of dry food. As if he has to establish for sure it is not alive, one of the larger pieces is carefully pulled out of the bowl, tossed in the air, pounced on, thrown around, pounced on again, then left while the same routine is performed on another piece. Then if the first piece hasn’t moved, it’s safe to be eaten.
· How he has decided that it is his duty as host to sleep in the same bed as our guests.
· The absolute and complete trust he has in me.
· How when things get just too exciting he will chase his tail in precisely three clockwise circles, no more, no less.
· How he listens with total concentration when I am talking to him, never answers back or offers unwanted criticism, and never repeats any of it. God – if he did or could spill the dirt. . . .The things he alone knows!!!
· How when I’m getting ready for work in the morning he takes himself out to his kennel as soon as he hears me cleaning my teeth.
· How he works the room when friends are around, and somehow seems to know just which one will absent-mindedly respond to him leaning gently against their leg and start scratching his ear.
· His marked preference – in total contrast to his dad – for big men – the taller and more solid the better.
· How he knows when I want or need him to sleep on my bed for a change, and when he does, after the few circles to get comfortable, the deep sigh as he seems to settle deep into the bedclothes and then doesn’t budge till morning.