A post should appear every Sunday.

Sunday November 19th 2023

Dog, aren’t we all sick and tired of this rain, day after day after day after day.

Sigh. Mutter. Moan. What fun walks await us this week!

By the time we reach Highbury on Monday, the wind is whistling through the trees like nobody’s business. A few metres past the gate, Isis stands on the asphalt path, looking  doubtful.

Fortunately, she is soon distracted by an irresistable scent and begins sniffing intently among the amazing variety of fallen autumn leaves: the maple leaves alone range from pale yellow to bright yellow, from yellow ochre to pale pink, from deep pink to red to maroon and to a maroon so dense that it’s virtually black.

stock internet image

It seems as though she’ll be content to snuffle among the leaves for ever, but eventually she wanders off the path towards one of several little tracks which lead down the steep slope, past the beehives and towards the big pond. She is bent on following a particular track, and is very resistant when I attempt to divert her. She refuses to listen to my advice when I tell her that I think it is possibly very muddy.

I’m right.

The track rapidly suages from damp to squishy grass, then it’s downhill – both literally and metaphorically – all the way, as we trudge through the rather muddy, then even more muddy, terrain.

By now, like lady MacBeth, I decide ‘Returning were as tedious as go o’er’, so on we wade.

It’s when we reach the quagmire squelchiness that the inevitable happens.

As we’ve wound our way along the track, I’ve tried to guide Isis onto the very narrow grass verge at one side. She does her best to comply, but it’s not easy for her, and I need to make sure she doesn’t slip off the verge and fall into the mud.

Hollow laugh.

While my eye is on Isis, it happens. Of course it does. I catch my foot in a loop of bramble, and with a skiddy squelch, fall full length into the deep mud.

It’s not a warm day, and saturated, muddy, woollen gloves, mud soaked trouser leg, and spattered jacket make the day feel even colder.

I stagger along like an inebriated toddler whose nappy needs changing. Passers-by give what I hope are sympathetic titters as they take in the spectacle.

Other dog walkers often comment on how startlingly white Isis is, but today her poor little feet are as filthy as mine. She, naturally, is not in the least perturbed and quite fancies wandering on the grass following the scents of inquisitive crows, while I stand shivering on the path and wait for her.

On we trudge. Oh, the many joys of dog walking!

When we reach the car, I shake off my soggy gloves before steering Isis onto the old towels  spread out on the back seat.

As we drive home, I devise an action plan for the clean-up: although I am much dirtier  than she is, Isis must be attended to first as I am the less likely to jump up and down on the day bed.

Right, I decide, when we reach home, this will be my strategy:

1. kick off shoes

2. leave Isis in porch with harness and lead still attached so it’s easier to move her to the kitchen

3. shut the inner door so that she can’t leave the porch

4. close doors leading from hall, thus eliminating escape routes

5.  half fill washing-up bowl (hers, not mine, I hasten to add) with warm water

6. place towels at strategic points on kitchen floor, and get shampoo from her cupboard

7. conduct Isis from porch to kitchen.

Isis, by now, is highly suspicious about the fate awaiting her. She knows that if she is left in her harness, something unpleasant is about to happen. She attempts to glue herself to the mat.

Inch by inch, I usher her towards the kitchen. Her passive resistance is impressive, and I soon lose count of the sit-downs.

As soon as I get out my large bin bag with its cut out slots for head and arms, Isis smells the plastic and begins to back out of the kitchen.

I restrain her, then place the bowl of warm water in front of her forelegs, and a towel in front of the bowl. When I pop in her little front paws, the water instantly changes to a dense, dark brown.

I  empty the bowl, refill it and rinse the paws again. And again. After the third rinse and bowl emptying, it’s time for shampooing.

I tip a pool of shampoo into my right hand, and cautiously lift her right forepaw, ready to withdraw and resort to the muzzle if she tries to bite me. Very carefully, I massage shampoo into her pads and into the hair on her lower leg. I move to her left foreleg and repeat the process.

Then there’s another rinse, and another after that before I remove excess water by gently squeezing each little foot, and lifting it out of the bowl and onto the towel.

Finally, the whole process is repeated, this time with her back feet.

She is incredibly good, standing patiently through all the rinses, the shampooing, the drying. There’s no fighting, no struggling to withdraw her legs from the water; she doesn’t protest, doesn’t utter even the suggestion of a growl.

She definitely deserves, and receives much patting, head stroking and a substantial treat.

This is the dog who became hysterical the first time I ever put a towel on her back, all those years ago.

What a star you are, my Isis, what a star.

Isis came from Aeza cat and dog rescue in Aljezur, Portugal. For information about adopting an animal from the centre, contact kerry@azea.org or go to http://www.dogwatch.co.uk.