The dog's loyalty overcomes his stubborness

You see, my beautiful, beloved boy is becoming very naughty indeed.

He will be six years old on Boxing Day and I thought by this age his bad habits would have disappeared. They haven’t.

They are as bad as ever and now he has added several more to his repertoire.

My early-morning march on the Bickerley turned into a 90-minute nightmare as a direct result of his stubbornness.

He has always been sidetracked by food, always made a beeline for unsuspecting duck feeders and always belted around the green with his canine fan club, namely Boris the Jack Russell, Pickle the Bulldog and Tara the Boxer.

But now he has started to refuse to walk in certain areas.

This morning I ambled over to the old railway line and started to walk along it expecting Jarvis, who can usually be counted on for his loyalty, to be close by my side.

Not so. I turned to see where he was. He was sitting by the bin. I called him . . . nothing, I showed him a treat . . . nothing. He just looked at me, his stupid, pea-brained dome head poking out from behind the red bin.

I continued my walk, assuming he would follow. He didn’t. He continued to sit by the bin like a statue.

“On your own today then?” said Burt.

“No. Look at the idiot. He’s by the bin and won’t move.”

“He’ll come now he can see Paddy.”

He didn’t.

Betty came down the track. “Are you on your own today”?

“No. The idiot is by the bin and won’t move.”

“Maybe something has spooked him or perhaps he doesn’t like the lay lines along here.”

“Hmmm. Maybe it’s because he is a very naughty, stubborn boy who wants his own way all the time.”

“Much like my husband then,” laughed Betty, leaving me to it.

I wondered what he would do if he thought I had injured myself. So, in a moment of madness, I waited until the coast was clear and in an Oscar-winning performance I fell dramatically to the ground.

Whatever had prevented him from walking along the path had been forgotten and he charged towards me as if his life depended on it.

I fell in love with him all over again as he licked my face, wagging his tail with relief that I wasn’t dead. I praised him for being such a remarkable, faithful loving boy.

I even hugged him when he greeted me later that day with one of my Vivienne Westwood shoes in his mouth.

I am a sucker for his doleful eyes, rippling muscles, white teeth and wet lips.

My dad thinks he is a seven stone lap dog . . . I wouldn’t have him any other way.

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