I'm a spaniel

I was at the gym this morning, on the cross trainer, running uphill like a crazy woman (as always). I had Nina Nastasia on my headphones, listening to It’s a Dog’s Life, and the thought crossed my mind...  I am a spaniel.  A bloody spaniel. 

Let’s look at the evidence, eh?  What do spaniels do?  They run around, in circles, expending HUGE effort for, frankly, very little return.  They exhaust themselves (well, eventually) by covering every last inch of ground.  While sensible dogs are nosing around in the undergrowth, or ambling along the path, those spaniels are diving into undergrowth, tearing their ears on brambles.  They’re easy to train: relatively intelligent so can pick up instructions quite easily, learn new tricks and blindly carry them out, wagging their tails all the time and panting happily.  They’re dippy as fruit loops – neurotic bordering on delusional.   What else? Oh yes, they’re stupidly, pathetically, eager to please.  If you were to say, ‘Hey, dog, wanna dive into ice-cold water and go fetch that pheasant?’ they’d wag their tails and go, ‘How many times?’  Oh, and they eat shit.

So. I’m a spaniel. 

At this point you’re probably sitting there, thinking, ‘Now, I wonder what kind of dog I’d be?’ and, let me guess, you’re thinking German Shepherd, Boxer or Staffordshire terrier (if you're a bloke: I’m right, aren’t I?) or Border Collie (smart sassy woman) or Yorkshire terrier (cutesy woman). But  you know, it’s a bit like when I went to a shamanism workshop and we had to journey to find our spirit animal guides… I can’t begin to tell you how many eagles and wolves and bears were floating around.  Nobody had a hamster. 

Anyhow. I’m sick of being a spaniel.  I want to be a terrier.  Look at Asbo. He doesn’t give a flying feck about anything.  If he wants to go on a walk, he’ll go.  If he can’t be arsed, he will refuse, point blank, to leave the house.  If he chooses, he can be perfectly well-behaved - it’s just that, most of the time, he doesn’t choose.  He does what he likes and doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks.  He behaves appallingly and blithely whistles (metaphorically).  He isn’t scared of his own voice, he steals shamelessly and, if he doesn’t like the cut of someone’s jib, he bites – hard. 

So, there you have it.  I’m unleashing my inner terrier.    

What kind of dog are you? Are you obedient and perfectly trained?  Maybe it’s time to chew up your lead, bite the postman and pee up the curtains.  Wanna join my badly-behaved pack?