That doesn’t mean I’m not going to be flooded out again but it suggests He will pick on somebody else first. Obviously, Noah was left alone after his good works in saving all the animals, so I expect my rounding up of the animals should be similarly rewarded.
Not that New Boy and I were focused on saving them, exactly. The only thing better than having the hares, rabbits, wombats, foxes and ducks all confined to my little island for a few days would be having them all crammed together into one big boat where they couldn’t get away.
It was fun while it lasted and the mopping up is almost as interesting. While The Boss and the Missus are busily rescuing what they can in the garden, we dogs have this ever-expanding swamp to explore, full of pungent smells and possibility.
Which brings me to the freaky bubbles coming out of the bowels of the earth — the soft gurgling in the bush has been going on for a week. The Boss reckons there must be cracks and fissures underground that opened up during the dry years — some billabongs haven’t seen water since ’96. But that’s only his theory and, if he was right, the fissures would fill up pretty quickly. There’s an evil whiff about it, if you ask me; I would swim out to investigate but, well, I’m a little edgy.
Another unexpected bonus was the flooding of my dog run, which has clearly rendered it uninhabitable, even for a hard task-master like The Boss. The kennels were floating around in it for a few days and now look bound for the rubbish heap, so I don’t expect to be locked up there until the comfort level is to my liking. That could take a couple of years.
This has meant we’ve had to adjust to living with The Boss and the Missus at close quarters, which requires compromise on all sides (you would hope) rather than just compromise for the dogs. The fact is, it’s muddy outside and wiping my feet is not something I know how to do — and I’m past learning new tricks anyway.
This is a minor, though growing, source of tension, as is our attentive presence whenever there is food being prepared or being placed on the table. For some reason the humans object to my drooling on the kitchen floor, which only shows anticipation after all. As I say, tolerance will be required on all sides and I stand ready to do my part, so far as it suits me.
A complicating factor is the energy level of the New Boy, who wants to play most of the time. I don’t mind some rough-housing myself but I know what the Missus will do if we end up rolling against doors and windows — we get thrown out into the mosquito-infested great outdoors or locked up in the garage. He hasn’t worked that out yet.
I keep telling him if we play our cards right we could become permanent inside dogs, with all the comforts and enjoyment that entails — but his pea-sized brain can’t look more than 10 seconds ahead. Taking over the house is one postdiluvian possibility that might be just out of reach. Woof!
