Do you cross the road when you see a dog on a leash five kilometres away? Do you roll your eyes when the person you’re doing small talk with at a party starts telling you about antics of her cat? Do you think that rabbits are only good as a condiment to pasta sauce? Then stop reading this now.

Avert your eyes to the adjacent pictures of the week, and then slowly but snappily turn the page. Yeah, I’m sorry, this is a column about pets. Don’t blame me, blame Hollywood for making a movie about something that has always intrigued me: what are our pets up to when we’re out of the house?

Film producer Chris Meledandri came up with the idea of The Secret Life of Pets, because it’s the question that deep down, all pet owners ask. In fact, the movie chronicles the misadventures of a Jack Russell terrier while his owner is at work. As of this week, it is the highest grossing non-Disney film of all time, which must mean that all pet owners around the world are very curious.

Incidentally, very recently, a study of 2,000 British pet owners revealed a few of the secret shenanigans of Britain’s cats and dogs: one dog attempted a ‘great escape’ – it managed to tunnel through the kitchen floorboards and spent two days under the house; another opened a locked door with their paws; another opened the fridge and enjoyed a gourmet moment.

“You see!” I said to the Significant Other, when I read this last bit. I am convinced that that is exactly what The Dog is up to. Does she lead the dull, snoozy existence that she makes us believe? Pfft, of course not – and I am compiling my evidence.

The Dog is, how shall we put it, slightly on the chubbier side and the SO is very strict in his mission to trim her down. He issues regular edicts: From now on, no more leftovers. From now on, dry food only. From now on not a gram more than 150. From now on, so on so forth. I tell you, it’s hard to keep up. And yet, The Dog’s roly-polyiness never goes down.

‘I’m watching you.’ She puts on a puppy face and wags her tail. Her lips are sealed

The SO believes it’s the metabolism/thick fur/summer bloatiness/winter fat. I am not so sure. I am more inclined to think that the minute we’re out of the door, she trots to the kitchen, opens the fridge and helps herself. Which is why food containers are mysteriously always half empty and why that guilty look in the morning when the shout ‘Park-y’ rings across the house. The way she slinks to the door says nothing but ‘I-deserve-being-taken-for-a-never-ending-tortuous-jog-because-I-secretly-feasted-on-that-lasagne/salmon/drumsticks-yesterday’.

(A note here about that random ‘parky’ word. Ahem, we, tend to add that ‘-y’ tail at the end of words when talking to The Dog even though she weighs more than a bear, can actually pin us down and sit on us without us being able to breathe – because she’s, erm, the permanent baby of the house).

Also, does it ever cross your mind that our domestic animals may be having pet powwows when we’re out? My pervious dog used to, every day at about 6pm, go up on the roof and start barking and howling, in chorus with all the other dogs in the neighbourhood. Luckily, Dodie Smith solved that one for us in The Hundred and One Dalmatians: it’s the pet-exchange information Twilight bark, isn’t it?

I am quite sure that pets know the length of time we’ll be out for and that they plan their activities accordingly. The Dog, for example, knows when we’re going to be away. When she sees the suitcases in the landing, she hangs back, looking at us from beneath her long eyelashes with something that could be interpreted as disappointment – “How could you leave me again when I love you so much?” But then again, maybe what she’s really saying is: “Whoopee, I’ll have the whole house to myself! Whoopee, I can go hoarse barking at that Ginger Cat!”

We can never know for certain what it is that they are thinking and our propensity for anthropomorphism does not help. My sister’s dog, for example, is a kisser – she doesn’t stop licking me every time I sit on the sofa next to her. “Aww how cute is that,” I’d say every time. Until last week, that is.

I happened to be reading Alexandra Horowitz’s dog book and she wrote how puppies innately lick the face and muzzle their mother when she returns from the hunt to the den – because it’s a cue that stimulates her to vomit up some partially digested meat. Now every time I get a lick from Sophie, I apologise that I cannot possibly regurgitate a half-eaten quinoa salad for her.

As I am typing this, The Dog is lying down next to me. I give her a couple of instructions: couche; wag tail; come here; and she is very happy to please me. But somehow I have a sneaking feeling that she has a much livelier life when we’re away.

“I’m watching you,” I tell her. She puts on a puppy face and wags her tail. Her lips are sealed.

krischetcuti@gmail.com
Twitter: @jipsiebusuttil

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