I can’t fully express how completely discombobulating it is for a delicate hound to go out in stormy weather. The very thought is an outrage in itself. It is January and therefore I understand that my evening perambulations will be done in the dark. This is acceptable, as one can button up ones ‘stepping out’ cape and polar tog muff to warmly enjoy the evening scamper sniffs. What I object to most strongly is having to venture out in the wind and the rain. For those who may not know this, a sighthound (other hounds are available) can in fact snap one’s bladder shut like an old fashioned purse if the situation dictates. The hermetic sealing of the undercarriage can respond to varying weather phenomena from mildly cold to artic freezy, especially if you are forced to move your sorry, furry behind from out of a warm and cosy duvet nest. 

If ones plumbing pressure does become bothersome then I can always find a handy boot or bobble hat to water. The point I am trying to make, is that no hound should have to go out in the wind and the rain. Ever.

I was idly flicking through a copy of Hamster Fanciers Weekly, when a rolled up ball of paper sailed through the air and gently pinged off my pointy head. Peering over my spectacles I came face to face with a grinning yeti, or as I came to understand, Hector, fully togged up in his walking gear. 

After consulting my watch I agreed that it was indeed time for a gentile strollette so I rewrapped the custard cream packet and off we went. The first clue to the adverse conditions should have been when he strapped me into my winter all weather coat. It even has a little peak for a cap and I think I look rather fetching and regal in it. The back door was opened and promptly blew straight back onto Hector’s knee, which I must admit did make me chortle. This was the second clue. We finally managed to leave the house on our third attempt and stepped straight into Kansas. Nothing ever prepares you for the first strong, cold, gust up your bracket. The neck fastener on my coat had loosened itself and my hood immediately inflated with the wild air and I nearly sailed head first over the shed. We looked at each other and through an entirely non verbal, yet explicitly understood conversation, it became clear to me that we were not going back in until I had…well…performed the necessary ablutions. 

Have you ever tried to engage evacuation protocols in a storm? What followed was a dreadful scene of lashing rain and muttered profanities, as we both pursed our lips and squeezed our eyes tightly shut for differing reasons. Eventually I claimed victory and succeeded in my quest. 

I stepped back and looked down to see Hector fighting with a small, trembling black poo bag, very much like watching Tommy Cooper and his brown paper bag act, as it fluttered in the wind and rain. Well, my dear friends, hilarious doesn’t even begin to cover it. It was a little like one of those Japanese endurance shows that Clive James used to present many moons ago. Utterly priceless. Grinning in success, he held the filled bag aloft like a prize Trout and it promptly blew straight back in his face. At this point I allowed the wind to carry me as I fell backwards, helplessly crying with the sheer joy of it all. We bravely fought out way back to the door, wrestled it open, and flung ourselves inside the porch as if our lives depended on it. 

I eyed Hector disdainfully as we both dripped on the mat. He had turned an unusual hue since the ‘bag in the face’ bit. No amount of treats could make up for this attack on my sensibilities so before he could grasp me in his grubby mitts for a cleansing towel down, I legged it and rolled on the carpet. There is now a muddy Vitruvian hound to mark my place.

The moral of this short tale, is that NO hound should ever have to endure a walk in a storm.