BOOZEHOUND?Betty Boo, partial to a tipple in the local.
Pedigree drinking chum
Diary of a home bird
YOU know the Glenroe feeling as a kid? It’s Sunday evening and the thoughts of Monday morning are closing in and you still have homework to finish. In adult life I find it’s much the same. Now, rather than think about ‘school’ and the get-up-for-work alarm clock, I sometimes decide to socialise with friends and family to extend that weekend feeling.
A number of Sundays ago the thoughts of the week ahead must have got to poor Betty Boo (the boyf’s boxer dog), and she decided to try out the socialising option.
Whether she tunnelled out of her confines à la Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption, or whether she has mastered opening the gate, we don’t know. What we do know, is that rather than chasing cars or cats, she instead went exactly where she thought her owners might be on a Sunday evening: The local pub.
As the boyf and I travelled from Claremorris to Ballinrobe that evening, we were discussing if we would ‘chance going in for one’ to the local when suddenly the boyf’s phone was inundated with phone calls from friends.
They weren’t enquiring where we were, but if the dog that was currently roaming through Inch’s Bar on Ballinrobe’s Main Street belonged to him. Like worried parents hearing that their teenager had snuck out to a disco, we agonised over how it could have happened and whether not knowing our own dog’s whereabouts meant our parenting skills were wanting.
We immediately organised for Betty to be collected by her uncle (well, you know what I mean, the boyf’s brother). The boyf was too busy dying from embarrassment to collect her. As we approached Hollymount, the text messages kept pouring in. One friend enquired as to her tipple of choice, ‘What does she drink, Heineken or Becks?’; another joked about her pub etiquette, ‘You really could do with putting some manners on your bitch’.
When we got back to the house we were greeted with an open gate, and Betty peering out of a van after her three-hour adventure. Speaking with the boyf’s brother he informed us that on his arrival to the pub he was met with locals trying to contain Betty on the main street. All that was missing was some Benny Hill chase music.
After she was returned to the comfort of her kennel, the discussion took a worrying turn. Those two little words were mentioned. In heat.
I immediately took the defensive mother role, saying “My Betty wouldn’t do such a thing!” – which amused those gathered in the garden. “But I’m not ready to be a granny yet,” I joked. “I don’t know if I’m prepared for looking after mini Bettys.”
So, at the moment, we still don’t know if Betty Boo is ‘expecting’, and we’re waiting on my brother, the vet, to get her to pee on a stick … or whatever it is that they do to assess matters.
They say a dog is a man’s best friend, but I can’t really see the boyf ever inviting Betty to the pub for a few after work. Anyway, she is grounded until she is at least four.
> In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a twenty-something year old still living with her parents.