Zahli is a typical teenager. Her main aim in life is to thwart authority and eat as much junk food as she can scavenge.
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One human year is equal to seven dog years, so we’re told. At two, Zahli should be about fourteen. But not all breeds age at the same rate; for some, the first year of their life amounts to fifteen years, so much experience do they pack into it.
When I sought confirmation via the Internet, I discovered that she is the equivalent of nineteen; her teenage years are almost over, but her addiction to junk food is as strong as ever.
She celebrated her second birthday (in human years) in May, and has been with us for a year; spending more time at our home than she has anywhere else.
I would like to say that she is now a model of good doggy behaviour, but, while there have been improvements on some fronts, that would not be true.
It is still up to me to spot tractors, cars, joggers, cyclists, scooter riders, folk having a quiet meditation by the river or other dogs before Zahli does, get her back on the lead and allow them the peace and quiet they’re entitled to.
This is not because she will damage them; her curiosity is intense and she will hurtle towards them, intent on discovering if they can be played with. Her joy knows no bounds if a dog responds to her invitation, and a wild romp ensues; but if the dog or human at the other end is of a nervous disposition there may be hysteria and recriminations.
I used to rail at those who tossed food scraps into the bushes at the Riverside park; now I am grateful for the diversion they cause, because while Zahli is rummaging around for those legions of other dog walkers pass without being bailed up.
Zahli’s day is made if she finds a midden of fast food waste, complete with cast off cardboard buns smeared with tomato sauce that have dried in the sun.
Sometimes she runs off with a bun, holding it in her mouth so that she looks as though she has a wide grin. Rather than wolf it down, she buries it, rediscovering it on subsequent walks, nibbling a bit more of it, taking it further along the track and then reburying it. I don’t know what it says for those buns that they not only withstand that treatment, but are still being dug up and re-buried days later. Large chunks of pizza suffer the same fate, but I have to get to her quickly if she finds fried chicken.
As a vet once said to me, “If you’d extracted as many chicken bones from dog’s backsides as I have you wouldn’t let them eat any, raw or cooked.”
Zahli can detect dropped Cheezels and Twisties at twenty paces, and soft drink containers are thoroughly shaken to extract sweet drops.
Scatterings of what were hot chips don’t last so long – she and Zylka snuffle along the ground like vacuum cleaners, sucking up as many as they can before I intervene.
Thick shake containers are another great find – Zahli races off with her snout completely immersed in them, her long tongue extracting the bits in the bottom that the human consumer failed to reach before discarding it.
When we return from our walk, my having run twice as far as the dogs in my efforts to restrain or intercept Zahli, I serve them a well-balanced, nutritious meal; brown rice with vegetables, mixed with pink salmon or other protein, topped with a bone.
Zahli races to see if she can get to Zylka’s food before she does; thwarted at that, she tries jumping up on the sideboard for Thistle’s saucers.
Sometimes she won’t have anything to do with her own dinner at all, and looks at me reproachfully.
She’ll try romping through with the one of the Man of the house’s boots, or a work glove, or a sock, and if a game doesn’t follow, she’ll rip the stuffing out of them.
Then she disappears, and spends a happy half hour chewing through the electrical cords on the Moth’s tools – nothing is worse for his temper than going to use the sander, or drill, or router, only to find he has no power and a chewed-through cord dangling.
When all else fails, and she has been scratched by Thistle, bitten by Zylka and roared at by us, she might possibly go and investigate her own food.
I know what she wants. Some cold greasy chips atop a hamburger bun, washed down with a coke or a thick shake, followed by an ice cream cone and a packet of Cheezels.