The Quiet Canine and the Muddy Photographer

I have, regrettably, had dealings with Pugs before. My previous encounters call them professional skirmishes, if you like had led me to a simple, unshakeable conclusion: the Pug, as a breed, is essentially a fleshy, perambulating loudspeaker, forever dialled up to eleven. Much like my own Dachshund, that short legged tyrant who seems to view silence as a personal affront, they invariably have a great deal to say and an almost pathological desire to express it at maximum decibel levels, repeatedly, until your eardrums surrender.

Quinn, however, was a curious, almost unsettling anomaly. He was; to use a phrase I never expected to apply to a small dog, akin to a Buddhist monk who had taken a particularly solemn vow of Noble Silence. It was as if his owner had located the master Mute button on the dog's operating system, pressed it with surgical precision, and then, just to be safe, gone and hidden the remote under a rather large rock. The quiet was disconcerting.

The job, as it so often does, required me to become a creature of the night. Or at least, the very early morning. We had to meet before the sensible, day shift dogs were out, because Quinn, for all his Zen, apparently turned into a bit of a lad in the presence of his peers. He lost his mind, you see. It was like hiring a very quiet accountant and finding out he moonlights as a drummer for a heavy metal band.

Arriving on location, some popular, grassy receptacle for dog-walkers, we had certainly beaten the rush, though to say we were "alone" would be stretching the truth until it snapped like an old rubber band. The K9 loving population, as I have observed countless times, are a committed, indeed fanatical, bunch who apparently operate under the deeply concerning motto: Sleep is for the Weak.

Now, when you spend a sufficient amount of time snapping pictures of our four-legged friends, you soon find that the process involves a series of ritualistic humiliations. It becomes depressingly normal to find yourself lying prostrate in something vaguely resembling mud, whilst making all manner of grotesque, high pitched noises, a sort of bizarre, middle aged mating call, all in the earnest pursuit of "getting the shot."

So it was, that in the middle of this perfectly routine spectacle, I experienced something of a first class shock. A kind-hearted soul, mistaking my utterly deliberate photographic manoeuvre for a catastrophic physical failure, rushed over with an expression of profound alarm. They were desperately trying to help this middle aged fool; (me) back onto his feet, convinced I had somehow taken a tumble and was perhaps moments away from needing serious medical intervention. My clients, naturally, enjoyed a delightful bit of unexpected spectator sport.

Having been suitably reassured that I was indeed physically fine, though almost certainly mentally unstable, a condition I managed to omit from the diagnosis, my Samaritan retreated to a safer, more sensible distance. Through this whole, embarrassing debacle, Quinn, the little Buddha himself, remained an utter professional, maintaining a sort of inner Zen that would have made the Dalai Lama weep with pride.

So, here is a helpful public service announcement for all you early risers: the next time you spot a gent of advancing years lying face down in a suspiciously damp patch of grass, do have a good look for an expensive looking camera nearby. If you spot one, there is a very good chance that he did it on purpose and that he is merely sacrificing his dignity to the cruel gods of light and aperture. Do not, I implore you, try to save him. It’s a job requirement. They really don't pay us enough!

Quinn the pug

Canine Capers & Theatrical Triumphs

Last week, my dear readers, was what one might charitably describe as "a bit much." It involved a dizzying, ear-splitting, and frankly, quite athletic stint with the redoubtable Laura of LS DRAMA WORKSHOPS. Flashbulbs popped and the air thrummed with high-energy singing and dancing – a whole theatrical hurricane, if you will. That particular saga, a tale surely deserving of its own blog post (perhaps even a modestly sized paperback, given the sheer volume of dramatic incident), I shall save for a future, less frazzled moment.

Today, however, was a positively serene affair by comparison. Picture this: a gentle amble, a tranquil scene. My companion for this photographic endeavour was Smudge, my neighbour's dog, a creature of — shall we say — considerable life experience. The dance shoes, the high kicks, the decibel-shattering vocal acrobatics were firmly banished. In their place, a much more leisurely stroll to the local field, followed by a period of dignified repose. A period, I must confess, I find increasingly relatable in my own advancing years.

Now, Smudge, for all his admirable chill, clearly hadn't perused the entire "Good Boy Model Instructions." The sitting and even lying down parts? Mastered without a single quibble. A true professional in the art of canine indolence. But directing his gaze anywhere near the camera? Oh, that was a bridge too far, a frontier he was clearly unwilling to cross.

And so, dear reader, I found myself in a rather undignified tableau: a photographer of a certain vintage, prostrate upon the verdant grass, emitting a cacophony of barks, meows, and various other unseemly noises in a desperate bid to capture the attention of an equally mature canine. Smudge, meanwhile, remained as steadfastly determined not to make eye contact as a seasoned London commuter on the Underground during rush hour. It became, to the immense delight and barely concealed sniggers of numerous passers-by, a battle of wills.

I am pleased to report (if one can be pleased with public self-abasement) that the tide eventually turned in my favour. It may not be direct, soul-piercing eye contact, but it is, at the very least, in the general vicinity of the lens. And for that, I am unequivocally counting it as a win. A small victory, perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, but a victory nonetheless.