“But it had negativeassociations. Which is why when I met you it was a soulless wasteland of underwear and empty pizza boxes.”
“Oh yeah. You did see that, didn’t you?”
“Once. And then you cleaned it for me, which was breathtakingly romantic. And probably stopped us both dying of typhus.”
“Hey,” I protested. “I lived in that flat for years and did not die of typhus. Or cholera. Or scarlet fever. Or bubonic plague.”
“Yes.” Oliver was looking down at Spud, who was nosing under his blanket with his arse in the air, his tail still wagging. “If you’d died of bubonic plague, I’d have been much less inclined to pretend to date you. Or actually date you, for that matter.”
“Were we ever,” I asked, “pretendingto date? Really?”
“For the sake of my pride, yes.” He frowned, still looking at Spud. “Hmm.”
“Hmm?”
“I think he needs to go outside.”
And, with that, Oliver swept Spud into his arms and carriedhim through the patio doors into the garden, where—continuing to be Oliver in every respect—he’d already prepared a designated toilet spot.
“Um,” I said, having followed at a poo-respecting distance, “I feel weird watching this.”
“It’s very important to watch,” replied Oliver earnestly.
“Is it, though?”
“I mean…” Oliver looked briefly flustered. “Not because of the…eventitself. But we need to be ready to start positive reinforcement the moment he’s finished and not, and this is very important, a second before.”
“What happens if we’re premature in our celebration?”
“Well, then he’ll learn to come into the garden, do half a poo in order to receive a reward, and then trail the remainder back into the house to finish in comfort.”
“Oliver, this seems really complicated.”
“It’s not. It’ll be fine. We reward him for doing things we want him to do and not for doing things we don’t want him to. We just need to be very clear about what things are being rewarded.”
Spud was sitting on a patch of grass, looking up at us with a quizzical expression.
“And,” I asked, “what if he…doesn’t?”
“Then we go back inside and try again in a few minutes.”
“Won’t he just think that’s weird?”
“Probably, but he’s a dog, so he’s going to have to—oh.” Oliver’s voice swooped into a register I’d never heard it reach before. “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a clever boy? Here’s a treat for a clever boy. Well done, you. One more? Do you think you deserve one for being such a good boy? Go on then.”
To be fair to Oliver, Spud did seem absolutely thrilled, bouncing around like it was his doggie birthday.
“Um,” I said. “Yay. Good shit.”
“Why don’t you give him a treat,” suggested Oliver.
I really wanted to, but for some reason, the thought of giving my own dog a treat for doing what we’d wanted him to do felt incredibly overwhelming. So I made excuses. “I think I’ve missed the window. The all-important treat/faeces window.”
“How about,” offered Oliver, like he was givingmea treat, “you take him next time?”
“How about I keep providing moral support for you?”
Spud was briefly interested in the garden, but it wasn’t too long before he remembered Oliver existed and bounded eagerly after him, back into the house.
