Today we went somewhere with a lot of legs to sniff and I behaved myself for almost the whole time.
Dad calls it the Lion City Faire. I call it the place with the smells. The getting-ready was a lot of fuss, harness on, water bowl packed, Dad crouching down to give me the speech about being a good girl in public, which I listened to with my whole face and immediately forgot.
It was busy in the way I like, which is a forest of legs, each pair belonging to a person who might, if I looked impressive enough, be persuaded to care about me. I worked the crowd. I am good at the crowd. A child wanted to pat me and did the gentle flat-hand thing his mum showed him, and I permitted it graciously and leaned in for more, because I am a professional.
There was a stall doing something with butter and I sat very nicely in front of it for a long while, being my most impressive, doing the ears. A lady gave me one tiny piece and Dad said that was enough. It was not enough. I stayed anyway, out of principle, negotiating with my eyes. The butter and I were not finished. Dad and I disagree about when things are finished.
A bigger dog wanted to say hello and I did my brave bark, the squeaky one, and then hid behind Dad's leg, which is my system and it has never once failed me. From behind the leg I continued to bark, to establish that the hiding was tactical and not fear. The big dog seemed to understand. He had kind eyes. I came out eventually and we did the polite circle sniff and it was fine, it was all fine, I was extremely brave about it.
There was a moment near the drinks stall where a puppy, smaller even than me, which is rare and frankly wonderful, came barrelling over with no manners whatsoever and no sense of the correct order of sniffing. I was patient. I have decided that being the older, wiser dog is a role I was born for, even though I am not especially old and the wisdom is mostly about butter. The puppy's person apologised and Dad said the thing he always says, that he was just being friendly, and for once it was true and it was not about me.
There was music somewhere and stalls with jars and ribbons and a man selling little painted portraits of dogs, and everywhere the ground had dropped crumbs from a hundred better-fed animals. I hoovered as I went. Dad calls me the vacuum. I consider it a public service, keeping the floor clean for the humans, who never once thank me and in fact usually say leave it, which is the rudest phrase in their whole language.
Halfway through I found the one thing I truly wanted, which was a patch of shade under a table where a family was eating something with chicken in it. I set up camp there and did the eyes at each of them in turn, working my way around the table like a small furry collection plate. It nearly worked. A boy was about to fold when his mother said the thing mothers say, and Dad steered me off with an apology and a treat from his own pocket, which is the correct outcome and I knew it all along.
On the way out my paws were tired and the floor was warm, so Dad carried me for a bit, which I allow because I am small and it is dignified actually, being carried like a small important parcel through a crowd that parts for you. We took the long way back along the bay. I am not sure why. He likes the water, and when he is happy he walks slower, and I have decided the slow walks by the water are the ones worth having. I slept the whole train home and dreamed, I am fairly sure, of butter.