Hazel doesn’t mean to be bad. She’s just a corgi with a bad attitude.
She can be sweet as pie as long as her bowl is filled with her special diet kangaroo-meat kibble. Or if you’re playing the tug-o-war with her very stinky rope. But decide to ignore her past the tolerable limit, typically 30 minutes, and she turns fierce.
First, the barking. A corgi’s bark is designed to scare away any intruder, the lab from across the street or the cat from next door (more on that sneak thief later.) The deep reverberation conjures the image of a German Shepard. You would never guess the bark came from a squat 35 pound fluffy wimp.
Next, comes the aggressive leg leaning. Even 35 pounds pressing against your calf can knock you off balance. If you’re sitting down and not suspecting the canine battering ram, you might find yourself hopelessly distracted from your work. Just try typing a climactic scene with one hand while your other is busy attempting to placate a Cardigan Welsh Corgi with kindly pats.
And lastly, the clicking. Somehow Hazel has figured out that her unclipped nails make the most irritating sound if she avoids all the area rugs, and just prances around the perimeters of the rooms. It’s not the gentle tapping of rain. It’s not a soothing rhythmic beat. It’s the most grating itch producing sound. And she knows it is.
But the corgi is getting on in years. At 12, she doesn’t tug as hard as she used to on the stinky rope. Getting all the way around the block for our afternoon walk is an accomplishment worthy of freeze dried venison treats (for her not me.) And every day, more gray hairs appear in her muzzle. So, I give in to her demands for attention. Soon she’ll be gone and I might find myself looking up from my computer and wondering why there’s no clicking.