Lady and the Tramp

Since the news of Dom and I’s engagement broke Small Dog had seemed somehow quiet. He lacked his usual bark, had barely been eating and not once had he climbed to the back of the sofa and attempted to sit on my head: normally a favourite pastime, particularly when Dom and I looked set to share a kiss.

After his success in destroying the first night of our engagement I confess I had, in some small way, been content to see Small Dog receive some recompense for his actions; reduced to looking on with envious eyes as Dom and I inadvertently flaunted our happy relationship before him. Though not consciously striving to encourage such jealousy I must admit that my enthusiasm for wedding planning did seem to perk up whenever my rival entered the room and, more often than not, quickly dissipated upon his departure.

After days of such behaviour I glanced up from my computer long enough to observe a cat enter Paddington’s fiercely protected garden. As I watched, the Small Dog caught site of the insurgent, entered a half-hearted bark that would not have shaken even the scardiest of felines and returned, head on paws to his wistful slumber without so much as a hint of self reproach. With such evident jealousy and longing for his mistress I wondered whether in his own mind Paddington had himself dreamt of being the one to propose and, as general wedding hysteria kicked in, I began to ponder what Paddington’s dream wedding might be…

The venue: Although Paddington’s Cavalier ancestors resided in the house of kings, Paddington himself (much like his marmalade-loving literary namesake) is a dog of simple tastes. As is customary within canine culture the grandeur and history of the building tend to hold less importance than the quality of the toiletry facilities. Assuming that a good quality external wall is available the search for the venue should not provide too many problems. As it happens Paddington has in fact laid claim (possibly through historical links) to many buildings in the Yorkshire area and showed enough foresight to mark them clearly as his territory for all to smell, so perhaps one of these claimed venues would suffice.

The catering: Chicken presumably, accompanied perhaps by a nice bottle of de l’eau Minérale Toilettes. Might I also suggest a portion of my own freshly laundered socks for dessert? (a delicacy of acquired taste but a strong favourite of Small Dog’s, coincidently acquired around the time we broke news of our engagement).

The Suit: As a dog of royal descent would he be looking for a very traditional wedding look? Like his namesake he tends to prefer to remain unclothed from the waste down but these delightful  formalwear ensembles from www.doggieclothesline.com  are guaranteed to turn heads. Well, I say turn heads, perhaps sidewise glances would be more accurate and, in all likelihood, directed at the owners but nonetheless the impact is there.

Transport: I fear a horse drawn carriage may be out of the question as Small Dog has difficulty in containing himself around these larger creatures and feels it necessary to shout at them at the top of his voice. A car then would be a popular choice, ideally a fast sports car with roomy windows from which to stick his head out. Simply walking to the venue may also prove a popular choice.

The invites: One suspects it would be a fairly intimate affair. After all, no matter how sociable a dog our groom may be, one can only sniff so many posteriors in one day and it simply wouldn’t do to pass out before the wedding.

The Speeches: Short I suspect!

The honeymoon: I have to say from past holiday experience I do question just how much Dominique would really enjoy a weekend at the kennels…

After all this thought about what young Paddington might be feeling perhaps it’s time that I extended the olive branch and we buried the hatchet. I speak figuratively of course as extending branches towards Paddington inevitably descends into tedious games of fetch, whilst hatchets are both difficult to come by and not one of Small Dog’s preferred items to bury.

“Paddington, come on boy, over here, do you want a biscuit? Paddington what’s that you’re eating? Is that my sock???”

“BAD DOG!”