A pat excuse: When humans ignore me, it leaves me gutted

OpinionFrank, the world’s most adorable dog, can’t understand why some people are impervious to his pleas for affection.Broadcaster and columnistOctober 10, 2026 — 5:00amOctober 10, 2026 — 5:00amThe diary of a dog: As a kelpie puppy, I look appealing. I don’t think it’s bragging to point out the obvious. Most humans understand that, with my green eyes and big ears, I’m adorable. As soon as I see a person or maybe a group of people approaching, I hold still, wag my tail furiously, and wait to be showered with praise. Sometimes, the anticipation is the most exciting part of the process. As they approach, I sit down, my body quivering with excitement, and think, “Just wait until they get a look at me.”Nine times out of 10, the response is as expected. Often better than expected. The phrase “cutest puppy ever” has, on occasion, been heard. But then, one time out of 10, they just walk straight past. Nothing. No pat, no greeting, no words of admiration. It leaves me gutted. I turn and watch them walk into the distance, unable to tear my eyes away as they recede.Surely, there’s been some mistake? Are they partially sighted? Perhaps it’s a heart surgeon in a hurry? Were they troubled, earlier in the week, by some personal tragedy which has left them temporarily oblivious to things of great beauty?One morning, there was a particularly bruising disappointment, involving three teenage girls, a category of human I believe superior to all others. They just walked past, chatting among themselves, not noticing the quivering, tail-wagging puppy on the footpath looking up at them with such loving, expectant eyes. In terms of this type of human, it was the first time this had happened. I cannot express how discombobulating I found the experience. I am now considering a letter to the local council demanding some new signage be erected in the park: “In the case of a new puppy, a greeting is mandatory.”Meanwhile, things are going well with my dirt excavation business. There’s a deep garden bed, right next to an area of pale tiles, recently cleaned with a high-pressure hose. If I adopt the right angle, I can send dirt flying all over the sparkling tiles, thus giving me more room to work. One of the humans in the household, Man, accuses me of “digging to China”, an accusation that shows a lamentable lack of geographical knowledge. Surely, if you dug straight down from Australia, you’d end up in The Azores, an archipelago in the mid-Atlantic, owned by Portugal. OK, I had to look that up, but the point is still sound. Man knows nothing.Each day, I start my digging as early as possible. By noon, the hole is deep enough to impress the most lackadaisical observer. Then, while I take a well-deserved lunch break, Man comes in with a broom and a shovel and puts all the dirt back in the hole. What the ancient Greeks called “The Task of Sisyphus” should really be called “The Task of Frank”. Luckily, my technique improves by the day, which means I’m achieving ever-greater depths, despite Man’s interference. Really, my efforts should be studied by the Productivity Commission.“I’m forced to remind Man of his responsibilities by giving him a little nip on the arm.”Man, while sighing over the dirt, says I’ve got “a lot of ticker for a little dog”. It’s a compliment I appreciate. Even better was Man’s mate Dougal, who watched me run up and down at the beach. Dougal, who has a rural background, observed me for a while and then said, “That Frank’s got a big engine.” Well, if dogs could blush, I’d have been beetroot red.There is still some negotiating to be done with the family. Every morning I grab some treasured object off the floor and run towards my humans. I don’t know how proficient they are at speaking the language called “dog”, but by standing before them, with the object grasped firmly between my teeth, I’m conveying a simple idea: “Play with me right now, or the slipper gets it.”If that doesn’t work, I’m forced to remind Man of his responsibilities by giving him a little nip on the arm. I never break the skin (well, hardly ever). Man, though, rolls up his sleeves whenever his friends come around. He shows them his arms and says, “I’m not a heroin addict, you know.” He then laughs as if this is the funniest joke in the world, rather than an insensitive response to the misery of drug addiction among humans.He’s also bought a squeaky toy from Bunnings, in the shape of Mufasa from The Lion King, with which he taunts me, having the lion leap in the air over my head while Man, in the lion’s voice, delivers a lecture on the success of the movie The Lion King. He compares this with Red Dog, which “wasn’t even made into a musical”.I’m forced, dear diary, to record that Man thinks this “joke” is even more hilarious than the one about heroin addiction, and often repeats it 10 times during one play session with the toy.Some people, when they see me out in the backyard, paws working hard, dirt flying onto the paving, might wonder why I dig so frantically, so passionately. In truth, I’m just trying to achieve sufficient depth, so I can no longer hear his jokes.Need more Richard Glover in your life? Read these:Expert advice of yore makes you wonder about current ‘certainties’What do I do now that I’m retired? The question should be what don’t I doWhat will happen to your most cherished possessions when you die? You don’t want to knowI’m suddenly British, even though I really don’t want to beThe worst part of ageing? 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