Season's Greetings

She has spent the last few weeks laid up in bed so I haven't had access to the laptop. I think she must be recovering now though as she's started ordering things again.

I've been trying really hard to wear down the Christmas tree. Most of it is on the floor now but the damn bits of tinsel keep getting in my eyes as I go around and around. And do you think they'll thank me for it? No. Just like before, they'll get all stroppy even though I've done half the work for them. I'm sure that the day is coming when they'll put it outside. I know that because the gold bits keep falling down now. You just can't help some people, can you?

Happy New Year to you all!

Have bed, will travel.

I thought I was going on another magical mystery tour and here I am. Interesting. There are things I know by smell and things I don't. Juxtaposition I think they call it. My humans are all here and sitting around as if they own the place. Bunch of weirdos. I'm going to my bed. It's the one thing I can rely on. I'll fill you in tomorrow.

It'll all come out in the wash

Never trust a human when they start washing your bedding. Now, I know I've complained in the past about the speed of service when it comes to having my bed made up but I've learned to be very suspicious indeed when she starts washing them, especially when they haven't reached full maturity. What's more is that they're never going to reach that stage now because I had a shower too and I smell of lavender now which is totally disgusting.

I can only guess what might be going on. It could be someone important coming to visit. That seems unlikely given the state of the rest of the house. I've never seen so much of my hair having been allowed to accumulate in the corners. I've noticed that She's up later than usual and has been waking me up in the night by climbing over me at 4am to go downstairs. I mean, how inconsiderate can you be? The worst thing of all is this: they know that things are a bit fuzzy for me these days and yet they are leaving boxes, toys and piles of towels and things all over the place. I keep tripping over random objects. Would you do this to a blind human? Well, you might not but maybe I would but that's beside the point. They're supposed to look out for me, be responsible for my welfare. I think they're trying to kill me. Of course, I'm exploiting certain aspects of this; when something is lying on the floor then it is asking to be used and then there's the whole deaf thing so I can't really get told off, can I? I can also recommend an extremely effective way of being annoying; what you do is hoover in the doorways looking vacant but you must also remember to be completely unresponsive.

Let me share my one dream that I am truly hoping will come true. I hesitate to speak about this in case that in doing so, I cast a jinx on my good fortune. Perhaps my bedding has been washed because I'm going to the old lady's house to stay? I'm keeping my paws crossed.

Meals at the school of life

Everyone knows that food is the way to a dog's heart. In my case, at the age of 98, sleep comes a close second. Any sensible cat, even the most laid-back of characters, should deduce that to get in the way of either is unwise or at the very least risky. The cat to which I am referring, Marmaduke (a.k.a. The Ginger Ninja, Marmers, Marmeodukio) either doesn't realise the danger or is just too cool to worry about it. It's getting beyond a joke. First, it was my food and water bowls and I should have put my paw down there and then. But I didn't and the next thing it was my bed. I told myself that I didn't care too much because I only sleep in there occasionally and the housekeeping has been a bit slack of late meaning that my covers are rearranged as often as they should be. And so, with the dark, cosy, winter evenings drawing in, I follow my humans and add an aesthetic element to their enjoyment which would be otherwise absent. After all, I have that look about me; the sleepy dog, curled up in front of the fire (even though it's not on because of the credit crunch - I thought it was a new type of biscuit but it turns out they're saving money - gosh, humans are boring) and if I'm lucky they might toss me a treat. They're a busy lot though and I have to stay on the ball, move from one room to another whilst remaining companionable, calm thus ensuring the optimum position for being rewarded for my efforts.

Therefore, it is getting a little irritating when Marmaduke insists on curling up with me just about anywhere I care to rest. Sometimes he stretches out, does weird cat stuff with his sharp nails which keep going in and out. What's that all about? He's a big cat but there's no denying the obvious difference in our make-up. I know I have to be gentle; I've tried the odd nibble in a friendly sort of way, I've even almost accidentally bitten off his head when he's got in the way of one of my yawns. But still he comes. My new best friend. Or maybe he thinks we're related. Who knows what's going on in his head? I hope that I don't find out in the literal sense ....

On Guard

It's been like old times here. It's that time of year again, the one before the fireworks season when the spiders appear in the house. She doesn't like them. She doesn't mind the small ones or the spindly ones but not the big juicy ones.

After a few communication issues - I was asleep, after all - I accomplished the task in paw. And very tasty it was, too. Why are they always so shocked when I eat them? Is that not what it's all about?

One of them ran at me the other night and then sneakily scuttled back under the chest in the sitting room. Slightly peeved about this, I had been keeping watch on the said piece of furniture so I was slightly confused when I got a shout and it wasn't going in the right direction; going to rather than coming from the chest if you see what I mean. Not only that, it was disappointingly lean; all legs and crispy bits, no plump, soft centre.

Obviously, the moment I'd finished my snack, I knew what was going on. It wasn't the same spider at all. Earlier this evening, I was asleep in my bed, tired of seeing Marmaduke sprawled out on my smelly blanket and being unable to get in there myself and I think that I must have missed out on some action. I say this because I've noticed that she's sitting with her feet up on the coffee table. I can say with some certainty that this is not a comfortable position in which to relax and I strongly suspect that my fast-food foe must have put in an appearance whilst I was trying to reclaim my bed. Such are the problems faced by a superhero; your personal life inevitably suffers when duty calls. No doubt that ginger-ninja will be slipping under the covers whilst I stake out the chest in the sitting room.

An abandoned house

You know how I mentioned the other day about my visit to the Old Lady's house? Before we go any further, I want to address a sticky issue. It feels quite irreverent to be constantly referring her to as 'the Old Lady'. We were never formally introduced and she's clearly not a blood relative so I'm in a permanent quandary as to what I should call her. She responds to barks and sad eyes far quicker than anyone else and so for this reason I think that she deserves a proper name. Let's call her Special. Or how about Extra Special? Or Extra Special Person and then we can abbreviate it to ESP? After, her sensory perceptions are superior to those of the other humans in the house and she NEVER ignores me.

Anyway, ignored is what I was when we went to ESP's house yesterday (has a ring to it, doesn't it?) because she was actually there. First of all there was the tedious vacuuming and tidying in our house, they let in a nice smelling stranger and we all drove off in the car having left her there. Now, if that wasn't bizarre enough, when we got to ESP's house, they started ripping plants out of the garden. If that had been me, I would have been in so much trouble. In fact, they ripped out so much that they had to fill the car up three times and drive off with it to hide what they'd done.

Got to go, it's thundering and I've got to hide in a corner.

A Pair of Shoes

Yet again, I find myself apologizing for my lack of blogging. And once again, I am going to blame my humans who seem to be obsessed with putting things away. But now, it's escalated to new proportions.

Yesterday, after the usual frantic wiping of things and spraying of disgusting smell in my direction, they went out. Nothing unusual there except that they took me with them in the car. I had to avoid sitting on that foul towel that She'd just taken out of the tumble drier, (the one with the brown splodges which, for some reason, they always put in the car if I'm going out on wheels) and off we went to the Old Lady's house.

We watched Neighbours, had a sniff around the garden, and we were off again. I was unceremoniously dumped back home and they drove away. Now, I got the distinct impression that I had been kept out of the house for a reason. Particularly when there was a strange aroma in the house. There had been visitors. But why on earth hadn't they left me there to greet them? Mind you, there's not a pair of shoes around these days so there's not much a dog can do. They don't seem to understand; if there's nothing lying around, humans entering the property just can't be welcomed properly.

All Change

Nothing changes by shouting at me. Nothing changes by shouting 'Listen!' either. I may not be able to stop slurping or dropping clumps of hair on the carpet on demand but I do have a keen eye for what's going on. I can detect a change in the atmosphere, ripples of new determination flowing up and down the stairs as swiftly as their paint rollers. There have been visits from men wearing suits, clutching clipboards and there has been incessant vacuuming. There has been a lot of stuffing things in cupboards and the ordering of other people to stuff things in cupboards. My walking schedule has been disrupted. They keep jumping in the car and going off somewhere, only to return twenty minutes later. And now? Now a wooden board has appeared outside in the front garden. As the dear old Rolf Harris would say, can you guess what it is yet?

Neighbours

She always watches Neighbours and during this time, I get pointed out and so do the little humans for so much as breathing too loudly. I could be in more than a little trouble for mentioning the fact because She tries to pretend she's intellectual and this is clearly not a current affairs programme or a documentary. At least I thought not. Today, I received an email from Jacquie the Jack Russell in Australia and the Gold Coast goings on are indeed worthy of a soap opera:

Hi Monty
I thought I'd tell you this doggy tale about a fellow Jack Russell (male) who had adventures in the night. Oscar lives with some pommy humans on the hill above Burleigh Beach. In the gum trees live a colony of Koalas and recently it has been the mating season. Oscar's house has a véranda on which he is required to sleep at night. A little known fact outside Australia is that during the Koala mating season the young males make very loud nocturnal noises like pigs snorting. On just such a night last week Oscar was guarding his patch on the véranda and going ballistic at the koalas. He not only kept his own humans awake but also the whole neighbourhood. The male pommy human got up and scooped up Oscar from his veranda guard post and pushed him into the bathroom. There were also that night, a family of possoms partying on the roof and making a noise. Oscar, on hearing them, continued to bark and this time it echoed extremely loudly, causing even more disturbance than before. The male pommy human had to get out of bed and remove Oscar from the bathroom and put him back on the veranda. He then went back to bed. Unfortunately he didn't realise that Oscar had been so excited in the bathroom that he had deposited a number 2 on the floor. The male pommy human was in bed when all pandémonium broke out again. They had to wash his feet and change the sheets on the bed! Needless to say Oscar was in disgrace and no-one in the house would talk to him for 2 days.

Best regards,
Jacquie


Nice job, if you'll pardon the pun. I suppose koalas and possums are our equivalent of badgers and foxes. I, too, have fond memories of giving them sleepless nights over the activities in the garden. Unfortunately, I'm not so quick to react these days and last time I tried it, She stomped downstairs,drew the curtains and sent me to bed. However, She always leaves their bedroom windows wide open and by the look of her, the wildlife in the garden is doing a good job of keeping her awake without my assistance. In fact, I've seen her hanging out of the window when it's dark. At one point, I was a little worried that she was developing a strange badger fixation, only one step away from the total madness of watching Neighbours. But now, having received this email, I'm beginning to wonder; perhaps there's more to it than I realised. After all, there are two dogs in the programme. I could always call it research .....

A view from the other side

My humans seem to be getting ready to go somewhere this morning so I haven't much time to chat. However, I'd like to share an email I received from my dear friend Jacquie the Jack Russell in Australia. Many of these jokes that go flying around the planet are tasteless and coarse and only fit for human consumption but this one certainly made me chuckle. It just makes you think; imagine if cats could write blogs too ....

Excerpts from a Dog's Diary......


8:00 am - Dog food! My favourite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favourite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favourite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favourite thing!
12:00 pm - Lunch! My favourite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favourite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favourite thing!
5:00 pm - Milk bones! My favourite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favourite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favourite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favourite thing!

Excerpts from a Cat's Daily Diary. ..


Day 983 of my captivity.
My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.

They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.

The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a 'good little hunter' I am. Bastards.

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of 'allergies.' I must learn what this means and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.

The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now................

The Blind Referee

I thought my position as the blind referee in this house was becoming untenable. I'd already mistakenly responded to a shout to the treats drawer. But the jury's still out and I continue to test the waters. This morning, I put my teeth around Marmaduke (aka 'The Ginger One and The Ginger Ninja) in a loving kind of way. He wasn't perturbed by it all and actually kept making that strange noise, the one that he always makes when I taste him, the same one that Tiger ('The Stripy One') never makes. The point is that I wasn't shouted at even though She was watching. She was staring at us rather intently and she did look as though she could pounce at any second but nothing was said. This is encouraging. This means that she has some doubts about my deafness. This also means that I can continue to make little errors of judgment without risk of remonstration. What fun.

It's not that I don't like Marmaduke; far from it. But he has been a bit cheeky recently and it would be handy to have a little trick up my metaphorical sleeve. It's funny really, outwardly, Tiger presents more of a threat as a very traditionalist anti-dog kind of cat. However, I have managed to scare the wits out of him in the garden. The humans seem to have accepted my rules in the garden as far as dog-cat relationships go; I think it indulges their tendency to fantasise about my guarding instincts. Did I say 'fantasise'? Whoops, oh well, let's not go into that now. Or it could be because they don't actually like him very much either. He doesn't exactly help his case, streaking around here and there, belly on the ground (he's got the shortest legs I've ever seen on a cat), only coming home to eat or infest us with fleas and spending all his leisure time next door. The neighbours call him 'Snugglepuss'. Ha! That's not among the names I've heard them calling him here. Yesterday, he engraved Her hand when she tried to put him in the box to go to the vets.

Conversely, I have never seen Marmaduke streak anywhere or even gather more than a strolling pace even under pursuit. Obviously, it is pointless chasing him. However, the odd sly nibble, just to show who's boss wouldn't go amiss. And if Operation Hush is back on, it won't even have to be that sly.

A comfort blanket

A blanket is a blanket is a blanket. At least that's what humans believe. They have little or no respect for dogginess, the sweet fragrance, gently matured by the warmth of my belly and the sugary pads on my paws, each new day's layer of experience being lovingly sealed over that of the previous day. You see? Just thinking about my blanket transports me to that special place, the sweet cloud that is all mine and unique to me. The only exception to the preservation of this heavenly arrangement that I allow myself to contemplate is when She makes my bed; after all, if this was never done, my odour would permeate onto the bedding unevenly, not to mention the fact that it would be jolly uncomfortable.

I think I mentioned yesterday that the ginger one keeps taking liberties with my bed. However, today, he got what was coming to him. He and the stripy one were bundled into boxes and I know just what that means. The vet. Of course, I'm too big for a box and know how to behave in a car but I know that's where they went because I could smell it on the boxes from last time. Each one has an old jumper inside for them to sit on. And they must have done more than sit on them. A very unpleasant odour indeed. Of cat origin. Need I say more? I can only assume that things didn't go too well at the vets because the smell was even worse when they got back. Now tell me this: have those cats never heard the saying about having to lie in the bed you've made? This is where we differ. My bed smells beautiful and is to be savoured. Their jumpers are disgusting and if that's the way they carry on, I'm not surprised that they have no beds of their own in the house. But that's of little comfort to me when a certain ginger fellow squats in mine.

A bit of bother

As you may already know, I was greatly looking forward to my week of rest and relaxation. The thing is, I have a sense of duty to preserve what's most precious to me. It's a bit like the doctor-patient relationship - not like the vet-dog one, but that's another issue altogether - and I feel loathed to divulge too much information about what went on whilst they were away.

Therefore, I must apologise for what may appear to be a rather sketchy account as I will only be sharing the highlights and lowlights of the week. As a literary animal, this editorial process is a natural state of affairs but I want you to be assured that this is not rudeness or dishonesty on my part as I have no wish to offend my lovely readers.

Firstly, my cover is slightly blown. There was a thunderstorm. A big one. Now, the one that took place before the humans went away went off very nicely indeed with absolute success in convincing them that I didn't hear a thing. This one, however, was on a completely different scale and Operation Hush had to be aborted. The old lady was clearly unnerved too and kept looking at me. I don't think she'd ever seen me like that before. She did pat me a couple of times and said a few soothing words but other than that, I was on my own. Actually, I was a little upset because I heard her describing me as 'like a demented thing' to someone. I'm not sure whether they'll fall for the idea that the lightning set me off. She's started testing me. Telling me to sit without hand signals. Putting food in my bowl without pointing. I'm onto her now so I'll just need to modify my M.O. a bit before we're back on track and Operation Hush can be resumed.

Secondly, the ginger one has been presenting a few problems. I've always given him a certain amount of leeway as he's a fairly agreeable chap in general. Just recently, though, he's been a little clingy; sidling up to me when I'm resting, stretching out and treating me like a hot water bottle. I am not responsible for him and he doesn't seem to realise as much. It's as if he thinks I'm his mother. And now, now he's taking liberties. He's started sleeping in my bed. I have photographic evidence and this will follow tomorrow and then you'll see just what I'm talking about. Anyway, today, we had a little spat and it was the little girl who intervened. What is a dog supposed to do? It's not as if I bit him, really; it was just a gentle nibble. But who got locked in the sitting room with the two small humans? Me, that's who. And old Ginger-Ninja gets off scot-free. On reflection, I think it's a matter of timing as it depends which human is in the room at the time of the alleged incident. I don't think I'm giving away too much if I tell you that the Old Lady tipped him out of my bed twice when she came to stay so I'm certain that she's on my side. As for the others? I'm not sure. I'll have to watch my back otherwise I could be biting off more than I can chew.

And talking of chewing, I gather they spent too much on holiday as She was eating some very poor quality chocolates last night. This is notable not just because they were of the cheapest variety from a well-known supermarket (I didn't even know that they did chocolates under that label) but because she made a point of putting them out of my nose-reach when they went to bed. Hard times indeed.

And lastly, a very Happy Birthday to another lady whose very thoughtful humans went to the trouble of celebrating her special day. Not that I'm bitter or anything .....

Good times

I'm so excited and I just can't hide it. I've watched Him heaving bags, cushions, boxes and more bags into the boot of the car, take them out again, put them back in, shake his fists as they've fallen out and knocked over his can of beer that She gave him to combat what She calls 'packing anxiety' (this happened 3 times, believe it or not and a sleeping bag, a fold-up chair and a towel fell in the puddles on the ground) until the boot would finally shut. I believe that humans do this for fun but there is no observable element of this at all. I, on the other hand, am staying put and the luxury is coming to me. The old lady is coming to stay and we get on just fine. Well, more than fine, actually. She knows exactly how to behave. The only thing she doesn't know how to do is work the laptop so I won't be posting for a week. However, rest assured that I will be making mental notes; a creative being such as myself never rests. Like a policeman, I am never off-duty which really goes back to what I was saying the other day about us dogs being born to do our jobs. Anyway, I bid you all as fantastic a time as I anticipate for myself.

Hello Australia!

Oh well, it's back to normal now. She's not rushed out again this morning and this is the second day running so I think she's not working. Some of us don't have that luxury. Some of us work from home. Some of us don't even have any career choices. Imagine being born a shelf-stacker, a dustman or a milkman without even being asked what you wanted to do. Imagine getting up in the morning and leaving milk on people's doorsteps without knowing why. Imagine being a retriever; some of us don't have to.

Anyway, I digress. She's using His laptop now because she broke her own. Can you tell my why it is that I get gesticulated at for digging a hole in the flowerbed (okay, so it was two holes) and no one does a thing when she wastes a perfectly good piece of equipment. It's a bit harder for me to get access to His laptop and the whole flowerbed thing isn't going to help the situation so I thought I'd better do this quickly before He comes home from work.

I know that I promised to share the contents of my lovely postcard so later on I'll show you a photo of it to prove I'm not imagining it. However, I think I also mentioned her broken camera which has now been replaced by a new one which I can't work. So, I'm going to have to do some serious sucking up tonight if I want help with that. Maybe I'll do less slurping whilst they watch television. Anyway, here is what she said:

Dear Monty,

As your Antipodean cousin I thought that I should introduce myself to you even though we have never met. I am Jacquie, the Jack Russell and I live in sunny Queensland. I do have to tell you how much I enjoy your blog especially the trials and tribulations you have with having your bed made up. Maybe you have to train her a bit better (I have no trouble there at all). Also, please let me know what the Antipodeans got up to on their recent visit (any mention of their adventures was sadly lacking from your blog).

Love and kisses
Jacquie

ps I have been in 3 different beds on 3 different nights this week due to renovations.



I am sure that you will understand my disappointment that we shall never meet in the fur but it is nevertheless an absolute delight to communicate with such an articulate and eloquent young lady dog. I am also confident that she has been attracted to my dignified and mature image on my blog, the likes of which are very rare indeed. Therefore, I must not disappoint and will let her have a little information about her humans' activities whilst they were over here.

Unfortunately, my understanding of their movements (no, not those sort of movements, we're not all obsessed) is limited due to my lack of hearing but I did spend one memorable day in their company and details of this will follow soon.

In the meantime, I send my best wishes to Jacquie and any other dogs out there reading my blog who are too shy to comment but who appreciate my witty banter.

Keeping in Touch

Not only has she been working all week but she's broken her laptop as well. As a matter of fact, she also broke her mobile phone (she could only use it on the loudspeaker which was amusing to watch), her watch, her new camera and one of their nice little plates. Not really a good week then. Therefore, I've been a little absent from your lives and for this I apologise. I've been reminded of the niceties of keeping in touch this week because I had a rather nice postcard from a young lady dog. I will share its contents with you later in the week when I get proper access to a computer and can devote the amount of attention it deserves to get. It is so rare that one receives such pleasant communications these days. Anyway, I will keep you posted in due course.

On being ignored

As you will have seen in recent photos, my home is the kitchen. Now for some bizarre reason - and this is not the first time, in fact, I'm pretty sure it happened last year too - they packed 15 of the little girl's size of humans into my room. They were dressed in every shade of grey you could think of and showing their teeth a lot. I have to say that it was much more bearable this time as I couldn't hear a thing but they all looked stronger and about half-human size this time so I felt a little overwhelmed. They each came with interesting boxes wrapped in paper and I got thrown into another room with the door shut. I was only being sociable. I even tried barking and no one let me out. I could smell nice things coming through the gap under the door. Still, they didn't mind me cleaning the floor up when they'd gone. Quite nice it was too.

The nerve of it

There was one thing I forgot to mention the other day and it was probably the most important of all. With all the moving of furniture, my bed is now under the table in the kitchen (the one which was in the kitchen, then the hallway, then the kitchen and then moved to its current position in the kitchen) and this has good and bad implications.

Firstly, I have my own space, clearly defined by the boundaries of the four very substantial legs (substantial because it's one of those farmhouse tables)and it is mine alone. After all, no one else wants to get under there with me and anyway, I can always discourage that if need be by chewing my groin and making snuffling and slurping noises. I'm pretty safe from children climbing in and making by blankets sticky with anything not of doggy origins.

Secondly - and I think I might've mentioned this before - I'm less likely to be kicked in the face as She's on her way to the fridge as was the situation before the reshuffle.

It's all good so far. There are only two potential difficulties: one, I admit to being a little more jumpy these days since I lost my hearing and I'll have to be careful when startled as this could have a detrimental effect upon my skull. Secondly, I've noticed that my bed isn't getting made up as often as it was. What I need is one of those signs humans put outside their hotel rooms when they want their rooms serviced. Anyone got one?

Christmas Day in July

She's been at it again; moving the furniture around. The table that was in the hallway is back in the kitchen (She moved it to one place and He moved it to another), the piano that was in the sitting room is now in the hallway, ditto for the two bookcases and the thing with the boxes of annoying toys is in the kitchen. If that's not bad enough - and let me tell you that it certainly is - the little boy human's enthusiasm for the box labelled 'Musical Instruments' was renewed by it's relocation. It reminded me of the frantic attention he pays to his toys at Christmas. And guess what? I couldn't hear a thing. Fantastic!

Later on, the little girl came in from that thing she does with a metal stick, hyped up on nice-smelling sugary goodies, insisting that there was a big fat turkey on the roof. Now, even I know that this was very unprobable. It was far more likely to have been one of those tasty pidgeons, just like the ones in bits on the lawn the other day. It wasn't me, honest....

The final bit of proof that they're all as barmy as each other came when the little boy came downstairs (this is something he gets told off for in the same way as I get into trouble for going upstairs)and he was wearing his Christmas pyjamas. I think He was the one who got him ready for bed. I rest my case and my weary head.

Six degrees of separation

Kathryn has asked me to say a few words in response to Sarah’s prompt for today. She knows it’s a subject close to my heart and indeed, one on which I am most knowledgeable. At least compared to her. I once heard that an expert can be defined by the dog in the room who knows more than those around him. On that premise, I shall oblige and share with you my innermost thoughts. In reverse order, they are:
Number 6
Holidays. As you may remember, I quite enjoy these because there are two options. Firstly, I may stay at home and be pampered by the old lady or secondly, I spend time at that hotel where they select a female to keep me company. It’s simple; if we don’t hit it off, they bring in another and so on until they think they have found the perfect match. It’s a bit like speed dating really and although it’s hard to wrench myself away from the first one I meet, variety is the spice of life. A very spicy time I usually have too.
Number 5
Curtains. It’s curious, really; more of an un-separation. They install enormous floor to ceiling windows so that they can see out into the garden from all the downstairs rooms. Next, they install a dog to warn off predators and then when the said dog goes off in response to intrusion on his or her patch, they come storming down the stairs and close all the curtains as if they want to pretend that the windows aren’t there at all. Moreover, no one ever specified what I should bark at. Neither did they say I couldn’t wipe my mouth on the bits of hanging material.
Number 4
Food. Another un-separation, I’m afraid. Christmas was a prime example. Turkey, gravy, stuffing, potatoes, sprouts, carrots, bread sauce and trifle. On one plate. Mixed up with extra custard and some pre-chewed bits of crispy bacon. Of course, I don’t complain but you can see what I have to contend with.
Number 3
Children. They should be separated from the larger humans when there is food around. They are far more reasonable and if you’re prepared to accept a little treat that’s been pre-owned and pre-slobbered over, you’re onto a winner. Sometimes it’s by accident, sometimes not although I have to say that those morsels that are surrupticiously slipped under the table are usually the least tasty. Basically, if it’s really good, they’re not going to give it away easily and you might need to instigate an accident in order to liberate the item from the child’s sticky grasp.
Number 2
Wildlife. Well, what I mean is wildlife outside versus wild life indoors. I’ve got it worked out but I don’t think they have. They are given to vast generalisations about animals and imagine that every wild creature they come across is somehow the same as me but without the luxuries. Wrong. Firstly, I’m here because we made a deal. They pay me with food for the privilege of my presence, both aromatically and visually. Secondly, I am from very fine breeding unlike humans who breed wildly without discrimination.
Number 1
Chocolates. Humans say that chocolates are bad for dogs. Hasn’t anyone every told them that they’re bad for humans? Yes, I suppose so but if they slip the odd box of chocolates into their diets, are they vilified for doing so? No. Hypocritical, that’s what it is. Being able to separate the idea of healthy living with living healthily is beyond them. Why it has to be beyond me I don’t know. I have to be content with ripping up the paper with pictures of chocolates – yes, pictures - they left lying around. You should have seen the panic on her face when she saw the debris. As if I would eat their chocolates. As if.

Crazy Hair Days

Do you remember how last week I told how her fur was the same colour as mine? Well it's not now. And long may it stay that way. At least whilst she's got those funny shades in it. I'm kind of worried. Worried that she might want to do the same to me. First of all, she smells really rough, like bad eggs. Even I wouldn't eat bad eggs. Secondly, it sticks out all over the place. I bet it cost her a bit, too.

I've seen pictures in some dog books of poodles with weird furdos but I've never met one in real life. I don't think they're the sort of dog you'd meet in the forest. Probably too busy getting their fur done and gossiping about the latest line in sparkly collars.

Some of them have naturally wild fur and that's OK. If you like that sort of thing. Obviously, I carry the traditional style of my breed; the distinguished, smooth, shiny look. It's somehow dignified. It's also practical which is more than I can say about her hair. I'd like to see her gallop through the stream and come out looking as attractive as I do. Might improve the smell a bit too.

Madness, I tell you, Madness!

They're burning their dinner outside again. Not unusual, you say? No but it's raining. He's under the oak tree. Perhaps he's hoping to bbq some pidgeon droppings. And then She keeps following me around with a camera. I've been here for five and a half years and she's only just realised that I don't like being photographed. Perhaps it's because she's never had a camera of her own and because it's her birthday tomorrow, she's now got one. I hope the novelty wears off. And I hope if she puts one of my pictures up here, it shows my best side. At least I've got one.

A little snippet

I've been a busy sorting out Kathryn's novel for her so I haven't had time to blog over the last few days. Just so you don't think I've disappeared off the face of the earth altogether (not such a ridiculous assumption only a fortnight ago), I've decided to offer a little snippet of what I've been up to:

I haven’t really set the scene properly for you have I? First of all, there’s her. She has fur almost the same shade as mine but she doesn’t have the white beard. She’s quite bumpy and the lumps shift around according to what she wears. Her face is a bit shiny sometimes and sometimes, she draws black lines around her eyes or colours in her lips. She also covers her claws in different shiny shades of grey. If she walked properly with her forepaws on the ground, I reckon she would be bigger than me. Stop there. I’ve just had the most unpleasant image come to mind; I’ve noticed that gravity is unkind to humans and this shift of direction could have untold implications. Right that’s it. No more on that subject. She smells of food, mainly. Sometimes, in the morning after her shower, she smells a bit flowery, almost fruity but it doesn’t last and she rubs her fingers all over the food they’re going to eat. Her pockets are the best. She keeps biscuits in there for me.
The giant husband human has a lot of fur on his head and it sprouts out on his cheeks and chin too although every now and then it disappears and he suddenly smells excessively strong. But it’s out of a bottle, you know. Typically, humans are slaves to artifice and don’t appreciate the beauty of nature; the pads on the underside of my paws are impregnated with the sweetest aroma and ideally located for dabbing behind my ears, on my stomach or just about anywhere I can reach. It’s just there, waiting to be shared. A decent scent is not just for Christmas.
There’s a small, male human who collects woodlice and a slightly bigger female one who talks incessantly. And then there are the two bigger ones; one in the bedroom who only comes down to eat or attach himself to the television with a piece of wire and the other one who is supposed to have left but comes back to empty the freezer. Interestingly, the all have different types of fur which suggests to me that they’re a pack of mongrels.
You can see my problem; they really defy description. I suppose that actions maketh the man and some things are best left to the imagination, particularly the ones I’m thinking of so let’s press on with her story.

Call me old

Call me old, call me old-fashioned if you like but I think that routine is important. It’s all about expectations, the rhythm of life and knowing where you stand with people. For this reason – and no other I can think of whatsoever – I enjoy continuing the long tradition of my kind; to greet people with a gift at the door.

As you know, my hearing is fading fast to the point that I am at last getting a little peace and quiet. Perhaps a little too much but have no fear, it is interrupted most brutally from time to time. And here is my dilemma. It’s a tricky balance to achieve; if I don’t wait by the door, I’ve no idea when they’ve come in and they start shouting ‘Hello Monty!’ repeatedly in my face and slapping me on the shoulders. If I do wait there, I get bashed to bits when the door opens so it’s a lose-lose situation.

I suppose that it’s nearly retirement time. For my entire life I’ve collected an array of different items for the greeting gift: shoes, slippers, a naked doll which startled a passer-by who, viewing through the open door with poor eyesight thought the worst, dirty socks, junk mail, kitchen implements, the little girl’s transitional object which I resist referring to as ‘Katie’, crumbling, abstract Lego models and an assortment of cuddly toys. It’s a generational thing, you know and I’d be the first to admit that there is a certain amount of weirdness attached to this practice. One thing I do know is that I’m not alone because I once heard her comparing notes with her friend.

I wonder if her friend’s dog has the same problems as I do: tidier uppers. How am I supposed to do my job properly when I can’t find anything? Is it any wonder I’m permanently exhausted? I bet she wouldn’t like it if, when she was about to sit down to some writing, I hid her laptop in a cupboard.

Anyway, it’s been my job for 92 years and maybe it’s time to ease off a bit. As long as She doesn’t take it as a sign that I don’t need walking anymore. Just because I can’t hear or because my eyesight is a little cloudy, doesn’t mean that I can’t I think. It doesn’t mean that I don’t hear the birds singing, the rabbits scurrying into the undergrowth and the peacocks screeching like monkeys. I can smell the honeysuckle and that tells me that all these things are out there so that I can paper the inside of my head with pictures of days gone by. I still appreciate things. I still appreciate everyone; that’s what Labradors do, we’re eager to please. I hope She understands that. I hope she understands that one day I won’t be here, looking for something to bring to her, not even in the background. There’s irony for you; you spend your whole life looking for something that isn’t there and then one day you’re not there. She’ll be sad. They all will.

Mind you, the other morning I think I offended her. She came downstairs early and sat down. Evidently, I didn’t hear her (this story has been recounted many times) and the first clue I gave as to my continuing existence in this world was when I lifted my nose into the air, followed the trail of scent (the smell) in an arc towards the sofa. Of course, I was then able to get up and look appreciative – and let’s face it, at my age, every morning you wake up is a bonus – but I think it was too late. The damage was done: either she knows I’m decrepit or I’m seen as some sort of miscreant. As I said, a lose-lose situation.

Aged Angels

You tend to think of angels as being either young or ageless so when someone told her she was angel, it went to her head. A heavenly being she is not. A picture of heavenly being she certainly isn’t. Kind person? Occasionally. Guardian and guide? Getting closer. Financial backer? Now, there’s the rub.

Along with the technologizing of the word – and lord knows there’s enough of that in the house - has come the technologizing of motherhood. The umbilical cord to her eldest child has been replaced by a broadband connection. Parents used to hear from their children a couple of times a term. She hears from hers a couple of times a day. He’ll tell her when he’s bored, ask what she’s doing, what the weather’s going to be like and can he have some money for the rail fare home? Before my hearing went, I saw an advert on television for a new service offered by the directory enquiries people where you can phone them up and ask them anything at all and they will find the answer to your question. She could do that job. Or they could do hers.

I don’t know how she’s going to cope when the next one goes. At the moment, communication can be difficult given that he’s in his bedroom most of the time, usually wearing headphones and I know for a fact that she’s sent him a message on MSN to tell him that his dinner’s ready. I suppose it all depends upon whether he engages fully with that university lifestyle you hear them raving about. After all, you can’t be sitting at the computer and the bar of the Student Union simultaneously. Or maybe you can; I don’t know, I can’t keep up.

And she can’t keep up recently either, I’ve noticed. Her knees are creakier than mine and I’m 92 (or is it 99?) so if she did grow angel wings, I’m sure it would be jolly helpful but somehow, it seems unlikely.

Please release me

Good lord, you wouldn’t believe what’s been going on here. Here I am, convalescing, deserving of some quality time and attention in my senior years and they were dribbling over that little rat. Okay, so it wasn’t a rat as such, in fact, it was smaller. What is it with humans and baby animals?

Just as soon as I get the chance, I’m going to have a word with Marmaduke about this business seeing as he was the instigator of the whole farce. Rule one: what you get up to outside the house is up to you but don’t bring your work home. Rule two: don’t compromise your inscrutability or they’ll think you’ve lost it.

He should have a refresher course from the vicious one. He knows the score; if you bring home the wildlife, behead it or extract its intestines so that it loses its cute factor. Cute baby animals and humans are a bad, bad combination and to even think of bring home a rabbit when they’ve obviously got a soft spot for them is a preposterous idea.

I, at least, had the right idea. The poor little fellow was cowering in the bush with three humans standing over him, one of whom was clutching and berating a cat. He wasn’t going anywhere and I wasn’t going to chase him. Being brought back by the scruff of the neck and licked gently by Marmaduke – I don’t even want to know what he was doing with it but it wasn’t very cat-like - would be enough to paralyse anyone with fear. I almost felt sorry for him. At least, I did until She picked him up and decided that rather than leave him to chill out in peace, he should be rescued and imprisoned in a cage.

They spent the next two days trying to shove milk down his throat with a syringe, commenting regularly upon his bowel movements – another human trait, dropping obsession – and feeding him dandelion leaves of which the garden is now bare.
I just couldn’t grasp the logic here. What were they going to do, capture and imprison every bit of wildlife passing through the garden? I worry, you know, because maybe if I was a bit younger, this wouldn’t have happened. I know I’m slipping, a bit arthritic, deaf (although the jury’s still out on just how deaf I really am) and when I get a shout these days, my response time is a bit over the average.

They did see sense in the end and decided to release the poor fellow. Heaven knows if it was anywhere near where he came from but given the speed at which he shot away from the forest and into the path of the oncoming car and the dive bombing magpie, he’ll be back in our garden in no time. Whether he’ll be intact is another matter.

Out for the count

I once overheard a so-called expert saying that Labradors can’t count; she was arguing that I wouldn’t notice how many handfuls of biscuits I had been given at any one time. Presumably she attributed her own obesity to mathematical genius but that’s beside the point. Naturally, I said nothing to shatter her illusions and in fact, my arrival at paradise after that last hellhole where I was tied up all day compensated for the stricter regime at mealtimes. So I let her ill-judged comment pass.

But it still eats away at me. How do they think I know when it’s time to sit behind the front door? How am I supposed to know when to patrol the boundary if I can’t count? It seems that this misconception extends to vets too. Listen, I know the drill; I’ve watched the medical dramas. No one asked me to count backwards from ten. No one bothered to tell me afterwards just how many teeth they had extracted so it’s just as well I can count. Seven. Yes, seven teeth. Gone, just like that.

He went up in my estimation for a little while. She, the master of understatement and stupidity, asked ‘I wonder if he’s in a lot of pain?’ to which He replied ‘Well, I think anyone who had seven teeth out would be.’ She keeps covering me up with a blanket. Like that’s going to help. What I need is more drugs. Only thing is that this painkilling stuff is playing havoc with my eczema and chewing it is tricky to say the least. All She keeps going on about is how nice my breath is. I bet they’ll be treating my teeth like jewels having seen the huge bill. In fact, I think that my whole body will become a temple, that She might be a little more respectful and not fall over me so often now that I’ve cost them so much. He made a very tasteless joke about getting a refund if I didn’t make it so he’s just been demoted again. She’s talking about giving me a bath and washing my blankets. Because I’m worth it, of course and there’s nothing like having to count the pennies for the vet’s bill to remind them. They keep smiling at me and stroking my head. Who says money can’t buy happiness?

A strange day

I knew it - a nice, long walk last night no breakfast and everyone patting me. I'm not gone yet.

Going under at the vets ......

Well, my paw’s better but what a can of worms it opened! Did she tell you what happened to my paw? No, I don’t suppose she did. Probably too busy. As you may know, I’m still under the vet (metaphorically speaking) since the Cassie incident which has scuppered any chances of female company ever again. And now? Now, I’ll be banned from playing ball, having ripped my nail off, as if the indignity of wearing that bright green boot thing on my foot wasn’t enough. And then they’re on to my teeth, talking about the contents of my ears as if I can’t hear them at all and discussing my innards as if they’re the Manager’s Special on the Meat and Fish Counter at Sainsbury’s. Of course, they’re a little past their best, I’m ninety-two for goodness’ sake. They’re going to do my teeth, a chest x-ray and flush out my ears but their hushed tones don’t fool me. I know that there’ll be no breakfast tomorrow morning. I know that they’re going to ‘get some fluids into me’ and this does not sound as civilised as I would like. I even heard mention of the fact that I might stay overnight. Mind you, those nurses are quite nice, I suppose. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Black Rod Dog

Though it’s the same, it sounds different. It used to be like cymbals clanging, reverberating and twanging the hairs in my ear flaps. I understand that it’s not what most people do; most would ring the bell or open the door with a key. She does both and I really appreciate that, especially now. Of course, a while ago, I’d hear the rumble of tyres over the bricks on the driveway, the rasping ratchet of her handbrake being yanked up and the clunk of the door. There would usually be a hiatus, a silence protruding into this cacophony announcing her arrival whilst she rummaged in her pockets for the key on the koala ring. As she entered, she would simultaneously ring the doorbell to let everyone in the household know that she had arrived. By this time, I would have found the thing I was looking for, the item to be given upon the opening of the door and my official duties would begin.
I’m not sure how I came to get this job. It could be because of my past. It could be hereditary. It could be because of my ‘experience’ in my former life. If I was to describe how it is to fulfil my role, I would liken it to that of Black Rod. I act as a personal attendant, usher and doorkeeper at meetings, admission of strangers to the house and perform the task of arresting anyone guilty of contempt, disorder or disturbance of the house’s proceedings. It is a fact that Black Rod is usually appointed from the senior ranks of the armed forces so I leave you to draw your own conclusions on that one.

Anyway, this problem I’ve got with my hearing is causing mayhem. I hear the bell but it’s more like a distant sleigh-bell in a dream and the rest that has gone before is just an auditory blank. And so this morning I got a bit confused. The back legs are a bit stiff and when I stand up, it takes a while for the old circulation to get going and I can only attribute my moment of madness to this time lag between mind and body. I just about managed to get there as the door was being closed, I’d had no time to get the thing and before I knew it, I’d grabbed the hem of her dress and I’d no idea why. And because I’d no idea why and because I was so shocked and appalled at this undignified display of senility, I didn’t even let go straight away. The shame of it. No damage done, fortunately, except to my pride.

Note to self: I must remember to get the thing on the way there regardless of my lateness. Better to be late and fully equipped for the job in hand than turn up looking clueless.

Behind the facade

To those on the outside, our life is completely normal and sane. The only small hint of any subversion of suburban life is the slobber-encrusted, battered cat flap blemishing an otherwise well-presented house in a sought after area of the town.
Denied the opportunity to scare the wits out of passers-by to the extent I used to enjoy, I now take great pleasure in startling visitors to the front door by poking my distinguished platinum snout through the opening. Interestingly, one of the girl’s friends has had the same idea and rather than ringing the door bell when she comes, sticks her head through the cat flap and shouts. One day, this is going to lead to trouble, I know it.
In between all these comings and goings of dogs and small humans, the occasional cat slips through. Very fast. Once inside, the external facade of peace fades to the mere trace of a memory and you’re lucky if you can find a quiet corner anywhere. My favoured place in front of the French windows in the sitting room (previously the dining room that no one used and was blissfully quiet) is now taken up with their tent. This is obviously not a good thing. However, every cloud has a silver lining as they say and this particular one has an outer one made of heavy duty canvas and an inner tent with sewn-in groundsheet. See how brainwashed I’ve been? Anyway, the tent goes when they go and when they go, the old lady comes to STAY. Yay! Five days of sympathy and food. No walks – probably – but this only compounds my plight and I will be elevated to almost angelic status for the duration. Happy holidays indeed. Only five days to go and counting.

Last Orders

Right here, right now doesn’t seem to exist in this household anymore. Right now, I’m hankering after my evening stroll and they’re flicking through a camping catalogue. They’re not going for another week, for Pete’s sake.
Just tell me why this lure of the outside is so damn complicated. You want to sleep outside? Fine. Do it. Why then do you need to order a £400 tent, more bedding than you can shake a tent pole at (why not just take your lovely smelly bedding from home, I say) and spend hours debating how many saucepans to take and the variety of meals that can be cooked in just one of them.
And a compass? What’s that all about? Surely they can smell their way around wherever they’re going. Heaven knows they smell strong enough so it wouldn’t be that difficult. And torches. Torches so that they can see when they get up in the night. That’s a laugh; I’ve seen them getting up in the night and they usually have their eyes shut. That’s why I sleep half way down the stairs and not at the top otherwise I’d get kicked on a regular basis. Actually, I do get kicked on a regular basis but that’s another story. Anyway, let me tell you, if you have to go outside in the night, you soon learn to control your bladder. Especially after the last visit before bedtime when the grass is cold, wet and you go to sleep with soggy paws. In terms of being at one with nature, there is nothing more sobering than urinating outdoors late at night.

Monty's List

She's making a list again. For their mad trip, I think. I was going to show it to you but quite frankly, it's as boring as it gets. Boring and long. There was only one curious thing on it and that was 'Details of Albert's place'. Who's Albert?
Anyway, I can't answer that but it did get me thinking about my own list.

I once heard that some humans have an ongoing joke about sending people they dislike to 'the island'. The concept of this island is a metaphorical one, shared amongst a specific group of individuals, perhaps within their workplace. Much can be achieved with such a scheme and it is by no means as monopolised by humans as they care to think although my own version is slightly more sophisticated. I find their methods slightly underhand, sly and cruel whereas my own are more honest and effective.

It has not gone unnoticed by Her that since that incident - and I'm sorry to bang on about it - that our relationship has been a little frosty to say the least. I'm now in Stage Two of the operation having moved from complete avoidance (Stage One)to generally shifty behaviour complemented by a certain look. This is my failsafe advice to anyone finding themselves in a sticky situation with a member of the household:

Be sitting up and comfortable
Tilt your chin downwards slightly
Hunch your shoulders a little (vulture-like)
Now stare at your target for at least five minutes without moving even on provocation
Repeat three times a day for seven days
Always finish the course

It is guaranteed that your target will be in no doubt whatsoever that they are on your list. I would say that being the biddable fellow I am, my list is generally quite short and consists mostly of dogs rather than humans. However, He has now migrated to my list along with Her. Usually She does the unspeakable things to my ears, takes me to be poked at the vets and He feeds me; on this basis there is no contest. But yesterday, He fed me as usual and then rammed the thing in my ear when I was still eating! So now I've got my work cut out and this is where the old saying that you shouldn't bite the hand that feeds you becomes particularly pertinent. Therefore, I have had to skip Stage One and zip straight to Stage Two because obviously, I cannot ignore my food source. On the other hand, if he behaves himself, I might give him a reprieve. It all depends on whether I get any scraps from that barbecue or not...

Thus, I hope to have demonstrated how much can be achieved from the sitting position. As I said, sophisticated and mellow; dignified even. Yes, that's it a dignified silence.

The lure of the outdoors

You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? The tent arrived yesterday and the barmy weather that had inspired its purchase departed.
She wants to sleep under canvas. She wants to smell the dew on the roof in the mornings, not get static shocks from those nylon tunnels which look more appropriate for growing sweaty vegetables. It’s breathability, she says. Sleeping with all the windows, even when it’s minus five outside at night, just isn’t enough anymore. How he puts up with it, I’ve no idea. He doesn’t even bark or anything, just plods off up to bed each night after he’s downed a bottle of wine and let me out for my patrol. After five-and-a-half years, I think he may be about to twig: each night he thinks I’m checking my territory, doing doggy stuff. Each night, I’m gone for a long, long time. Of course, the deafness helps and I can really go for it now after, well, you know what business I’m talking about. In fact, if it hadn’t been for that bitch, my little secret would never have been let out at all. And now it’s all spoilt.
When I first arrived, I had to do a little twist and a limbo-style manoeuvre to work my way through the hole in the hedge; this was okay then as I was a fine figure of a dog. They thought it was the foxes and who was I to disillusion them? If I did, then I’d start getting the blame for the poo on the patio and the other little ....well, let’s just leave it at that. Anyway, after that blasted Cassie made a break for it, they’ve been talking about covering the hole; they’ve even joked about me going to the pub at night whilst he’s standing calling my name (and I can’t hear him, obviously, because I’m deaf).
But now my outings are scuppered. A horrible piece of chain link fencing has covered the holes. You know, it’s only a matter of time before the foxes reopen it. In fact, when they go off on this mad trip they keep on about, I can focus my attention on the work in hand without them looking over my shoulder. The boy will be too busy killing things on the computer and the cats will be just killing things and the old lady thinks that butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth; lord knows, she’s given me enough.

Reverse thrust

I think you'd call it a rush job. An after dinner sprint because she's had one too many chocolate biscuits from which she never drops any crumbs. As we crossed the road, she told me that she fancied a change, that we were going to try something new.

Do I get to see camels crossing the desert? No. Do I get to feel the sweet breath of Niagara Falls dampening my coat? No. Do I get to cock my leg on the Giant Redwoods in Yosemite? No. Her idea of a change is to walk exactly the same route, in reverse and faster. When I say in reverse, I don't mean that we walked backwards because that would be plain stupid (for all I know that could even be next) but we went anticlockwise instead of clockwise. Just how is this different? Any fool dog can tell that it's exactly the same pavement but that the little shrubs bordering people's gardens that she always yanks me back from, the lamp post with the 'No Fouling' sign and that rusty patch on the post box all come in the opposite order. The situation was further complicated by the velocity of her gait and it became like watching my life being rewound at high speed.

Now the consequence of all this reversal business is a difficulty in the execution of my business, the target area usually being within the last third of our walk. I strongly suspect that her hidden agenda for this reverse thrust was to avoid the embarrassment of bending down in the same area yet again to clean up after me. Little did she know. A rush job, I think you'd call it.

Picking up the pieces

They're at it again. Moving furniture around. Now, the only good thing that came out of that wretched bitch incident is that they put a nice, smelly duvet on the floor in what I've heard them referring to as the 'sitting room'. This is the same room which was previously known as the dining room. I think it's terribly rude of them to impose a change of use without consultation with me given that I was the only one who ever used it before. I'd just got it so that my aroma permeated every surface and now she's in there dusting and spraying stuff all over the place.

I've seen her looking at the duvet. That's why I'm not moving or leaving her alone in the room with it. After all, they've got two 'sitting rooms' now so why shouldn't I have two beds? Especially as my privacy has been compromised, not to mention the compensation I deserve for last week's debacle.

Anyway, as us dogs say little morsels of mirth come the way of those who wait nicely. The other day, she took me tantalisingly close to the forest. Not in it. Just next to it. We walked along the grass but every time I sniffed at the rabbit tracks leading into the undergrowth, she yanked me back. Quite cunningly, I managed to leave a little deposit. Actually, that's not strictly accurate; it was neither little, nor singular. You see, I've perfected the art of widespread distribution as this maximises the chances of her losing her grip on the bag and sticking her fingers right into it. Regular readers of my blog may remember my previous successes on this front but on this particular occasion, I reached new heights. I managed to do it in the same place as some other fellow who obviously had a less conscientious owner. The consequence of this was that she got confused over whose was who's. Only temporarily though. It became clear to her that she was picking up another dog's deposit for two reasons: firstly, she had stuck her finger in it and secondly, it was cold. That'll teach her.

You may have been wondering where I've been over the last couple of days, why I haven't written. The answer is that I haven't been anywhere at all. Not for a walk, anyway so I've nothing very interesting to write about. So I'm going to take the opportunity to have a moan. Now, I know you are probably thinking that this is totally out of character but sometimes things get quite intolerable and just have to be aired.

Firstly, there is the lack of the walk. This is totally unacceptable. Being too tired or busy is no excuse whatsoever. I hope she makes up for it this afternoon or I'll have to consider action.

Secondly, there was the visit to the vet. What was the point of that? It is very poor manners indeed to talk about someone as if they're not in the same room. It is even worse to poke around in their mouth, discuss their temperament and dental hygiene and not expect to be bitten. I hardly know him. Although, I do remember him, at least, which is more than could be said of the vet. I don't have to read my notes to remember that he sent me off on a jolly day out to see that nice lady at the dog hospital who did very expensive impressions of my condition. It was a fabulous place with carpets in reception but even better, they took me out to some lovely fields to see if they could get me to clear my throat like I do at home. It was worth every penny they spent on that trip just to see the man being made to run up and down the hill, having his recall tested by the nice lady whilst I jogged alongside him. Of course, I was fine but I think he needed a rest afterwards.

Anyway, the vet, having now remembered everything perfectly, was discussing whether I need an operation or not. And so she brought up the subject of my mouth and then the vet did an impression although not as good as the lady at the other place. He said it could be a rotten tooth. On his advice, she now keeps peering at me when I'm eating which is a bit off-putting as you can imagine. What she should be doing is peering at that miserable stripy cat instead; try putting him off what he was doing in the night last night. Jumped right over me with some creature in his mouth, tortured it for a while and then sat crunching it up loudly outside their bedroom door. Disgusting. The whole lot of them.

The story behind the scar

The story behind the scar will stay in my head long after my fur’s grown back. It will be documented in my medical notes at the vets and no doubt be fodder for dinner party gossip long after I’m gone. The main thing is that it’s over now and I think that she’s seen the error of her ways. I’m still not going to look at her, even though she keeps looking at me. Good. I hope she feels really guilty. The only thing is, I’m not sure if I can carry off this deaf thing any more. Now, I know I’m a pretty tough, handsome, intelligent and all that but I have to admit that these past few days have taken their toll on me. Naturally, my pride is wounded and the visible scars on my forehead do nothing to make me feel better about things. I believe that being beaten up by a woman is even unacceptable for humans so they should have at least some idea of how I’m feeling. And then there’s the other issue of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. You see, how it works is that you’re going about your business, cocking your leg, sniffing lampposts and rat holes one day, quite happily. The next minute, something like this happens and the little green light in your head which tells you that it’s OK is suddenly stuck on red. You can’t go around thinking that bad things only ever happen to other dogs when it’s already happened to you. A bit like an eternal bonfire night but without the camaraderie of the cats . So I’m jumpy. A car horn, a voice from behind, a car door slamming. Suddenly, she notices that I’m hearing things. This is bad news for me long term because I’d been working on my selective hearing technique and had been making real progress. So I’ll keep not looking at her, making her feel bad and hope that she forgets my little slip-ups on the hearing front.

I'm throwing away all the mirrors in the house

My looks are ruined. I was a handsome, upright, distinguished specimen of the Labrador breed with a certain standing in the neighbourhood and now look at me. People have come to expect my face sticking out of the cat flap in the front door as they pass by. Not now. My eyes are watering just thinking about doing it. My head’s bald, I look like I’ve got a golf ball in my cheek and the wounds from that blessed bitch are on display for all to see, encrusted with dried blood in that annoying shade of grey that us dogs hate. Before they went off, he’d made a joke about changing his T shirt from the one with the nice dribbles down the front to a red one.

‘It’s not a bull we’re going to pick up, is it?’ he asked her. I ask you. If that’s not an omen then I don’t know what is.

‘No, it’s a dog and they’re colour blind.’

‘But it might be a really annoying shade of grey’.

‘Ha. Don’t be silly’. I rest my case.

I’m not going to go over the ins and outs of what happened, you can read her blog if you fancy being really bored (at least that much hasn’t changed). All I can say is that I thought I was a gonner and if it hadn’t been for the bigger boy, I would have been. Worse still, the old lady came off worst of all and she’s my most exciting food source. Got to rest now, these drugs they’ve given me make me feel good but I just want to sleep. Some beauty sleep.

Running out of things

You see the problem with humans is their tendency to fantasise and exaggerate at the expense of what’s patently obvious. They call this creativity and think that it is exclusively their domain. It’s what they do to explain things outside of their limited powers of reasoning. Frustratingly, there are few instances of non-human intervention to shatter their illusions.

Take yesterday as an example. She’d been out to meet a friend in the evening. Naturally, I’ve no objections to that but it did mean that I didn’t get my after-dinner walk. But I digress. Anyway, what was she talking about the next day? Was it interesting bits of gossip about mutual friends or tales of woe (and let’s face it, humans don’t usually pass up the chance)? No. Now, before we begin, let me ask you something else: how many times in a week does she have to ‘nip out’ to the shop down the road for the odd bit of food she didn’t have the foresight to buy on the days she comes back with all those bags I’m not allowed to sniff or lick? On average, at least twice. Bear that in mind.

So here’s the story. Her friend goes into her local supermarket. It’s quite a big one in the town where she lives but I shouldn’t mention it’s name even though I’ve heard it in this house about a hundred times in the last twenty-four hours. It’s Friday night and it’s busy. She sees a rat running from the lemonade to the peanuts. Alone. The rest of the tale (pardon the pun) is of little interest to me, she complained, got home and wrote a letter (another thing they think they’ve got a monopoly on). Apparently, she was outraged at the lack of horror or surprise in their response and an allusion to the fact that this was not the first time one had been spotted.

As she rightly pointed out, rats don’t really like humans very much. They tend to go about in crowds. So this lone, brave chap was obviously out on a limb, on a mission to get necessary supplies. Admittedly, one has to question what sort of emergency requires lemonade and peanuts, except perhaps a spontaneous party but who knows? You just can’t make these wild assumptions. But she did. She thinks that if a rat is willing to put himself out there in the fray of humans on a busy Friday evening, then this automatically infers that when the shop closes, it must be teeming with their extended family and friends. Not so. I don’t think I would be overstepping the mark to say that humans don’t really like each other when in shops - never mind rats – judging by the way she goes on when she gets back with the bags. This dislike also extends to the car park but that’s another story. A long one. Anyway, let’s just say she sees a friend in the supermarket. She’s on her own with a trolley. Let’s also just say that it’s someone she doesn’t like very much. Inevitably, as they have little in common, they discuss the tragedy and hardships of supermarket shopping. Does she, therefore, make the assumption that once the shop’s closed, her ‘friend’ returns with her entire family and friends? No. I’m just making a point.

You see, rats work in packs, much like dogs. And they’re fairly intelligent, much like dogs. They’re also very agile, much like dogs. You spotting a pattern here? We like to work in teams. Small, close-nit, cosy teams. Not like humans. None of this ‘I’m going shopping’ lark’. There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’. Just a select few. Not the exaggerated population she imagines in her warped view of things. She imagines hundreds running about randomly picking what takes their fancy of the shelves (like she does).

There are four wheels on a trolley. They don’t like to touch the handles; you never know what sort of humans have had their hands there. They don’t take their kids so there’s no need to pin them down. They don’t need someone to push and someone to put food in. They can do both. As I said, they’re intelligent. It only takes one trolley and four rats. To feed a family of two hundred. And as far as going when the shop’s shut, I really don’t blame them at all. But sometimes you just run out.

The Night Train

I think she’s got confused. Again. And now she’s trying to confuse me too. I think she overheard a phrase on Radio 4 whilst she was flattening the clothes and she got that distant look on her face which usually means trouble. Recently, it’s been carpet cleaning and furniture rearrangement but now I can feel her gaze falling square upon the top of my head, sitting as heavily as a bejewelled crown.

In a way, I suppose I’m partly to blame. There was the incident with Tyler the other night (stupid name for a dog), the other two black labs in the forest who jumped me when it was pouring with rain then and having to cross the road to avoid a punch-up with a staffy. The icing on the cake – if you’ll pardon the expression – may well have been the heap I deposited at the entrance to someone’s driveway whilst they sat at their full-length front window no doubt enjoying an after-dinner cup of tea and admiring the scenery. Okay, so that was a bit bad but what’s a dog to do?

So we go out at night. Night training. Etymologically, its origins are probably unrelated to how I came to be being walked in the pitch black. Night train, night training? That’s how her mind works; bizarrely. And here I am, bearing the brunt of it. I’m a black dog, apart from the distinctive marks of maturity under my chin, I’m walking in the blackness. She knows that my hearing isn’t what it used to be (as does the postman), that I can’t see very much and that the little I can see in this darkness is black and white and blurry. Now then, she’s got a pocket full of nice smelly biscuits so I’m not paying attention to following my scent along the pavement from yesterday, I’m completely disorientated. Of course I’m not going to pull on the lead, insist on going in any one particular direction or pick any fights. She thinks the training’s working. She’ll be writing a book about dog behaviour next.

Wild Animals I Have Known

She thinks I'm going to write about wild animals. As if I'm an expert. I think she thinks that by surrounding themselves with animals, they're somehow recreating the 'wild'. I've known a few domestic animals that are pretty wild. In fact, some of them live in this very house. Or outside of it. But on my patch, nevertheless.

Let's start with the cats. One, Marmaduke is a big, stripy, orange fellow who always comes to greet me by rubbing himself up and down my side. Sometimes, he slips underneath me which I'm not too keen on but I let him get away with it because he's alright. His only fault is that he sometimes takes up a little more than his fair share of the middle stair where we sleep. I suppose he has a bit of a nerve really when you think how small he is and how much he stretches out. On the other hand, I think that the cute factor of him being there has probably saved me from being kicked off and sent back to my bed a few times. He does smell a bit and I don't think I've ever seen him washing. And before you say anything, yes, I know I smell a lot but I do wash and anyway, it's a nice smell. It's just that those humans don't appreciate the finer things in life.

Washing too much is bad for you. The other cat, Tiger, is living proof. He's got little bald patches which are most unattractive. He's also neurotic. Actually, he's plain evil. And he's got short legs. He steals around like a thief, skirting around the edges of the room, his chin almost on the ground, always peering around corners. He's got some unpleasant nocturnal habits too. He brings in creatures and crunches them up on the stairs, leaving just the gall bladder. I wouldn't mind but it's only two stairs down from where Marmaduke and I sleep. The only positive attribute he has is that he doesn't smell of cats although to be fair, I never get close enough to be sure because he hates me. Actually, he hates everyone.

Now then, outside in the garden in two large wooden boxes with bits of wire on the front are two rabbits. They hate each other because they are male. Now, that much I can identify with. The larger one, Bramble is quite nice and always runs up to the wire to say hello when I'm passing. Because of this, I make a point of not lifting my leg in his direction. I've got great respect for Bramble. One day, he was in the run on the grass and Tiger jumped in with him. As I said, he's got short legs and a bit of an attitude problem. Bramble on the other hand is extremely cool, not to mention extremely handy with his back legs so upon being stalked, gave him a good kicking. However, the other one, Major, tries to act hard, something I can only put down to 'small rabbit complex'. I've seen him boxing the man when he's being fed which I think is not only uncalled for but more than a little bit stupid. He's always running up and down his ramp going upstairs and downstairs manically. He does himself no favours because I've seen them g bet Bramble out but never him. I think they're scared and quite frankly, I don't blame them.

Sensibly, the wild animals don't put in an appearance until I've gone to bed. I know that the rabbits were getting a lot of hassle off a fox and I must admit that I've been a bit slack with barking at them recently (well, I assume they're there, it's just that I can't hear them) and she's always going about badgers. It all happens when I'm curled up fast asleep with my mate Marmaduke. We're a civilised lot in this house, not wild at all.

A pleasant evening stroll

What happened to the idea of one man and his dog? Somehow, it's not the same; one woman, one little girl and one little boy, all of whom have different agendas for taking an after-dinner stroll.

Firstly, I have to say that I knew it was a bad idea from the start. The little one doesn't walk very fast or very far and falls over quite a lot. Like me, he's doesn't like to walk in a straight line and enjoys stopping unexpectedly to examine the dandelions, trees and blades of grass. The only difference is that he doesn't urinate over them. Usually. What I can't understand is that when I go, she doesn't care except that she gets embarrassed if it's over someone's flowers. For him, we were suddenly in a blind panic to get to a side road with a hedge. He got told off for not going before he went out. Maybe he was just marking out his territory but then who am I to give parental advice?

I could tell that she wasn't enjoying it. Frankly, neither was I seeing as how instead of my usual lead, she wrapped me up in some peculiar black straps. You'd think the fact that it took her about 10 attempts to get it on the right way around would have given her a clue as to its unsuitability for a dog of my standing. The man had to come along and help and once they were both satisfied, we left the house. My funny walk was probably the reason that the other dog and I came to blows. 'You're not very friendly, are you Tyler?' was what the other woman said and I still don't know to whom she was directing her question. All I can say it that it is hard to retain your dignity when you go out onto the street looking like you're ready for some bizarre bondage session.

Whilst her guard was down and she was preoccupied with getting the two little people to walk to heel, I decided to try something out. The way things were going, I just knew that she was going to try and cut our walk short. When we got to the corner just past the postbox, I could feel her veering off to the right. I wasn't ready to go home just yet so I tried pulling her straight ahead instead. It didn't work. She was onto me and tried pulling me to the right. That didn't work either. This Mexican standoff was too much for her and predictably, she gave in and our walk was extended. In fact, her arms were extended too. By this time, we were working as a team and the boy was lagging behind and I was steaming ahead purposefully. Nice work indeed. That'll be the last time she makes me wear that thing.

What a Day!

She's up to something, I know it. Here I am 91 years old (did I mention that before?) and she brings a blonde around to play. She's trying to kill me. She expected me to be cross. She seemed surprised to learn that it's male dogs I don't like. What is she on? Yeah, I know, I can't do anything about it (that definitely would kill me) but there's nothing wrong with a little female company. Especially when we have so much in common. Looks, for one. Although she's a northerner; from Liverpool, I believe whilst I....well, let's just say that I'm not. I was the perfect gent. I let her drink out of my water bowl, wipe her bottom on the floor (she has an anal gland problem) and didn't complain about her running around on my patch, even though I was kept on a lead. Then they decided that going for a walk would be a good idea. See how we got on, they said. It was one of the proudest moments I can remember, the ultimate in cool; walking along the pavement with a lady at my side. Of course I wasn't going to bite her! What kind of tricks do these humans get up to anyway? I still think she's up to something...

Exploring Somewhere You Know Well

It was all going on here today. She was out getting in bags and bags of stuff that I'm not allowed to go near. Not sure where she gets it from but it's their food. I only get it after they've finished pushing it around but that's another story. Anyway, there was a lot of commotion out in the street; a police car parked in the road down the side of our house and a PC was turning cars back at the junction. Then I saw some of my mates turn up in another car. I was just thinking that it was a good time to keep my head down when I got locked in the utility room. Usually, I'm shoved in the dining room but presumably because she cleaned the carpet in there yesterday, I'm now banned from being banished there. And so I had a little time to reflect on the goings on. Obviously, something was afoot as it's not everyday you see a heavy police presence in this neighbourhood. Through the door, I could hear her getting very excited because she thought she had seen an Armed Response Vehicle turn up. Of course, through the thickness of a knotty solid pine door, I was unable to verify this but it was an interesting development nonetheless.

I was stuck in that room much longer than I have ever been in the dining room. This was not very satisfactory given that it's a cold, hard floor and I'm 91. She's never taken that long bringing in the bags from the car. Then, I heard her talking to the old lady suggesting that she go and ask what was going on. In no time she was back again and they were speculating on the nature of the 'serious incident' to which the PC had referred. What I heard next was unbelievable; she said she was going to take me along the road to see what was happening. Just imagine this: a gunman is on the loose and she wants me to go for a stroll. I thought that it was supposed to be dogs who had a nose for trouble but thinking about it, a dog would only do it in the line of duty not on a whim out of pure curiousity. The final straw was when I heard the old lady saying:
'Oh, you don't want to do that'
At last, the voice of reason.
'If there are police dogs about, you don't want to get caught up with them'.
'But they're well behaved'
'I know but yours isn't!'
Unbelievable. So there we all were in the vicinity of a mad gunman and they were taking the opportunity to discuss my behaviour towards other dogs.

It seemed as if the situation was resolved quite suddenly which only added to their unsatisfied curiosity. So, after a cup of coffee (her, not me), we went for the most bizarre walk yet. Down to the end of the road, right, round the bend, left into that crescent, up the alley back to the first road back along where we'd been not five minutes before, round the back of the perimeter of our house, up the road where the police car had been parked and home. Exploring somewhere you know well is a fine art; you stop to inhale the odours, retrace your steps from last time you were there. It is not meant to be a brisk walk in a circle. Furthermore, it was embarrassing. As we neared the front door, it started to rain and I realised that I'd had quite a close call; she might easily have made me wear that coat again. Back inside, she resumed yesterday's activity of cleaning the carpets.

Later on in the afternoon, the old lady went along to the school - I'm never allowed to go there either in case I disgrace myself in some way although if I had a gun, it may be different - and came back triumphantly with the news. Or at least a bit of it. A hairdryer. Yes, it was something to do with a hairdryer. The mind boggles. That's humans for you.

Busted

When I arrived, they had a form. It was all in black and white: DOES NOT LIKE LOUD NOISES. How much clearer could it have been? Fair enough, fireworks are an extreme example and admittedly, I do spend rather a lot of time shaking, facing the corner of the room but just because I don't do that for everything, doesn't mean I'm OK about it. As if four children weren't enough. When are children at their most noisy stage? Between 4 and 6 and also between 16 and 18. Guess what? That's what I have to live with. If it's not toy guns, drums or recorders being blown, it's that thump, thump, thump and the guitar music. For some reason, the older ones turn up the television to ear splitting level even though they're lying in front of it. It's just not fair. You should hear them when they're all in the kitchen at once. The sound bounces around like a rubber ball in fish bowl.

Just recently, she's developed a new obsession: cleaning carpets. School days are usually relatively quiet but not today. Today, she spent the entire time moving things around in the dining room, using that dreadful contraption to get rid of what she calls 'dirt'. There's nothing wrong with a good doggy smell. I've worked hard on that carpet over the years and I'd just got it how I wanted it and then she goes and spoils it. I did laugh though. She spent ages with a huge needle trying to sew over the bare patch with the loose thread which had been hidden under the rug. I had to put my paws up to that one. After breakfast on day - theirs, not mine - when the old lady had given me my milk and cereal (whilst the others weren't looking), I went into the dining room to wipe my chops on the carpet. Unfortunately, the metal ring on my collar got caught in the pile and pulled a massive thread away. More unfortunately, my name tag came off in the struggle to free myself and anxious to remove myself from the scene, I left it there.

It's quite hard to look cute enough to get past that sort of faux pas. Worse still, had they just been angry, I could've taken it but they all had a good laugh at my expense instead; said that I was actually rather stupid not to have covered my tracks. Like they never make a mistake! What happened to plain honesty anyway?

She's pleased with herself this evening. The carpet is back to its original colour and she's shut the door. The final straw is this: he's come and home set up in competition with her. He's picked up the poo and got the lawn mower out. I've got twice as much work to do now .....

Result!

Let me tell you: no amount of double-bagging was going to save her tonight. Her fingers went straight into it and it remained under her fingernails for the duration of the walk. The downside was that she cut our walk short but it was worth it to see her struggling with the lead in her left hand whilst I insisted on sniffing the hedges on the right. She looked quite ridiculous with the lead stretched across in front of her and most uncomfortable. Now, you see, I know the trick. In future I will repeat what I did tonight; to do it in one place alone is too easy. I calculate that around four piles is far more effective. If there is just one, it is a clean sweep (so to speak). If there are multiple deposits, it is impossible for her to approach the last pile with the same confidence that she will be able to gather it in one stroke with the bag. And so it came to pass this evening. She ended up stroking it alright but not with the bag. Of course, it goes without saying that consistency is an important factor and one that did indeed play a part in tonight's events.

I will sleep soundly tonight knowing that I have got my revenge for all the times she's accidentally kicked me in the snout as she passes from the fridge back to the sink. And she tells people that I'm blind! Even someone who couldn't see would know that I rest my chin on the floor in front of my bed by the time they'd lived with me for six years. Then again, they say that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, don't they?

Boring Old Sunday

I know what she's thinking; that by encouraging me to write a blog, I'll spill the beans. Give the game away. Let the cat out of the bag. Whatever. But that's not how I operate. I am the International Dog of Mystery. I will never talk about it. Ever. Although I might allude to certain 'events' and naturally, my muscular physique and sharp wit are indicators that I am no ordinary labrador, she'll never know the whole story. Just bits. Right here on It's a Dog's Life. There'll be none of that fictional rubbish she writes either. And only when there's something to write about. Today wasn't one of those days. She took her eldest son back to uni today so I was left mooching around the house for most of the day. We went out for a longish walk around the streets and she kept barking 'Wait!' and 'Heel' alternately as if after all these years, she will suddenly find the right word to make me walk next to her. It was an extraordinarily dull walk. We didn't meet any other dogs (she made sure of that) and she managed to pick up without sticking her fingers through the bag; every day I hope for this to happen. Is that mean? I suppose so. It was a particularly mean thing to wish upon her because there was an awful lot of it thanks to the two packets of Minstrels and large bag of Doritos I ate in the middle of the night. Those teenagers are very accommodating, not only leaving the living room door open so that I can sleep on the sofa but leaving some snacks out for me too. They keep on about chocolate being poisonous for dogs. I think I'll be the judge of that. Anyway, for some reason, she puts the stuff in one bag (not the chocolate) and then puts it inside another. I've got no idea why; as soon as she gets back, she lobs it over the fence into the garden so that it lands next to the shovel used for collecting deposits I've left there. And it's not as if anyone is going to assess her poo-wrapping ability, she's not gift wrapping it or taking it on holiday, its security is not an issue; she's not going to be asked 'Did you pack your bags yourself?'. Humans are just so weird.

We Keep Walking

I’m a dog, OK? Got that? They haven’t. They’ve bought me a coat. A green waxed one that does up with Velcro. Velcro, I ask you! That puts me down there in the fashion stakes with toddlers and old ladies in motorized wheelchairs. And false pockets; the point of them being ....? Firstly, I don’t need pockets. Secondly, they’re on my back so I couldn’t reach them. Thirdly, as I said, they’re false. Absolutely pointless. And they bought the wrong size. They got the XXL because there was a label on it saying ‘Labradors’ amongst others. Tell me, would they go into a shop and buy a coat on the basis that it said it was suitable for humans on the label? No. Exactly. And so it slips because although they’re always watching my weight and I’m not actually as fat as they think. Does that mean that they have an eating disorder by proxy? Being overly concerned about my weight just because it’s all the rage is just too unbearable. Suddenly, they’ve started walking me twice as much as before. Which would be fine except that I’m 91 years old. Well, I’m not 91, I’m only 13 but humans are incapable of understanding this so we constantly have to bring it down to their level of understanding.

So we go for these walks around the neighbourhood. They’re so inconsistent. Sometimes they make me sit at the kerb and wait for non-existent cars to pass by and sometimes, especially if it’s raining, I get whisked across at like a ferret on a piece of elastic to the sound of them shouting ‘Come on, Monty! Be quick!’. I’ve got a friend for whom this command is a euphemism for defecating in the back garden.

Tonight, we went for a walking in the dark and it was raining. Where’s the pleasure in that? And I was made to wear the blessed coat. And yes, it’s the same route we took last night and the night before and it still looks exactly the same. I sniffed at privet hedges and lampposts in the most annoying fashion I could in an attempt to get them to vary the route. When we got back to the front door, one of them said:

‘Have you got Monty’s coat?’

‘No. Isn’t he wearing it?’

These humans are really dumb considering that they can talk to each other.

‘I’ll go back and look for it.’

So he did. He went plodding off in the rain to look for the green waxed coat that had fallen off somewhere onto a dark grass verge. He would get very wet. What he needed was a nice new coat. Waxed, the whole length of his body, false pockets on the back and Velcro around the neck. And when he got caught short, we’d see if he could manage to urinate up a hedge without taking it off.