I have recently been pondering the persistent fallacy that character traits are innate, whereas in fact experiential observation suggests that they can be drastically altered by social interaction, particularly that transcending the so-called species barrier.

Or in other words, I used to stay in bed for as long as possible in the mornings, but now that I find myself sharing it, we’re up at dawn manically chasing one another up and down the stairs. Mind you, it could also have something to do with the fact that my bed doesn’t seem quite as spacious as before…

… more that she fills up the little draughty gap between me and the edge of the bed.




Anyway, she’s demonstrably more stupid than I am.

It may be that no other dog will ever admit it. It may be that I will be perpetually ostracized from caninekind. So be it. I am a brave and fearless dog and I will no longer be fettered by society’s outdated conventions. I will come out and say it. I only ever chased cats in the hope that they would become my friends. And now one has. My life has been transformed, my middle-aged zeitgeist has been rejuvenated and my chauvinistic species and gender 4e55555555=- (that was her, walking across the keyboard) blinkers have been thrown away. I am Ellie’s big brother, and I’m not afraid to admit it.

We’ve got it sorted, Ellie and I. She gets up on the kitchen worktop, knocks the cakes onto the floor, licks off the cream and leaves the solid stuff for me. We got through three this evening before the Mum came through to investigate. Who says cats are the enemy?

One simply never knows where one is with these people. First the Gawain disappears to catch one of his buses and never returns, then the Mum elopes with that delightful little hatchback. I’d thought that was that, and was prepared to settle down with the remaining boys for a gentle decline into old age, sleep and the gradual improvement of my custard cream allowance.






Then, with no warning whatosever, on Saturday afternoon the Dad and the Aidan strolled down to the vet’s and came back with … this. Now I’m not, contrary to slanderous rumours at the time of my last adoption, a fundamentally anti-feline sort of dog. I even hold to the opinion, unfashionable though it may be, that a cat, given sufficient training, can eventually be turned into a sort of pseudo-terrier. It’s hard work, though, and at my time of life…






Her name is Ellie, courtesy of the Aidan, she’s about five months old, and like me she was abandoned and homeless. For that reason alone I’m quite prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt. She’s obviously familiar with game theory (pinching my tennis ball) and the fundamentals of round-the-house pursuit. I only wish she wouldn’t bop me on the nose, which is moderately painful to the snoz and considerably more so to my dignity.

Apparently there’s been some sort of communication from the Mum, though nothing discernable to a terrier’s senses.



The good news is that she’s found the Gawain, and he appears in good health, despite wearing a bit of deceased crocodile on his head.

The first bit of bad news can be seen in the picture here; apparently this devious little scrap has taken to living in the Gawain’s new garden. I just hope he remembers where his allegiances lie. The other is technically a no news, but I can’t be sure it’s good – she hasn’t made a single mention of that blissful little Peugeot. The memory is already beginning to fade…

The Mum wouldn’t really do anything so despicable as that, would she? I expect she’s just driven to one of those giant petfood superstores to stock up on an entire car boot full of dog salami sticks. That’ll be it. Meanwhile I’ll make the most of her absence by sitting on her favourite bit of the sofa. She’ll never find out…

If I could work out how to use the phone, I’d be on to the PSNI by now. Close the ports, set up road-blocks, despatch the Mum’s photograph to Interpol – this woman has to be stopped.

She sneaked out on Thursday morning in a mysterious manner, after the others had all gone, and didn’t return until the afternoon. She wasn’t alone; the Dad was with her, and – a car! “Oh frabjous day, caloo calay”, I chortled in my joy. (Well, my tail wagged so hard I thought it was going to fall off.) As soon as I got the chance, I leapt in and made myself comfortable. This was the life. The Dad drove (drove, none of that ridiculous walking or being carried by bicycle) to the business unit, where I stood guard over my perfect Peugeot. I took back everything I’d muttered about those house-humans; they do know how to look after a dog after all.

In the evening, before I went to bed, I checked the drive to make sure it was still there (the car, I mean; not sure where the drive could have gone). I would have liked to have spent the night curled up on the back seat really, but thought it might have been too exciting to let me get any asleep. Alas, if only I had.

Next morning I heard the reassuring sound of an engine starting up. I didn’t pay too much attention, though; it wasn’t even seven o’clock and I had the Aidan with me, so was quite sure that nothing too terrible could be happening. Pretty soon he and the Rory left for school and I settled down in the kitchen, anticipating the blissful car journey that would no doubt follow at a more civilised hour.

Imagine my horror when the Dad returned in the afternoon, alone and on foot! I don’t know quite what’s happened, but the simultaneous disappearance of the Mum and the car is suspicious, to say the least. I’ve hobbled down to the end of the road and looked in both directions, but there was no sign of my beloved (the car, obviously; an edict of perpetual pedestrianism would be too good for that woman)so I simply lay down in despair. As the Dad says, if a dog could cry…

I’m not the youngest of dogs any more and it’s about time I was treated with a dignity commensurate with my age and wisdom. A pair of specs may help…