It started badly, when the Dad came downstairs an hour or two later than usual, by which time the odd things I’d eaten yesterday had wreaked their vengeance. The kitchen floor has no idea what’s hit it; being mopped twice in three days.

So much unprecedented housework obviously went to the Mum’s head, for as soon as she’d put the mop away, she appeared wrapped up in her big white apron. Big white aprons only mean one thing in this house: a dog’s bathtime. It wasn’t too bad, actually; the water was a decent temperature and she made some attempt to keep the shampoo out of my eyes, though she wouldn’t let me give a proper shake to see how far I could spread the bubbles. But afterwards I enjoyed my usual post-balneum dash about the house, barking madly, just in case any dogs peeping through the windows get the idea that I’m some sort of clean-living softie.

After that, of course, I was quite worn out, and retired to my bed for a mid-morning rest. That was when the real trouble started. One of the Aidan’s wrapped-up things from yesterday turned out to be a mouth-organ, and he had the kind idea of playing me a tune on it. I didn’t realize what it was, at first, and stretched out quite bestofpossibleworldsly as he sat down beside me. But at the first notes something went terribly wrong. Not that the sound was bad in itself, you understand me; he’s a tuneful sort of boy, and I’m distinctly partial to a bit of music, especially the folk or rock varieties. Ask the Rory, if you don’t believe me; the number of times I’ve had to make a subtle adjustment to his mixer when he’s recording his electric guitar… But this was different. There was something about that mouth-organ sound that brought back terrible memories. Something really black that happened to me long ago, years before I came to live with this human pack. I cried while the Aidan was playing; horrible little yelps, I’m sure they must have been, but I just couldn’t help myself. He stopped really quickly, thinking he might have hurt my ears, but it wasn’t that, it wasn’t that at all. Afterwards I just kept trembling, my legs rigid with fear and my heart beating so fast that it seemed as though it would pop out of my half-dried fur. I couldn’t tell them what it was, of course, and I can’t tell you either, but it brought back all the nightmares. They don’t know anything about my old life, what happened to me before I was found wandering outside the hospital in Belfast and was brought here to the little town of Enniskillen. They know that I used to belong to an old man, they can tell that by the way I get excited when I see one in the distance, but before today they’d only imagined happy scenes. It’s a bit sad, really; I’d like to leave them their illusions. But they were kind, especially the Aidan, stroked me until I calmed down and wrapped me up in my nice smelly blanket (the Mum keeps trying new kinds of washing powder, but I’ve got it throroughly imbued by now). And in the end I went to sleep, and woke up later quite happy. A bit wobbly maybe, but happy overall.

I had a good day after that, I have to admit, though not many of my friends were out at the park, and after my evening walk there was a bit of muddle between the Aidan and the Dad, each one thinking the other had brought me in while I stayed outside on the doorstep for ten minutes. At first I thought they’d left me out deliberately, for being naughty, but after a few minutes I remembered where I was, and knew they wouldn’t do that without coming out again to explain it. So I gave a big bark; though I say it myself, I have the bark of a dog at least twenty pounds bigger, and they all rushed to the front door and let me in again.

So, despite everything, Boxes Day hasn’t ended too badly; I’m lying across the Rory’s feet now, with my head against the radiator, and the sweet smell of chocolate orange in my nostrils. Life isn’t so bad, really, even without a cardboard box.