What? Oh, is it my turn now? What’s this thing with the light on it? Does it move if I push it? Oh yes! What? Oooh, look! Sorry, Robbie – Your Hairiness, I mean. Yes, of course I want to be your confidential secretary and transmit your deathless thoughts to all your global followers on the World Wide Web. Ooh, a web. Does it have flies in it? I like chasing flies. When I’m a bigger cat I’ll be allowed to go outside and chase birds, too. What? Oh, all right. His Hairiness says that the house-humans like birds, and they like them best alive. Okay. I’m happy to be corrected. After all, I’m only six months old, and I’ve only lived in His Hairiness’s household for six days – I’m sure I’ve got plenty to learn.

Eh? Oh yes. My name is Marco, after Signor Polo, the great explorer. My greatest exploration so far has been halfway up the smaller chimney but then the Mum blocked it up with cardboard. His Hairiness says she’s often like that.

I used to live with a different set of house-humans but I was too irritating to the senior cat. His Hairness says he can understand that. They’re not all spoil-sports, though, these house-humans. The Aidan is my particular friend and protector – he lets me into his personal territory to eat and sleep and even do the unmentionable litter tray business. Oh, sorry. His Hairiness says that sort of language isn’t appropriate in his refined journal. As I said, I’ve got a lot to learn. Oh look, another key to jump on! What happens if I do thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

Last week the Mum, the Rory and the Aidan went off on yet another of their buses, leaving the Dad, Ellie and I to a bit of freedom, with less of that nag-and-vacuuming nonsense. Apparently they saw the Gawain and the Sue, though they didn’t have the courtesy to bring them back here. (Sulk sulk.) I also suspect, using my keen terrier senses, that they’d been fraternising with other dogs (although they’re all sort of cousins, so I’ll let that pass). Hello to Jet, Alfie, Megan and Digby, by the way.

Unfortunately the excitement appeared to have gone somewhat to Ellie’s head. She went off on one of her feline adventures on Saturday and still wasn’t home when the others got back on Sunday night.

On Tuesday afternoon she finally reappeared, dragging herself wearily up the drive around to the back door. She was all bony, covered in burrs and her fur was in a state that even I would agree merited a bath. But worst of all was her mouth. Her chin seemed to have disappeared altogether, replaced by a stinking red hole with bits of flesh trailing out of it. To be frank, it was quite horrid, even to the strong stomach of a terrier. I offered to try to lick it better, but my heart wasn’t really in it, and when they took her by taxi (taxi! – I always have to walk) to the vet’s, I agreed that they were showing some sense for once. The vet thought that, though it did look as though she’d been attacked, Ellie had probably just fallen out of a tall tree and landed on her jaw. It’s quite a common injury among cats apparently, although Ellie, being Ellie, had done it with true panache and drama. For a while we didn’t know whether there was going to be enough tissue left to sew up, so we all had a most unpleasant day waiting to hear.

That was two days ago and she’s just come home – chauffeur driven once more – almost her old ridiculous self, with her broken jaw riveted together and all the bits of skin nicely sewn up. If I was a sexist sort of dog, I’d say that was the advantage of an all-female vet’s practice – good darning and embroidery skills. Of course Ellie, being a member of the dim feline species, has very little idea of what’s been going on and is already whining to be let out again. Constant vigilance is the watch word. There is one point of general benefit to the whole saga, however. Ellie isn’t allowed any hard food in case she cracks her jaw again, and the Mum thinks it would be safer (in case of all-too-likely pilfering) for me to have the soft stuff as well. Bring on the M&S organic chicken…

p.s. All the photos here were taken when Ellie came back home – the Mum’s too pathetically squeamish to have taken any pictures of the gory bits.

Apparently the Gawain is back in Newsy-Land with the Sue, and, there not being enough there, has asked for some News from Me.

Unfortunately I can’t think of very much, except that it was briefly Hot.

And then not.

(That’s the sort of thing the Dad calls a Pome and the Mum calls Dog-eral, which must be much more of a compliment. Apparently the post of Poet Laureate is currently being canvassed – maybe I should indicate my reluctant acquiescence, in the event that the Nation clamours thus…)

Remember Doctor Dolittle and the Pushme-Pullyu?

Well, Ellie and I have created our own tableau in homage thereto. If you look really carefully, you can see her tail clearly encroaching onto my side of the bed. The Dad tells me that ’twas ever thus…

“If he was a different species,” I overheard the Dad saying the other day, “he’d be buying a Porsche and learning to play the saxophone.”

I resent the implications of that remark. Just because I’ve rediscovered the joys of physical exercise, a pride in my personal appearance and the enjoyment of a young lady’s company, doesn’t mean I’m having a mid-life crisis. So I’m chasing Ellie up and down the stairs at seven in the morning, instead of lurking in my bed until eleven, happy to walk the nine-odd miles to Work and back and then take a trip or two to the park and keen to remind the Mum if I haven’t been brushed for a day or two; I’m still the same dog at heart. Just a rather lighter heart, that’s all.