The Dad and I went back to Work today, so I knew where I was and what I was doing. It might look like sleep, to the casual observer, but that’s all part of the plan. I’ll explain it to you properly one day, when I can be sure that you don’t pose a security risk.

The Mum stayed at home with the younger house-humans while we walked as far as the bus station with the giant one, the Gawain. I knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away from there for long. I’m assuming that he found himself a bus to chase, maybe the big one with “Dublin Airport” written on the front (I’m not illiterate, you know) as he hasn’t come back home and his bed’s been made, which never happens when he’s around. I used to worry about his disappearances, when I first arrived here, but now I know he always comes back in the end, sometimes accompanied by some very exotic smells.

I suspect the Mum of playing with that interloper Henry while we were out. The floor had that tedious sameness about it that usually means he’s been trundling around. He’s not a real dog, you know, whatever whining noises he might make, and I bet that cupboard under the stairs isn’t so very thrilling once the novelty’s worn off. I’d rather have my bed in the kitchen. Talking of my bed; she’s been fiddling about with that as well, and my blanket. It’s taken three and half months to get the pong just right and now the whole blasted caboodle smells of lavender. I ask you! With my fur all clean and fluffy after that bath and towel-dry, and a lavender-scented bed, what’s left of my macho doghood is severely impaired.

But I’m too tired to make much of a fuss. It’s over four miles to Work, which, given our respective leg-length ratio, is a bit like expecting the Dad to hike to Omagh before starting a day’s sle…security work. On the way home we saw a cat sitting on the playground beside the Sligo-Leitrim Way. The Dad tensed up, the way they do, poised ready to dart off after me. ( I must confess to having been evicted from the last place for cat-chasing.) But I couldn’t really be bothered. It was a decent sort of moggy, too, not the silly giggling young sort, so I just sauntered over, raised my tail politely and returned to the Dad. You should have seen his face. “Good boy,” he said, “Good boy.” I didn’t like to tell him that I hadn’t been thinking about goodness at all, only about preserving my amour-propre and the pads of my paws. Oh well, a bit of credit never does any harm.