Sorry about the hiatus there; most of my house-humans disappeared for the weekend, leaving just me and the Dad, and one of us rather confused about what was going on. They all went chasing buses this time; the Gawain to a place called Bun-Ratty, which sounds like terrier heaven, the others to Black Pool, which certainly doesn’t, and reminds me that I’ve managed to escape baths for a suspiciously long time (don’t mention it to the Mum, please).

Anyway, one or other of them brought back a book called “How Smart is Your Dog?” and they decided to test me. Well, after an hour of having towels thrown over my head, custard creams hidden behind cardboard boxes and being called “Refrigerator” (I didn’t fall for that one, but must confess that I came running for “Movies!”) they reached their verdict.

Apparently I am “in the high range of intelligence, and should be” (I sense some slight emphasis on the ‘should’)”capable of doing virtually any task that I am called upon to do.” One more point, and I would have a “superior intelligence with what can only be considered an extremely high CIQ*.” If only I’d realised I was supposed to lift the tea-towel off the chew, instead of trying to gnaw through it. No provision for true creativity, these standardized tests.

Anyway, I’ve done a bit of revision, so that when they forget they’ve already done it, and test me again (I got maximum marks for long-term memory, remembering where they’d put the custard cream after five minutes, but the Mum couldn’t find the suitcase she’d walked in with) I’ll get “Your dog can be described as brilliant” and take my rightful place in the top 5% of doggy-brains.

Here I am, deep in study

and awaiting the presentation of my PhD.

So no more nonsense about clever cats, please.

*Canine Intelligence Quotient

Cats think they’re so clever, don’t they? Well I’ve found a way to enjoy the marine life without any danger of falling into water, wet or otherwise.

Jolly good swizz to you, eh Wyvern? And just to show that it’s not just dogs who can do it, here’s the Rory as well.

And me, patiently waiting my turn again.

So it’s no good trying to put me off with your scare stories. A boat is obviously about as dangerous as a hearth rug in the summer, when the fire’s not been lit since Boxing Day.

Aahh. It’s a good feeling, besting a cat in an intellectual argument.

When I first came to live with these house-humans, long ago last August, I used to eat plastic carrier bags. Not the tough bags-for-life, or the everlasting ones the Mum gets from bookshops on the Charing Cross Road, but the cheap scrunchy sort. And when I say eat, I mean that I bit, chewed and swallowed them, but couldn’t quite get to the digesting bit, so they would be regurgitated in little heaps of fizzy white next morning. (Apologies to those of you still in the middle of your dinners, but you really shouldn’t eat over the keyboard, just try turning it over and see what falls out.)

Where was I? Oh yes. I’ve quite grown out of the childish carrier-carrion habit now, or thought I had, until last night. The Dad went out to Lidl on his bike, and came back without it, but with what he describes as a “small ship”, though the box calls it an inflatable kayak. (The Mum never managed to get him one of Christmas, despite the advice of something called the Hold’Ems – connected with the Gawain’s poker, I assume.) He hasn’t actually unpacked it yet, though we’ve all been instructed to call him Cap’n, but something in the plastic scent aroused my old addiction in all its overwhelmingness, and I’ve done my best to fight through the cardboard. At least, since the Mum’s adventures with her new bike, they already have puncture repair kits in industrial quantities. Watch this space.

I was very worried about the Mum last night. I know she’s a great nuisance, but she is one of my responsibilities, and I wouldn’t really like anything catastrophic to happen to her.

She’d been out for a start, watching one of her arty films, and didn’t get back until past ten o’clock. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m a pure-bred Border Terrier, with no sheepdog blood, but I do like to have the flock all safely gathered it by nightfall.

Anyway, she got back and had a bath, which is quite normal, and doesn’t bother me, except when she puts on the big white apron and gets out the deodorant shampoo (cheek!) which means it’s my turn. But it wasn’t this time.

It was after her bath that the trouble started. She came through carrying this nasty greyish object, bent in the middle and about the size of one of my legs. To my horror, she pointed it at her own head, pressed something, and lots of noise and heat came out of it.

As you know, I don’t talk about my old life, but I did grow up on the mean streets of Belfast.

I sat at her feet – or maybe a bit on them – and gazed up at her in horror. I didn’t dare attack the grey thing, but my eyes were eloquent. Don’t do it, the Mum, they pleaded. A bit more salami and a bit less nagging, and everyone would like you. This isn’t the way.

But apparently it was the way, and she got up five minutes later, switched off the grey thing and tied her hair back, seemingly with no ill effects. They must be tough, these English.

I got into real trouble on Saturday. Not just the Mum trouble, which I get into most days, and which I ignore, like everyone else. This was trouble with the Dad, which means proper badness. We were on our way back from Tesco, the Dad laden down with bags of heavy shopping, and very kindly taking me the long way round, through the football field and over the footbridge, when he let me off my lead and I tore off after a big spotty Dalmation and wouldn’t come back. Oh dear. The Dad had to abandon all the bags and hare off after me. Just my luck to get an owner who goes running and can quite easily catch up a small terrier.

Usually on a Monday morning I hide, in case I have to go to Work, but today, still feeling guilty about my Saturday escapade, I was waiting in the back garden before they got their bikes out of the shed. It turned out that I didn’t have to go, as the Gawain is at home, but I was subdued enough not to complain when the Mum gave me a firm brushing.

Here I am looking tidy and virtuous.

Here I am being patient and awaiting my fate (it was being taken for a walk down the muddy lane instead of the nice tarmac playground)

And here I am trying to look up “repentance” in the big dictionary.

I got my own back on the Mum for that lamb bone trick. My lead lives on the corner of the kitchen counter just by the back door, where everyone dumps their stuff when they come in. The Mum had put her rucksack down there and when she needed something (probably a book – yawn) later in the evening, she didn’t notice that she’d picked up my lead as well, and was sitting on it while she tapped away at her computer. Anyway, eventually she got up, at about half-past ten at night and discovered it. Instead of keeping quiet, as a sensible house-human would, she held it up and told everyone. Well, of course I bounded across the room, full of joy and excitement, and jumped up on her again and again until she absolutely had to find her shoes and take me out. The only problem was that it was raining (scarcely a surprise, in Fermanagh) so I didn’t really want to go further than the end of the road. All the same, it got her nicely damp and chilly…

I’m wallowing in the depths of despair. If humans call their depression the black dog, I think mine should be the pinkish woman.

It all started yesterday. Or, more accurately, a couple of weeks ago, when Tesco sent some money-off vouchers to the house-humans. The Dad decided to go out and spend one yesterday and so, to fill up his rucksack along with the beer and print cartridges, bought a pack of Tesco Finest Lamb Shanks in Gravy. Well, the Mum cooked it along with their usual cheese pie, organic parsnips, sausage rolls and an enormous number of carrots. (The Gawain had just got back from Gibraltar, via Limerick, so we were having a bit of a celebration.) But it turned out that the whole bunch of house-humans had got so accustomed to their cheap, almost-vegetarian diet that none of them wanted the posh lamb shanks and I ended up with most of it.

That was the good part. But then this evening as I was munching up the last of the lamb bones, they suddenly decided that bones weren’t for eating after all. The Mum came through with a particularly delicious salami dog snack thing and while I was engaged with it, pinched the remains of my lamb bone.

I looked everywhere for it but to no avail. Eventually, after much paw-nose dexterity, I managed to open the cupboard where they keep my dog food, biscuits and chews. The trouble was that they also keep the spare fizzy drinks in there, and a two litre bottle of cola fell on my head.

I’m sure there’s a United Nations resolution about booby-traps. In any case, that’s the last time I try using my initiative. Until tomorrow at least.

This is me and the Dad, trying to watch one of the Mum’s subtitled DVDs…

This is me checking the TV Guide to see what we might be missing…

And this is me giving up altogether.

I’m not very quick at understanding English; the Dad pointed out today that there is a gap of a couple of seconds between his saying “Walk” and my tail starting to wag, so I really can’t be expected to master German.

By the way, the tennis ball is my latest treasure – I found it on this morning’s expedition. It’s been a sleepy weekend really, as that white stuff came down again on Friday and Saturday, so no one has felt like going very far. Anyway, at least the film has finished (in a bookshop – typical!).