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.