Coming Home to Story

Yes, that’s me before I was famous.

A lot has happened since my picture was taken at 17 weeks old, though I notice that Himself has still got that old leather jacket. It wasn’t fashionable then and it’s certainly not fashionable now. Frankly, it’s rather embarrassing to be seen out with him in public, though it would be against the Canine Code of Conduct to tell him so.

If you are not familiar with the Code, I should tell you Rule One is: Make your human feel good about Him/Herself at all times. Rule Two is: Don’t bite the postman, and Rule Three is: Don’t hump lady visitors. I’ve got a clean slate so far on Rule One, though I have got a bit of form for breaching Rules Two and Three and I’ve actually forgotten Rules Four to Ten.

But, I digress. The whole point of this blog was to show you what I looked like as a youngster in the South Gloucestershire version of Smallville, before my superpowers developed and I became Captain Midnight.

Think of it as a sort of origin story.

My agent is currently negotiating with Marvel Comics for my starring role in the next summer blockbuster: Captain Midnight Rides Again. The movie business is all about inclusion these days, so after Black Panther, Wonder Woman and Captain Marvel, I think it’s about time for a canine superhero, don’t you?

Himself says he wants to audition for the role of Nick Fury. But apart from inadequate skin pigmentation and a complete lack of acting talent, he’s also got one too many eyes, so I don’t think he stands much chance.

Hang on, Midnight. The Code. Remember Rule One.

“Go for it, you handsome brute. You were made for the part.”

“You really think so?”

“Of course. It’s a shoo-in.”

“Well, if you say so.”

Even I couldn’t manage a third round of encouragement without choking on my Winalot, so we left it there. I hope they let him down gently.

Captain Midnight here with a tale of derring-do.

I took Himself out for a walk round the fields at the back of Kingscote Church, this evening. There’s no traffic there so it’s safe to let him off the lead for a plod in his wellies while I run around.

It was dusk, my favourite time of day, when there’s usually just me and Him, the odd hare and a bunch of pheasants bedding down for the night.

Tonight though, we had a bonus!

Four roe deer burst out of the nearby woods and ran across the field, waggling their white bottoms at me. Well hello, my beauties, what’s a dog to do? I fancied my chances of bringing at least a couple of them down and set off in hot pursuit over the furrowed ground.

The gangly beggars had a head start or I would have got them. I was catching up to begin with, but their long legs just kept going and they pulled away from me into the gloom. I put on a dignified face and circled back to make sure Himself was alright. I’ve no idea why but he seemed to be laughing.

Later tonight, I expect the herd will gather round the escapees and listen to the story of when the Kingscote Four met Captain “Mad Jack” Midnight and lived to tell the tale. No doubt, it will go down in Cervid lore as a heroic exploit.

But we know they just got lucky.

Captain Midnight here reporting from a plague-infested Folly Cottage.

Himself has been in self-imposed quarantine for the past week. He’s got some sort of bug which may or may not be a common cold. I understand from overheard telephone conversations with anyone who will listen, that few men (and probably no women) have ever suffered such grave symptoms.

Headaches have been mentioned; a sore throat; chesty cough; aching joints; blocked sinuses; and general exhaustion. You’ll notice that loss of appetite doesn’t appear in the list. Feed a cold, starve a fever, he told me last night, shovelling spareribs and roast vegetables down his neck.

He’s quaffing Lemsip and Linctus like they’re going out of fashion, snorting Olbas Oil and slathering his body with Vicks. I’m not sure what all this is supposed to achieve apart from making him smell worse than he already does. So, I’m trying to do my job of companion-in-chief whilst staying upwind… he doesn’t make things easy for me, does he?

I’ve explained that a stiff run across the fields would do us both good. He agreed in principle but still lolls around in bed all day apart from a couple of short walks up the road and back. I wonder if he’s as bored as I am?

He’s still coughing and spluttering, so I fear we’re not out of the woods yet.

I shall stand by my man, of course.

But what a Wimp!

But only to go for a walk. He’ll be back soon!

Captain Midnight here with news of the far-flung traveller.

This is Elvis, my Middle-Eastern cousin, the latest addition to the extended family. Himself is in Dubai at the moment with his daughters, and their new pet, disporting himself under the winter sun while I’m stuck in Blighty, albeit with the lovely, roast chicken providing, Jan and Dave (whom Allah preserve).

Despite being an English Bulldog, Elvis was born in Dubai. Technically, he can formally apply to become an Emirati citizen in 30 years time. Sadly dogs are decreed to be haram in the Koran and therefore considered anti-Islamic, so I don’t fancy his chances.

Personally – and please don’t pass this on to Himself, who seems to be entranced by the heavy jowls and undershot jaw ­– my concern is more fundamental. Elvis is (dare I say it) a cat lover. Don’t take my word for it… I have photographic proof.

Nuff said?

Dogs of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your chains!

We’ve tried reasoning but they won’t listen. Direct action is the only option left. Take to the streets. Man the barricades. Pee on every lamppost. Exert your democratic freedom to protest.

What do we want?

 Chicken…

 When do we want it?

 Twice a day on our biscuits instead of tasty toppers…

Our demand is clear and unequivocal. If the neo-liberal economy can’t deliver chicken twice daily then I say down with the fat cat capitalists and their (excuse the phrase fellow canines) running dog lackeys.

I’m not sure what Himself has to protest about. His life looks pretty good to me. He calls it work, but I wouldn’t mind whizzing round Europe, eating fancy meals in posh restaurants, getting paid to talk to people. Hang on a minute, I’ll ask him why he has also donned le gilet jaune.

So we can be seen when go out for late night walks…!?

Oops, that’s a bit embarrassing. When you said ‘demonstration’ I didn’t know you meant a road safety demonstration. I thought…

Well, never mind. We’re here now.

What do we want?

 Chicken…

 When do we want it?

 Twice a day on our biscuits instead of tasty toppers…

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

Himself still tries to go round the other side of the lamppost when he’s out on the lead; he still thinks he can have roast chicken without giving half of it to me; and he still keeps chucking balls all over the place after I bring them back to him. Nothing new there… but recently he’s demonstrated yet another proverbial failure to learn.

He can’t even lick his own nose!

It’s in the middle of his face just like mine. Extend the tongue and let it glide over the upper lip to the nostrils. How hard can it be? I showed him exactly what to do, but he complained that his wouldn’t reach, which is surprising considering how much he likes the sound of his own tongue wagging.

I suppose it could just be a physiological deficiency (of which humans have many) but I’m inclined to think that advancing years have diminished his capacity for learning of any kind. Even so, I’m not ready to give up yet and have booked us onto a Train Your Human evening class.

The instructor has recommended that I invest in some training treats. I’ve noticed that Himself will do almost anything for a glass of good single malt whisky but I’m going to stick to cubes of dried liver, ox hide chews and venison flavoured biscuits because that’s the kind of stuff he tries to win me over with when he wants me to do something new.

What’s good for the goose…

Photographs courtesy of Maaike Verhoeven

Captain Midnight here with a bit of a conundrum.

Himself and I have an arrangement, or so I thought. He’s constantly surrounded by what he calls Very Important Papers. They are everywhere: lists of things-to-do; notes-to-self; bits of so-called poetry; stories and manuscripts; official looking letters in brown envelopes. I never touch any of them – as long as they are lying down on a flat surface.

On the other hand…

Paper that has been scrunched up is another matter. Himself obviously doesn’t want it anymore so, to maintain proper standards of data security, I generally shred it for him. I can’t say that he ever shows much gratitude for my efforts in this department but yesterday he was actually quite cross with me, even though all I had done was shred a small piece of crumpled paper that fell off the desk.

“It’s money,” he said. “You don’t chew money wherever you find it..”

“What’s money?” I asked.

“It’s a promise to give something of a certain value,” he said.

“You mean like a promise that you are going to give me chicken to eat?”

“Yes, something like that.”

“It can’t be worth much then,” I said. “Because when you promise me chicken, it doesn’t always appear in my bowl.”

For some reason Himself didn’t seem to appreciate the niceties of my argument. Instead, he gathered up the soggy remains and waved them under my nose.

“10 Euros!” he said. “I could have got a half-decent bottle of wine with that.”

I decided to look away and say nothing. Never tell the filth anything is my motto. Without a confession, he’d be hard-pressed to actually prove it was me.

“You’re lucky it’s not a British banknote,” he said. “You could go to prison for defacing Her Majesty’s currency.”

It seemed unwise to point out that Section 12 of the Currency and Banknotes Act of 1928 defines defacing as “to print, stamp or by any like means impress words, letters or figures upon a banknote” and that chewing clearly doesn’t fall within that definition.

I’m saving that one for next time.