Coming Home to Story

Captain Midnight here on the final evening of our sojourn in the Emerald Isle.

Himself and I spent a jolly couple of weeks keeping one step ahead of the rain in Rosie the Campervan. It’s been a pretty good trip: lots of beaches to run around on; long walks along country lanes; and cosy sleeping arrangements for the pack. Himself claims to have done “lots of writing” but he always says that.

Best of all was two nights of wild camping by the River Blackwater, so we could meet up with our old friend and guide, Glenda Powell. Himself spent hours thrashing around with a two-handed fly rod, under her watchful eye, chasing non-existent salmon while I got down to the serious business of sniffing out interesting things to roll in.

Otter shit is my new favourite perfume: distinctive, pungent, lasts for days. Astonishingly, not everyone seems to like it. Himself actually swore at me until I got off the bed and settled down to sleep on the front seat. I think his exact words were: “Jesus Christ, Ted. Are you trying to kill me?”

Himself took the picture of me in the Fishing Hut, relaxing after a hard day in and out of the river. He’d drawn a blank on the salmon front, but Glenda and I encouraged him to wait for the evening rise and go after trout instead. He left at dusk, lightweight fly rod in hand, and returned happy and triumphant a couple of hours later at 11.00pm.

When I asked for some evidence of the “half dozen good-sized trout” he claimed to have caught, he pointed out that photographing wriggling fish, in the dark, using only his left hand, whilst up to his waist in water, would have been tricky to say the least.

I suppose we’ll just have to take his word for it.

He said that fly-fishing alone on the river, casting by moonlight, with just a tug on the line to indicate a take, was… now what did he call it… oh yes… “A glimpse of heaven: the most fun you can have with your waders on!”

He had a large whisky to celebrate. I got a bit of leftover bacon.

Generous to a fault, that man.

Sláinte. Cheers.

Captain Midnight here, playing the fool.

Last weekend, I took Himself to Richmond for a day of clowning with our dear friend Mary and half a dozen other practitioners of the red-nosed art. It was exciting stuff, I can tell you!

First, there was dancing and, as you probably know, I’m pretty nifty on my hind legs. Then came the actual clowning. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but when Vivian, our teacher from Nose-to-Nose, said the important thing was to go on stage without any preconceived idea of what to do, Himself said that I’d be a natural as I’d never had an idea in my life.

What a cheek!

“Unlike you,” I told him, “I live in the Here and Now.”

“Precisely,” said Vivian. “Clowns are sensitive, compassionate souls who show their feelings openly and pay exquisite attention to the world around them. They are full of playful curiosity and wonder.”

“Remind you of anyone?” I asked Himself.

“Mmm. Not really,” he replied, looking away.

“You Sir, are being economical with the actualité.” I said. “I’m a dead ringer for that description. Give me a red nose, I’m doing the next improv.”

And so it was, dear reader, my triumphant debut as El Doggo the clown: jackanapes, jester, fandangler and fool; star of stage and screen; born to perform; applauded by an ecstatic audience.

Even Himself couldn’t help laughing.

Captain Midnight here, your Care in the Community correspondent.

I suppose it had to happen sometime, but I confess I didn’t see it coming. Himself came out with me for my morning stroll today and I noticed that he was walking rather awkwardly. After a couple of hundred yards, a look of bemused concern came over his face.

He looked up at the sky for enlightenment and then at me, as if to ask what was going on. The cause of his discomfort was pretty obvious but I decided it would be kinder to let him find out for himself. He hobbled on for another 50 yards with me trotting along beside him. It wasn’t until we turned the corner by the postbox to go up Windmill Lane that it occurred to him to look down.

Two completely different shoes: one red, one brown.

“Ah,” he said, with that razor-sharp perspicacity for which he was once famous. “I expect that’s it.”

The dear old chap was obviously a bit embarrassed. “They were under the bed, this morning,” I said, taking pity on him. “Perhaps I moved them around by mistake while you were asleep?”

“Yes, I expect that’s the reason,” he said, seizing on this scant morsel of hope. “I wasn’t really looking when I put them on. It could happen to anyone… couldn’t it?”

He didn’t sound entirely convinced, but meekly followed me back to Folly Cottage for breakfast. While he made the toast, I went upstairs to fetch the other mismatched pair and present them for his inspection. “Phew!” he said. “At least I didn’t put them in the fridge.”

I jumped on his lap and gave his chops a friendly lick.

It’s only a matter of time, I thought.

Captain Midnight here with news of my latest wheeze.

On Friday mornings, the lovely Ella picks me up from home in the Funbus and takes me off for a few welcome hours of pack time. The van is conspicuously marked Playschool for Dogs but this is merely a cunning ruse to keep our humans off the scent.

They think they are packing us off to remedial school to learn how to behave with other dogs. In fact, Playschool for Dogs is a canine respite scheme that gives us dogs a much-needed break from the responsibility of caring for our people. For a few brief hours, we can forget about the demands of 24/7 tail-wagging, face-licking, sofa-sitting and walkies twice a day.

Of course, the first rule of Playschool is don’t talk about Playschool. I think telling you that it exists is OK, but as to what actually goes on there, my lips are sealed. I shall say nothing about running free as the wind, joshing with the boys or amorous encounters with the L.A.D.I.E.S. You’ll just have to imagine it for yourselves.

Caring for a beloved human is pretty demanding. So, the chance to relax for a whole morning once a week with my own kind is a real treat. As you would expect I make a great show of being pleased to see Himself when Ella drops me back at the house, but the truth is that I’m loving it.

Roll on Friday!

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.