Coming Home to Story

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.

Captain Midnight here with Beyoncé the Bassett Hound and Roxy the er… Roxy Hound.

We had a great afternoon at the exclusive Waggytails Country Club on Thursday, but to put Jay-Z’s mind at rest, I’d like to scotch the rumours currently flying around social media that Beyoncé and I are having an affair. I can’t deny that she was attracted to me (she’s only canine) but I promised Himself that I wouldn’t abandon him for some trophy W.A.G. and I’m a dog of my word.

My lawyer Sir Rufus Mutt QC has already issued a statement on my behalf explaining that Beyoncé and I are just ‘good friends’ and demanding that the paw-parazzi stop dogging our footsteps. Even so, the following picture was published today in the Kennel Club Gazette under the deliberately suggestive headline:

CAPTAIN MIDNIGHT AND BEYONCÉ RUN FROM THE CAMERA

I have this to say.

1. It’s not us in the picture
2. It wasn’t my fault, she chased me
3. It was just a platonic gambol
4. Yes, Beyoncé has a great ass
5. Celebrities deserve a private life too

Let’s put an end to this kind of outrageous press intrusion.

Write to your local MP today!

Captain Midnight here, recovering after a slight mishap.

There it was on the kitchen table: half a bar of Green and Black’s best organic chocolate; 70% Cocoa. I’d watched Himself eat a bit and he’d clearly enjoyed it. He was busy on the computer nearby. Then someone came to the front door and he got up to speak to them.

Well. Really.

I’m not sure whether it was eating the chocolate I enjoyed most or shredding the wrapper on the living room carpet. Either way, Himself was not best pleased. I’d sort of expected that, but what I didn’t know was that eating chocolate makes you sick.

Suffice to say that half an hour later after a rather hectic car journey, the local vet shoved something unpleasant down my throat and pretty soon I was throwing up all over the place. They actually seemed pleased to find big lumps of undigested chocolate among the mess. I would have had a go at eating it again but they wouldn’t let me near it. Waste of good chocolate, I say.

I felt a bit woozy when we got home yesterday, but I’m fine now.

Himself told me he was sorry he’d left the chocolate lying around and that I’d had a narrow escape. Apparently chocolate is poison for dogs, especially the dark stuff. I heard him talking to Herself about it on the phone later.

“I expect Captain Midnight has learned his lesson,” she said.

“No, but I have,” said Himself. “Next time I’ll eat the lot.”

It wasn’t the most heartwarming response to a narrowly averted canine tragedy. But what can you expect in this class-ridden, doggist society?

It’s the same the whole world over,
It’s the poor what gets the blame,
It’s the rich what gets the pleasure,
Ain’t it all a blooming shame?

Captain Midnight here, reporting from Paradise.

No, really!

Himself is sliding gently into the second week of our French idyll, with Rosie parked in the garden of a house called Paradise. The old word-botherer is using it as a writing cabin during the day, otherwise we’re staying in the main house with Herself and an eclectic bunch of friends.

Big news! I’ve learned to play boules! If you are not familiar with the game, it goes something like this. First, take up a position out of sight, behind an apple tree, for example. Then wait until the other players (four ladies in my case) have lobbed their cannonballs at a little ball called a cochonnet or piglet. Before they stroll up to see who is winning, rush on to the court, grab said piglet and run off with it. This avoids unnecessary arguments about whose ball is closer than whose and results in the most delightful final phase of the game – the chase.

I’ve also discovered that French wasps are not nice to eat. A whole bunch of them kept buzzing round the outside table at dinner time so I decided to catch one and eat it pour encourager les autres as they say in these parts. Unfortunately it stung me on the way down which swole my lip and made me bark with a lisp. Himself said he was very concerned but laughed in what I thought was an unseemly and unsympathetic manner. Next time, he can eat his own wasps.

Last but not least, it seems that I can actually walk on water. This will not be a surprise to my die-hard fans, but it came as a bit of a shock to me. I’d been running around the swimming pool as Himself advised, until someone who shall remain nameless (Herself) threw a ball from one side to the other. Well, what’s a dog to do? I ran straight over the pool cover.

Think they’re clever, eh?

I’d like to see them try that!

Captain Midnight here reporting from ‘this best garden of the world.’*

We finally made it across La Manche though it was touch and go. As avid readers of this blog will know, we got bumped from our original crossing because the Brittany Ferries’ computer ‘bots’ decided we couldn’t have a camper van and a pet-friendly cabin. Himself is still scratching his head about that, though it might be fleas.

Then, after 8 weeks of perfect blue skies, the heavens opened the minute we set off from Folly Cottage to drive to Portsmouth. Why a few inches of rain should bring everything to a halt is beyond me – I like a drop of the wet stuff.  Suffice to say that we arrived at the Ferry Terminal after all manner of delays and diversions, with about 5 minutes to spare.

Himself says that the crossing itself was a tad rough and that up on the passenger deck it was a like a Roman vomitorium on a two-for-one feast day, whatever that means. He said there were screaming kids and sick bags everywhere. I could tell there was something going on by the banging and crashing on the car deck as I tried to have a snooze in Rosie, down below.

But here we are, three years since Himself and I were last in France, à deux. Not much seems to have changed: he still cooks himself steak on the BBQ and drinks lots of red stuff. He says it’s wonderful to be in a country where people appreciate food.

I say the dog biscuits still taste the same.

Tomorrow we’re going wine shopping (o joy, o bliss) and then we’ll head off to Limoges to a house called Paradise to meet up with Herself and a bunch of other friends. I’m looking forward to a couple of weeks in Paradise.

There’s bound to be a bit of chicken every now and then in Paradise.

Wouldn’t you think?

*Fellow lovers of the bard will recognise these words from a speech by the Duke of Burgundy in Henry V, Act V, Scene 2

Captain Midnight voyageur du monde ici, avec un scandale maritime.

This fine vessel is M/V Baie de Seine operated by Brittany Ferries. Himself and I had passage booked on it from Portsmouth to Le Havre for Thursday 9 August with a ‘pet friendly’ cabin so Himself did not have to be left on his own for the night crossing.

Because Himself has hurt his hip recently we thought it would be better to travel in Rosie the VW Campervan rather than the sporty little number in which we had originally planned to drive down to Limoges. I sat next to Himself as he called Brittany Ferries to change the vehicle.

“No problem, Sir. What is the registration number of the new vehicle.”

Himself gave the number over the phone.

“Would that be a VW Transporter, Sir?”

“Yes,” he said. “Campervan. Same thing.”

“In that case, Sir,” said the young lady. “I can change the vehicle but you can no longer have the ‘pet friendly’ cabin.

“Why on earth not?” said Himself. “I’ve already booked the cabin.”

“As it’s an oversized vehicle it has to be parked on a different deck.”

“That makes sense, I suppose.” said Himself. “But how does that affect the cabin?”

“You would have to take the dog up some stairs.”

“He’s an intelligent beast. He can manage stairs. What’s the problem?”

“It’s the rules. We’re not insured for that.”

“Excuse me! That’s rubbish. I don’t believe you.”

“The computer won’t let me book an oversized vehicle and a ‘pet friendly’ cabin.”

“That, I believe. Are you suggesting that I leave my dog in the vehicle?”

“I’m afraid not, Sir. The oversize vehicle deck is not temperature-managed.”

“So, I either have the Campervan or my dog? Is that right?

“I’m afraid so.”

“W.T.F. !?”

“There’s no need to swear, Sir.”

“I’m not swearing at you. I’m swearing at the staggering stupidity of a world ruled by computer algorithms that assume a dog can’t walk up stairs. There is every need to swear. You do see how idiotic this is don’t you?”

“I can’t really say, Sir. Those are the rules and the computer won’t let me do anything different.”

“What do you suggest I do?”

“I can book you on an alternative crossing to Le Havre. There’s one on 2 August.”

“Since today is 4 August, that’s not much help, is it?”

“Sorry. Er… there’s one on 2 September.”

“I’m booked to return on 26 August. It would be a bit tricky to come back before I’ve actually gone, wouldn’t it?”

“There’s a different ferry going from Portsmouth to Caen on 9 August. That’s close to Le Havre. I could get you on that.”

“Great. Can I have a ‘pet friendly’ cabin?”

“There aren’t any on that ship. But you could leave your dog in the Campervan as the deck is temperature controlled.”

“Let me just check this. Company policy – or at least the computer – says that it’s alright to leave my dog in a vehicle for 8 hours but not to take him up some stairs to a ‘pet friendly’ cabin?”

“I’m sorry, Sir. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“For the sake of argument, if I book this crossing can I have an ordinary cabin to sleep in?”

“They’re all taken, Sir.”

“Have you ever heard of Franz Kafka?”

“Who?”

Himself rang off at that point to stick his head under the cold tap.

The next day he spoke to someone different and for an extra £65 on top of what he’d already paid, booked us on a fast crossing to Cherbourg instead, so I’ll only have a 3 hour sojourn in the Campervan.

“£571.25″ he said as he put the phone down. “We could fly to San Francisco and back for that. They’ve got us by the short and curlies, old boy!”

I licked his chops to make him feel better.

It took quite a while.