Captain Midnight here with fantastic news.

Chinese New Year 2018 and it’s the Year of the Dog!

I thought every year was the year of the dog. I had no idea that we canines are only acknowledged in the calendar once every 12 years. That probably explains why Himself has been feeding me on dog biscuits and keeping the good stuff for himself up to now. Maybe this year I’ll get to see a bit of chicken now and again.

But what if Himself hasn’t heard about Chinese New Year? He’s a bit dopey about stuff like that. I must make sure that he knows the score.

Dear Licky-Face

Time’s up!

It’s the Year of the Dog. That means I’m officially in charge for the next 12 months and we’re all going to follow the rules of the pack. So…

1. No swanning off on foreign holidays without me
2. You can still share the bed but I get the middle
3. I also get to choose my place on the sofa
4. I like to be tickled and scratched behind both ears
5. We go out for a walk whenever I want, and..
6. We chase pheasants in the fields everyday
7. All postmen are banned from the house
8. Cats are not welcome in the vicinity
9. Barking is my birthright, get used to it
10. Either we both get chicken or neither of us eats

Your loving friend

Captain Midnight

PS: The Hydegate Pet Resort isn’t a hotel for dogs, it’s a kennel.
PPS: Sitting at your desk pretending to write isn’t real work.

Captain Midnight here in pensive mood.

This life alone with Himself is not one I asked for but here we are, two hairy mutts under the same roof. We might as well be married. We sleep in the same bed, argue over who’s going to get the last bit of chicken, and I sit beside him bored out of my skull when he’s driving.

He’s always complaining about something. Yesterday he told me off for smelling of fox poo. What a cheek; I’m the one with superior olfactory equipment!

Don’t knock it, I said. It’s cheap and it lasts all day. A bit like your gentleman’s cologne from Penhaligon.

That costs a fortune, he said.

Yeah, but it smells cheap, I said.

I do think about D.I.V.O.R.C.E. sometimes when he goes on at me for barking at the postman or for eating a whole organic goat cheese which was clearly left on the dining room table for my delight, or when he holds me back as I launch myself at another dog on the lead. Even worse is hanging around while he tries to write. Take this morning for example: I’m stretched out on the sofa still waiting for breakfast and he’s sitting up in bed pecking at the keyboard. Neither of us has a thought in his head.

After all these years, we know each other’s quirks pretty well. For example, he seems to enjoy having a bath, which is very strange and I only use three legs for a controlled descent going downstairs.

Why only three, I hear you ask?

Because, with my amazing canine strength and agility I don’t need to use all four. I simply lift my right hind leg like an aeroplane raising its undercarriage, tuck it up under my belly and tripod down the entire flight of stairs. You should try it.

On second thoughts, Pogo-ing downstairs is probably not a good idea.