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.
Coming Home to Story 