Coming Home to Story

Captain Midnight here, your long-suffering domestic correspondent.

We called in on one of Himself’s old friends to discover this enormous bouncy thing in the living room. Himself yelled Fetch! then collapsed into an armchair clutching his sides with laughter when I moseyed up and gave it a nudge.

Ha. Ha. Very funny!

I knew it wasn’t a ball but I couldn’t work out what on earth you’d use it for apart from the unedifying spectacle of dog-bothering. If you look carefully you might even spot the morsel of cheese on top, which was supposed to attract my attention.

Yes it worked. It was cheese!

Fortunately the hilarity subsided fairly quickly and we were soon on our way home again, where balls are the proper size and we all know our place.

Himself chucks and I fetch.

I later discovered that the bouncy thing is for “bad backs.” I can’t say I’m surprised. Throwing that thing around would give anyone a bad back. Humans really aren’t too bright sometimes.

Captain Midnight here nursing a hangover.

Well, nursing Himself actually. He’s the one who’s hanging.

We’ve had a bit of a weekend in Bonny Utrecht among the Scots and the Nederlanders: three days of drinking and feasting as the two halves of Herself’s family got together to celebrate something or other (they don’t seem to need much excuse). What were the highlights of the weekend for me, you ask?

1. Sitting under the table on Friday evening while They stuffed themselves on Boeuf Bourguignon.
2. Sitting under the table on Saturday evening while They stuffed themselves on Lasagna.
3. Sitting under the table on Sunday evening while They stuffed themselves on five courses of Haute Cuisine.

You get the general idea. Lots of fun for them, dog biscuits for me.

I did however enjoy the frisson in the room when Himself was the only person who cheered for Ireland in the Six Nations Rugby Match against Scotland. Fortunately, general good humour and my own robust physical presence prevented an outbreak of fisticuffs.

It was also a good moment when the conductor on the night train from Amsterdam told us that we needed to buy a ticket for “the dog” and Himself explained that unfortunately “the dog” didn’t have any money. The conductor was less than impressed and insisted that I sat on Himself’s lap for the rest of the journey to avoid paying a penalty fare. Humph!

Anyway, I managed to make lots of new Caledonian friends in between the drinking and feasting and have decided that next time around I’m going to come back as something Scottish.

A Deerhound maybe?

Captain Midnight here reporting from Siberia.

Well Kingscote, actually. But judging by the temperature you’d think it was the outskirts of Novosibirsk. Himself snapped this picture of me braving the Beast from the East. As you can see, my built-in fur coat and earmuffs enabled me to prance around quite comfortably au naturel, as I believe they say in Russia.

French, you say?

Are you telling me no-one speaks French in Russia?

As I was saying, my manteau de fourrure was more than adequate insulation to deal with the white stuff. Himself, on the other hand wasn’t really up to the job without props. He ransacked his wardrobe for hats unworn since the last ice age and tried them out in turn. I won’t say he’s vain but there was no one else to take selfies, if you know what I mean?

He was planning to wear yet another hat but it was so hideous that I sneaked it under the table and gave it a bit of a chewing to emphasize my disapproval of the impending sartorial embarrassment.

Mercifully, Himself took the hint. The offending item remained unworn and I was able to hold my head up reasonably high as we enjoyed a walk in the woods, this afternoon. It’s not easy being a gentleman’s gentleman when your gentleman has such questionable taste!

On the other hand, I do love the white stuff. It’s amazing for prinking and pouncing and sticking your nose in.

You should try it!

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.