Coming Home to Story

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.

Captain Midnight here reporting from the mean streets of Acton.

As far as I can see, not much has changed in the past 150 years in this part of the world, except that the Victorian terraces are now seething with foxes. Cheeky buggers come out at night, bold as brass, rummaging through the dustbins for scraps.

Himself says they are nervous creatures and not to worry. It’s alright for him, six foot tall. They’re a lot scarier down here on the pavement. I’m a bit of a baddass myself, but I wouldn’t fancy meeting a bunch of urban foxes on my own, I can tell you. It’s dog eat dog with old vulpes vulpes and guess which one of us would be dinner.

As if the foxes weren’t bad enough, there are cats here the size of small horses, lurking behind hedges, waiting to pounce. I think they are in cahoots with Mrs. Fluffy the house cat, with whom relations are currently strained. It’s taken two years for us to get on speaking terms, and she still takes the occasional swipe at me in passing.

Himself has swanned off somewhere for ‘work’ again, leaving me behind to the mercy of assorted metropolitan marauders. On the bright side, when he’s away, I do get to spend lots of time curled up on the sofa with Herself, in front of the fire.

Maybe things aren’t so bad after all

Captain Midnight here in the post-Christmas doldrums.

The pack was supposed to be cavorting on the beach in Lyme Regis this New Year but we stayed in London instead because Herself has hurt her back and, not to be outdone, Himself has “a terrible cold and a cricked neck.” They’ve been sprawled on the couch for days, moaning and groaning, though I notice that they still manage to get up to pour drinks and stuff themselves on leftovers.

Of course, I hunkered down and did much wuffling and cuddling to soothe their suffering. It’s what we do when the pack is in trouble and I’m glad to report that it seems to be having some effect. Herself can now sit down and get up from the sofa without actual tears of pain, while Himself found sufficient energy this afternoon to finger the keyboard listlessly for 20 minutes or so, albeit without much inspiration.

New Year’s Eve came and went without much incident. There were fireworks in the street and I did what any sensible super-dog would do: stayed indoors and hid under the bed until they stopped whizzing and popping.

In the past week, I’ve sat through half a dozen movies, an entire boxed set of Game of Thrones and 10 episodes of an excellent programme about a family of corgis and their owner, called The Crown.

In between times, I’ve managed to drag Himself round the block a couple of times a day but that’s been about the only exercise I’ve had apart from chasing phantom foxes in the garden and some rather half-hearted ball chucking in the hallway.

I would worry about putting on weight except for the fact that remarkably little of the turkey, sausages and bacon lying around has come my way.

No surprise there.

Sunday 17 December 2017

Captain Midnight here reporting from the wilds of rural Gloucestershire.

Himself woke up late this morning. In fact I had to jump on him before there was any sign of life. I had my usual biscuity breakfast and a quick constitutional to the end of the village and back. Then we settled down in the upstairs office. He bashed away at the computer for hours while I took it easy on the sofa.

Yawn. Yawn.

Things got more exciting when I dragged him out at dusk to the fields behind Kingscote Church for a walk. We bumped into a neighbour and I had a bit of a gambol with my young Golden Retriever friend Tilva while Himself yacked on with her human, then we were off…

While he lumbered along in mud-caked boots, I rolled in fox poo and chased several pheasants. Then I ran after a hare across the ploughed field and into the woods. If Himself hadn’t called me back I’d have had him. Later, as it was getting really dark, I saw two of those big deer things with horns. Gave them a good run for their money, I can tell you.

As if that wasn’t enough excitement for one walk, I came across the carcass of a bird. I think the pheasant murderers had left it behind and while I don’t approve of shooting things, it was pretty ripe and completely irresistible.

What?

Yes. Of course, I ate it!

I crunched it to bits and ate the lot, feathers and all. It tasted fantastic, which is why I’m still licking my chops in the picture above, taken when we eventually got home. He insisted on giving me a shower, then lit the fire in the sitting room and we both had a bit of a doze.

In the immortal words of Lou Reed, it’s been a perfect day.

Well a perfect afternoon, anyway.

Captain Midnight here enjoying a bit of a swim in Lac de Liez, Peigney.

Himself kept chucking perfectly good stones in the water so I had to do my lifeguard thing and jump in to save them.

Actually, it was a pretty good walk all round this morning. I found two good sticks by the lake shore and made a new friend: Maya, une trés jolie chienne française. We chased each other for a while. I played hard-to-get so she would be attracted to my English reserve. I was doing pretty well until her man put her back on the lead.

C’est la vie…

Then Herself started chatting to a passing French couple who asked about me. She explained that I’m demi-Cocker Spaniel et demi-Poodle. Himself said that I was trois ans et six mois old. They’re so good with languages.

“Ah,” said the nice Frenchman. “En plein puissance!”

Even I know what that means.

Bang on.