‘Tis the season to sit quietly in ones wicker rocking chair and contemplate the fast approaching festive season. It is all going on here at Spindle Towers. I have noticed the loons hastily hiding parcels for me from my splendid relatives up t’North, which I am very excited about. I was especially heartened to see a rather lovely message for us in a card from the short ones father, who, as I may have mentioned before, I am rather fond of. Everyone seems to be making a huge effort for this Christmas thing, perhaps I should too. A Spindle should look her best at this time of tinselled mayhem, so I rooted through the short persons wardrobe and I have found a suitably floral head band to wear. Very spiffy. I look rather adorable with it on and I hope to increase the amount of treats and chest scratches I get. Paws crossed.

The loons have also brought a tree into the house which I thought was jolly decent of them, only to then discover it was in no way to be used as a inside wee tree. Well, I didn’t want to use it anyway, no hound likes the introduction of an unexpected prickle to ones undercarriage when letting ones nature water flow. I would like to throw out the idea here that I do believe the practice of outside toilets and performing outdoor ablutions are something that the human people do not seem to have to do these days…that is all I am saying…

As I consider all of this, I twiddled my paws, pausing momentarily to sip from my gin sling and daintily nibble the edges off my forth custard cream. Brushing the golden crumbs aside I reached for my quill and began to make notes. It was also the season to spread merriment and hilarity with some hound like practical jokes. Or, get some modicum of revenge for all the ridiculous things they have made me wear and do.

Ho Ho Ho.

I had observed the loons reading and chatting about an article about dogs that could sense the impending demise of their beloved human slave. Before I go on I must say that this is obviously a notable and genuinely interesting phenomena, however I felt I could get a certain amount of mileage out of it.

One evening, when we had all settled in the accustomed horizontal snoozing formation (It is very much like a stationary Red Arrows, although no planes, or flying..although sometimes there is a smoggy vapour trail) I began to stare intensely at the tall one, not blinking or deviating in any way. Eventually he looked up from his battered copy of “How to increase your earnings to fund the veterinary care for your shambolic Lurcher” noticed my piercing gaze and asked me what was wrong. No, I did not need to go outside. Yes, I am quite well. Yes, I would quite like a treat but not right at the moment. I carried on and he tried to ignore me, unsuccessfully as I can be awfully persistent. After a few minutes I could see him getting a tad twitchy and then a metaphorical, small, flickering lightbulb snapped on over his silken evening bonnet and he began to shift uncomfortably. He remained quiet for a while, ‘side eyeing’ me now and then. He tentatively brought up the subject with short human who was cocooned in a blanket with a book. The humans discussed the possibility that I was indeed in cahoots with Mr G. Reaper, an apprentice of sorts…oh what larks!! As a side note, I have always greatly admired the Discworld series, and I have always rather fancied work experience with DEATH. I digress. This carried on for a good half hour, after which time I had reduced the chump to a very uncertain ball of angst and panic and he eventually stumped off to bed, presumably in readiness to meet his fate.

Snigger.

I sat licking my crumb filled paws, congratulating myself on a superb bit of master manipulation, when I had a feeling I was now being stared at. The short human had looked up from her book and gave me a look that meant in no uncertain terms she knew exactly what I had been doing, and it was nothing to be proud of. I tried the downcast fluttery eye thing but she was strong, oh she was strong! After a long and protracted silent conversation between us, carried out through the medium of mime (her) and ear semaphore (me) I sighed dramatically oozed out off my chair and trotted in to the bedroom to reassure him that he was a gloriously healthy specimen and that I was very sorry indeed. I did toy with the idea of making a grand entrance wearing a hooded cloak and wielding a scythe as I trotted through to him, alas, my cloak is at the dry cleaners.

Normal service has now resumed in the household, however after much discussion with my pals we have decided to launch an appeal to ensure every hound, large and small, has the opportunity to evacuate their…’waste disposal units’ inside, where it is warm, dry and with no distracting cats or unexpected squirrels nearby.

NB Apparently the head band is infact a garter, I am non the wiser after this explanation but it seemed to produce great hilarity. Humans really are peculiar creatures.