We eye-balled each other, respective arms and paws folded, circling around the kitchen table, in full tango mode. All we needed was to flourish castanets and the scene would have been complete. The tension was palpable. It was like a scene from the Wild West. The diminutive doofus was not a happy doofus. In my defence, I was completely unaware of the horse excreta that had adhered like dried cornflakes to my underbelly…less so that it was now crumbled in faecally flakes in the bed. Think dehydrated fish food…but much more sizeable chunks. I also do mean IN the bed as well as I have cleverly managed to breach the special ‘hound blanket barrier’ to burrow into where I could enjoy the residual warmth of their nights slumber. I myself am rather partial to a bit of horse poo, it maintains a country like fresh flavour, and if I roll it around in a glass I can detect the hint of fresh hay, sunshine on moo udders and if I close my eyes whilst I inhale, the waft of sun bleached wellies.

I thought that it would be best if I just let her get on with the tirade, so I sat down displaying great patience and let her list all the things that I did that were in her words ‘despicable’. I did zone out after a while, temporarily distracted by a flying raisin that was dive bombing me, dreadfully annoying things. I especially don’t like the whizzy little blighters that appear in the summer that wear stripy jumpers. Who would wear a jumper in the summer?! 

Getting back to the subject in hand, I have to be honest, horse poo really is the least of the horrors that a lurcher can bring to the yard. I suspect this had more to do with the preceding incidents involving the fox poo (which tends to collect in the intricate folds of my silken lug holes…snigger.), the rubber glove fiasco and the adventure of the missing lamb shank. Anyway, she finally stopped flapping her tea towel about and sat down, exhausted with the effort. Who mentioned HRT? Not me…never.

It was then that she announced that she had had an idea. Such announcements are always a bit of a worry and are to be met with great trepidation. Hector has been known to flee the room and lock himself in the bathroom with his latest copy of ‘Procrastination Monthly’ and a cup of tea, to evade the impending onslaught of her spurious mind fluff. Her idea was this…we were to swap roles for one day. She would live the life that I do and in turn I would fulfil the piffling duties that she had to. Easy Peasy. 

After we agreed, she did a most extraordinary body shake that sounded like a gun shot and curled up on the sofa, all limbs pointing upwards. She then farted and immediately fell asleep. I don’t do that. Fastening the straps of my Dior house coat around me I surveyed the list of jobs I had been given. The first task was to collect all the remaining horse nuggets from in the bed and then wash the bedding that had become, according to her, ‘revolting’. As it happens I rather enjoyed the leisurely hoovering up of the crumbs, a splendid post breakfast treat which a followed with a cheeky sherry chaser.

Then it was time to strip the bed. As it turns out this is quite an onerous task when you own four spindled limbs that don’t necessary behave themselves as required or expected. I found great difficulty in removing the sheet but that was easy compared to taking the duvet out of its cover. My first problem was trying to open the blessed thing. Paws were not made for button opening. I found a solution to this problem by painstakingly nibbling each button off the bottom of the duvet and spitting them onto the floor. Now is was time to skin the duvet. I have witnessed shorty trying to do this and I have always found it hilarious but I now did see the wisdom in climbing inside it. That is until I became wrapped up in it and got thoroughly stuck. I had to do the ‘Greyhound Scream of Death’ to alert her to my peril and she stumped through to me, wordlessly untangled my paws and released me, sighed, then returned to the sofa. I heard another trumpeting fart echoing in the distance. I decided not to go in the room for a while.

Anyway, after a struggle with the pillows I successfully relieved the bedding of the poo speckled sheets and trotted into the kitchen with them in my mouth, straight to the spinning water box in the cupboard. Unsure of how much to put in I forced it all in with my gracefully slender nose and then emptied an entire bottle of the whiffy blue liquid in with it. It was rather exhausting I must say. Exhaling and wiping my brow I thought I would have a quick sit down and a cup of tea. This was when the tiny terror chose to slink back through to the kitchen to announce that she wanted to go for a walk and to menace some squirrels, not necessarily in that order. She also informed me I would need some rather large bags?

And so the day went on, and more and more of her annoyances stopped me from completing my list. How anyone could operate with such disruption and mayhem was beyond me. Each time I felt my patience waning, she smiled beatifically at me and then looked desperately sad. I have no idea what this brand of sorcery was but as soon as she did my little poetic heart melted and I gathered her to my paws. It was a very long day indeed.

I am still awaiting her report on what a difficult life it is being a hound…I do still maintain that my day is much more difficult than hers.