Well, we had a nice day today. We took the dog for a walk, then took me Mam on a little sightseeing tour around Cavan. The kids debated whether it really did have 365 lakes and who had bothered counting them, then we drove home to find a rather huffy and red-faced Hubby pacing crossly about.

It turns out that the dog, who was lying in a bony beached-whale kind of way on his bed looking rather guilty (dodgy windscreen-wiper eyebrow action giving him away) and burping a lot, had found the new packs of biscuits that I’d left on the kitchen table (this bit was my fault, apparently) and eaten the bloody lot. Yep, a family pack of Bourbon biscuits, a family pack of custard creams, and a pretty good stab at the entire pack of Salt and Pepper Tuc biscuits too, the fat sod.

Needless to say he got very little sympathy. Well, he shouldn’t be such a pig and we really like Bourbons. In fact, my sum compassionate act has been to walk past him a couple of times as he’s groaning on his bed to make sure he doesn’t puke. ‘I’m not cleaning it up if you do’, I told the remote control eyebrows. ‘So there’.

Now before you start emailing me, yes I know that chocolate can be toxic to dogs, but how much chocolate can there possibly be in Tesco Value Bourbon? Not a lot, I would guess. But just in case, I sent a quick text to C, the oracle on all things greyhoundish, just to check. ‘Ah sure’, came the reply, ‘he’ll be grand. He’ll have a fat day tomorrow but he’ll feel like the cat that’s got the cream. Or the dog that’s got the biscuits’. Indeed.

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