Now you all know how much I love Bertie. It’s a mutual thing too, it’s a standing joke in this household that every time I so much as twitch, Bertie will be by my side instantly. I have to point out here that this is only because I’m the one that feeds him and I’m generally the one in the kitchen too, so I’m not kidding myself that it’s anything more than ‘ooh, there’s the food lady! I might get some grub’ that’s passing through his mind.

Anyhoo, I digress. When we first got him he was very good and didn’t beg at the table or anything. Slowly, though, we’ve been realising that we’ve actually ruined him by throwing him the odd titbit, which has encouraged him to have a wander near the table while we’re eating. As responsible dog owners, we need to instil some table manners on our errant pooch and make a concerted effort only to feed him from his bowl and not to encourage him near the table at all. So far it’s worked quite well, and a firm ‘no, Bertie’ will see him slink back to his bed if he decides to check out the table while we’re eating. Yesterday, though, I’d just put a new pack of butter into the dish when I was distracted for some reason and from the kitchen came an ominous crash. On closer inspection, Bertie had decided to have a lick at the butter in the dish and managed to push it off the table onto the floor. I was pretty cross and started to give my ‘You NAUGHTY boy!’ speech in my best fierce voice, when Hubby tutted at my pathetic efforts, said ‘No!’ in a suitably scary voice, gave him a smart smack on the nose and walked back out.

Well, Bert was so shocked at this sudden weird sensation on his hooter that he tried to skitter out of the way, falling over his many legs in the process and ending up in an undignified heap on the floor. In that time-honoured, bonkers way of the married couple, I instantly switched from being livid with Bertie to being furious with Hubby for frightening my baby doggy-woggy and was explaining in words of one syllable what a horrendous, terrible, dog-beating evil beast he was when D popped round from next door. I managed to get in a last, whispered insult before they settled in front of the fire to talk despairingly about how mad women are and how a dog needs to know who’s boss, etc.

I must say here, before you call out the RSPCA or anything, it really was only a little tap on the nose, but Bertie, who by that time had gathered his legs together, was standing blinking in the kitchen in a kind of ‘blimey, what happened there?’ manner, looking like he needed a cuddle. I called him to me and watched in amazement as the furry Judas trotted straight past me and up onto the sofa where he proceeded to plant himself onto Hubby’s lap and settle down, burying his head in his armpit.

‘See?’ said Hubby triumphantly as he ruffled a furry ear, ‘he knows who’s boss’. Grrrrr.

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