Last week the boss and daughters #1 and #2 went to see an excellent production of Cabaret by the students at Lancaster Royal Grammar School and Lancaster Girls’ Grammar School, leaving me home alone with our six-month-old puppy Walter.
Like most men, I couldn’t care less if the dog wants to sprawl out on the sofa after a hard day of running on the beach with his dog friends and chewing the wallpaper in our hall.
He’s earned it.
Most women, however, hold the opposite point of view and shriek and point like Donald Sutherland in the final chilling scene in Invasion Of The Body Snatchers, the second a dog puts one of his paws on the sofa.
There was football to be watched, Twitter to be read and a few hours of peace to be had.
If the pup wants to stretch out and relax on a three-piece leather sofa, then it’s anything for a quiet life as far as I’m concerned.
At least he’s not chewing my records.
But about 10pm, when the key turned in the front door, me and the boy had to move quickly.
I picked him up like a baby and put him in his bed and thought we’d got away with it.
Then daughter #1 said: “He’s been on the sofa all night, hasn’t he?”
And daughter #2 chipped in: “Those cushions look ruffled. I bet they’re still warm from where he’s been lying on them.”
Then she felt them, and they were. Busted, lectured and sent to bed in disgrace.
Not quite a spare room offence in the boss’ book but pretty close to it.
“But look at his little face,” I whined. “How can you refuse him?”
Cue part two of the lecture about how puppy classes were more about training me than him.
After all that I felt like helping the pup out and chewing a few strips of the wallpaper off with him.
So it turns out yours truly is dog #2 in our house now.
The puppy’s assistant, who walks and entertains a headstrong, adolescent lurcher and feeds him scrambled eggs for his breakfast a couple of times a week.
Not too hot though, he might burn his little mouth.