The Wickedest Whippet: Looking as guilty as a puppy beside a pile of poo...

The Wickedest Whippet: Innocent!

Looking as guilty as a puppy beside a pile of poo. I’d like that to be figuratively of course, but for me the whole situation is as far from Blackadder as I am at present from my children.

They are with their grandparents in Yorkshire and I am down here staring at a pile of poo in my kitchen trying to work out which whippet was wicked. There is no reason on earth why there should be poo on my kitchen floor, the door to the garden is not closed, the dogs have not been beaten for any infringement real or imagined (yet); in fact quite the opposite they have all been free to wander outside, inside and in my Lady’s chamber or at least her office. No one has been ostracised, left out or even picked on so there is no excuse and they all look equally guilty.

I am afraid there is only one thing that can be done each and every one of them bar Tigger, the Jack Russell ( I know it is not him because I know what his poos look like - sorry  it’s a dog owner thing we’re like that) will have to have their noses rubbed in it and then thrust outside not to come in again so that they can reconsider whether it is a good idea to poo inside the house or not.

I do hope they choose the former in future.

Now grabbing a fully grown whippet and rubbing their noses in poo is not something I would recommend on a daily basis. It is much easier when they are puppies and it is all part of their toilet training.

I was successful in collaring Gemma who is now looking at me balefully from under the yew tree in the pouring rain, I was successful in cornering Tattie who is now shivering and looking pathetic; but trying to capture Sassy aka The Evil Black Job or the ultimate Wickedest Whippet, has been - how shall we say - a bit of a challenge.

The first two were over and done with in short shrift but as soon as I turned in HER direction she immediately saw my intent and thought: Not On Your Nelly and was gone like greased lightning, jumping over the stair gate in the small TV room which is meant to keep the canine pack curtailed, and bolting up the stairs. I, of course, followed. She charged along the corridor and into the big spare room. I thought I had her but as I reached forward to take her collar she leapt on the bed outmanoeuvring me and bolted out the door and disappeared. I searched high and low.

She would not be found.

She would not come downstairs when I called.

She was not going to be conned with rattle of Gravy Bones in her bowl nor by me pretending to go out for a walk.

She resolutely did not want to be anywhere near me just in case. And I wouldn’t blame her.

So for two hours I had to leave the poo in the middle of my kitchen as I tried in vain to get hold of the little cuss her. It has been a battle of wills.

And I only succeeded because of the postman.

None of my dogs like the Postie and will all charge to the nearest window to bark their derision whenever he comes to deliver. I caught her and now she too is outside in the rain sulking.

I don’t know who is the real guilty party but I do have my suspicions…