Not content to completely besmirch Santa’s good name for her own pleasure, my mistress has only gone and sent a poem about Santa to a national newspaper. Why does she do these things? Doesn’t she realise we might not get any presents this year now, because of her actions. Santa, if you are reading this, it wasn’t me. I didn’t have anything to do with it. I didn’t even give her the idea. I’ve been a good dog, really I have and I still deserve a present. Oh and I’m friends with a deer that says he knows Rudolph if that helps too.
I suppose I can’t be too cross with her, she is trying to take me on lots of lovely long walks in an attempt to walk off my expanded waistline rather than have to be too harsh on my diet. The fact that I drool everywhere while my mistress is eating, makes her feel guilty if she doesn’t give me any. Quite apart from which, sharing everything together has become a special part of our relationship, or so I like to point out to her on the odd occasions she thinks of leaving me out. She can’t bear to shut me in my room, so that I don’t drool everywhere, although her conscience does seem to let her shut me in there rather than bring mud all through the house. I suppose from a cleaning point of view, the drool is in small concentrated puddles rather than liberally sprinkled all over the floor, settee and bedclothes. Perhaps if I could just leave the mud in a neat pile somewhere I wouldn’t be shut in then either. I’m putting a bid in for us to live a bit more above sea level when we go back to England, in the hope that I won’t be up to me knees in mud at the first sight of rain.