Thank heavens we're home

Well, Wales was an experience, but I don't think beach holidays are for me.  No doubt I will have to suffer one again, just to make sure. We endured the hideously long journey home through the constant deluge, which only stopped when we reached our beloved Yorkshire.  I always feel I'm home when I cruise down Harewood Bank, smell the hares, see the three fields and sniff the sawdust scent from saw mill on the bridge.

It was lovely to see the daddies, but unfortunately, because of hideous journey they had to go out almost as soon as we arrived.  So Auntie Gill took us to her house.  It was very disappointing to be denied unconditional love and indulgences and have to stay with old Starchy Drawers for a few more hours.

I took it all in my stride, confident that I would no doubt find the opportunity to express my displeasure.  We were frog-marched home for ten o'clock and STILL had to wait for the daddies.  I can tell you, I was incandescent.  I was somewhat mollified by their rapturous greetings, copious treats and lots of jumping up, which old Starchy Drawers doesn't like.  She shouldn't wear tights and skirts.

Brahms demonstrating the 'good boy' sit to Auntie Sophie

To say that we had (supposedly) been missed by the daddies, as far as I'm concerned, on Saturday morning, they did not devote sufficient one to one attention or treats to make up for last night.  I gave them plenty of opportunity to spoil me: unrequested 'good boy' sits; adoring looks; not jumping up (they didn't even notice).  Both daddies were doing the 'work thing'.  They are not supposed to do this at home. So I was bored.  I had to entertain myself.  What am I supposed to do?  

Well first of all, having been subject to scent deprivation in Wales, I could not resist the waste bins: the land-fill one is the most satisfying for sniffs; recycling is generally good for chewing.  Plastic bottles work for me.  Daddy Justin was exasperated with my behaviour and resorted to 'the Corrector', which sprays water.  Starchy Drawers has one too.  I don't like it.

Additionally, thanks to car-lag from Wales, I was having trouble sleeping.  I tossed and turned on Sunday night.  Brahms was snort-whistle and neither use nor ornament, so I had no option but to do my relaxation chewing exercises.  Given that I was in a sensory deprived prison cage, the only way to relieve my insomnia was to chew my cushion.  As the fluffy stuffing expanded into floaty clouds and the velvet textured fabric ripped with satisfying ease, I felt my tension ebb and I drifted off.  I woke to a nightmare of ranting, red daddies. Apparently this was the wrong thing to do. I tried to include Brahms in the event, but I had been rumbled by the clumps of polyester puff stuck to my nose. Was it worth it?  Undoubtedly.