Edgar: Confessions of an English Bulldog

By Ivar Rivenaes

Edgar is an English Bulldog. He lives with his human companions Sir Charles and Lady Christina Whintney-Henderson in the county of Hampshire, South-east England.

There are altogether fourteen dogs in the neighbourhood; all different breeds. They refer to their human co-inhabitants as companions – never as owners.
Dogs have been part of human existence for almost 20,000 years and no animal has more effortlessly adapted to changing environments and circumstances. One of their many talents is to read human body language far better than humans themselves are capable of. With the exception of Sir Charles – Edgar’s companion – none of the other humans are aware that their canine friends understand every word spoken.

The dogs regularly meet up on Edgar’s big lawn where they discuss what is going on in the world in general, their human companions’ behaviour, the latest rumours and everything else that takes place in the universe. One of the big questions they struggle with is why humans say something in public and something entirely different in private. Another conundrum is why tolerance is in such short supply among humans.

Edgar often thanks his lucky star for having a companion like Sir Charles, one of the few humans who can communicate with dogs.

At the age of five, Edgar hits on the idea of presenting in writing his and his friends’ thoughts and observations. For a while he struggles with the decision whether to go for chronicles or confessions but finally decides that the latter would be more honest. He approaches Sir Charles, who declares himself willing to write on his computer what Edgar relates. They agree that not a single word would be changed without Edgar’s permission. Edgar’s innate respect for integrity never wavers, and Sir Charles, true to his word, writes it all down – sometimes amused and in between shocked to learn what dogs actually think about their human companions.

EDGAR, along with a Black Russian, a Poodle, a Golden Retriever, a Greyhound, a German Shepherd, a Cane Corso, a Crossbreed, a Black Labrador, a Bullmastiff, a Chihuahua, a Highland Terrier, a Pitbull and a Rottweiler provide a twenty-first century answer to Animal Farm in a modern and affluent setting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amolibros
• Release date: Jan 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781908557834

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Edgar: Confessions of an English Bulldog

by Ivar Rivenaes (for Edgar)

Published as an ebook by Amolibros at Smashwords 2016

Table of Contents

About this book

About the author

Notices

Dedication

Protagonists

Companions

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

About this book

Edgar is an English Bulldog. He lives with his human companions Sir Charles and Lady Christina Whintney-Henderson in the county of Hampshire, South-east England.

There are altogether fourteen dogs in the neighbourhood; all different breeds. They refer to their human co-inhabitants as companions – never as owners.

Dogs have been part of human existence for almost 20,000 years and no animal has more effortlessly adapted to changing environments and circumstances. One of their many talents is to read human body language far better than humans themselves are capable of. With the exception of Sir Charles – Edgar’s companion – none of the other humans are aware that their canine friends understand every word spoken.

The dogs regularly meet up on Edgar’s big lawn where they discuss what is going on in the world in general, their human companions’ behaviour, the latest rumours and everything else that takes place in the universe. One of the big questions they struggle with is why humans say something in public and something entirely different in private. Another conundrum is why tolerance is in such short supply among humans.

Edgar often thanks his lucky star for having a companion like Sir Charles, one of the few humans who can communicate with dogs.

At the age of five, Edgar hits on the idea of presenting in writing his and his friends’ thoughts and observations. For a while he struggles with the decision whether to go for chronicles or confessions but finally decides that the latter would be more honest. He approaches Sir Charles, who declares himself willing to write on his computer what Edgar relates. They agree that not a single word would be changed without Edgar’s permission.

Edgar’s innate respect for integrity never wavers, and Sir Charles, true to his word, writes it all down – sometimes amused and in between shocked to learn what dogs actually think about their human companions.

EDGAR, along with a Black Russian, a Poodle, a Golden Retriever, a Greyhound, a German Shepherd, a Cane Corso, a Crossbreed, a Black Labrador, a Bullmastiff, a Chihuahua, a Highland Terrier, a Pitbull and a Rottweiler provide a twenty-first century answer to Animal Farm in a modern and affluent setting.

About the author

Ivar Rivenaes was born in Norway. He is the author of four previous novels: Those Who Leave, At The First Fall Of Snow, Annie Rae and Tomorrow is Far Away. He divides his time between homes in New Zealand and England.

Notices

Published by Amolibros 2015

Copyright © Ivar Rivenaes 2015 | http://www.norwegianauthor.com/

Published electronically by Amolibros 2014 | Amolibros, Loundshay Manor Cottage, Preston Bowyer, Milverton, Somerset, TA4 1QF | http://www.amolibros.com | [e-mail]

The right of Ivar Rivenaes to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted herein in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

Except for certain historical figures, all the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely imaginary

This book production has been managed by Amolibros | http://www.amolibros.com

Dedication

To all my four-legged companions during the years who asked for nothing and gave everything.

I shot an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight

Could not follow it in its flight

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong,

That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterwards, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;

And the song, from beginning to end,

I found again in the heart of a friend.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Protagonists

Edgar: English Bulldog

Tzarina: Black Russian

Molly: Poodle

Rosie: Golden Retriever

Batman: Greyhound

Maggie: German Shepherd

Corleone: Cane Corso

Crisscross: Crossbreed

Phoebe: Black Labrador

Huxley: Bullmastiff

Zapata: Chihuahua

Braveheart: Highlander

Brad: Pitbull

Tyson: Rottweiler

Companions

EDGAR

Sir Charles Whintney-Henderson Retired Businessman.

Lady Christina Whintney-Henderson Animal Welfare

TZARINA

Dimitri Turgenev Oligarch

Ludmilla Turgenev Beauty Queen, Ex-Athlete

MOLLY

Matthew Morris Vicar

Miriam Morris Local newscaster

ROSIE

Oliver Aykroyd Lawyer

Francesca Aykroyd Anthropologist

BATMAN

John Radclyffe Banker

Maria Radclyffe Socialite

MAGGIE & CORLEONE

Stephen Muir Art Dealer

Suzanne Muir Art Dealer

CRISSCROSS

Nicholas Bowler Chairman Pharmaceutical Company

Jeanette Bowler Newspaper Editor

PHOEBE

Bertram Mulligan Retired Farmer

Barbara Mulligan Chicken Coop Owner

HUXLEY

Bradley Loftus Writer

Simone Loftus Beauty Products

ZAPATA

Joseph Gascassin Film Producer

Mira Gascassin Screen Writer

BRAVEHEART

David Falk Politician

Rosalind Rand Falk Psychologist

BRAD

Brendan O’Farrell Television Producer

Donna O’Farrell Television Producer

TYSON

Greg Gregson Actor

Sally McCullum Actor

Chapter 1

My name is Edgar.

I am an English Bulldog, allegedly of the noblest breed imaginable. My sire won best in his class at Crufts one year, and two years later the female of his choice for further procreation of supreme Bulldogs followed suit.

It can’t get better than that, I’ve been told.

Historically, we first appeared about four hundred years ago. We were called Bulldogs because humans found it entertaining to force us to attack a tethered bull. So, as time went by and we killed bull after bull if they didn’t kill us first – although I must emphasise that we usually won – we developed this powerful body with a most magnificent head, making us the envy of other breeds. Allow me to add that we were also employed to kill bears – apparently, humans found this even more enjoyable to watch – and I have been told that these activities lasted for several centuries. Then, in 1835, a document titled the Cruelty to Animals emerged, and that was supposed to ensure the end of this recreational pursuit. And yes, it did, to quite some extent, but if I am to believe some humans for whom I have the highest regard, bulldogs as well as other breeds are still being used in blood sports.

I have yet to figure out why such bestiality is considered attractive. Tzarina – my neighbour – says that humans have become far too sophisticated for their own good; they have lost any sense of perspective they once may have had, she says, and whatever they do, they simply no longer know how to stop,.

Which leads me to the conclusion that humans are what they are, and – much to my regret – this observation is not an unqualified compliment.

A few personal data: I am forty-two centimetres tall and weigh twenty-seven kilos, all muscles and bones. I do not fancy long-distance running but I am explosively fast over shorter stretches. Of colour I am golden with a white chest and my coat is smooth and shiny like silk. My nose is a bit on the condensed side; regrettably, this does affect my breathing – Mother Nature was a tad on the mean side when she supplied me with wind pipes. The same cannot be said when she measured my need for a coat – generosity would be a mild description. My countenance indicates considerable wisdom combined with a down-to-earth practical attitude to life’s ins and outs. My eyes are dark and radiating with intelligence but there are times I wish my sight were better.

Like my friends Huxley, Tyson and Corleone – more about them later – I descend from the impressive and good-looking breed called Mastiffs, widely known for their sagacity, nobility and valour.

Although I am as robust as any canine, I greatly prefer a temperate climate; not too cold and certainly not too hot. Actually, I mention this on behalf of all canines – when humans choose a companion, they should be fully aware – in all respects – of the ambience and the conditions required making their co-inhabitant enjoying a comfortable life. All it takes is a little bit of homework.

For the sake of good order – or to complete the picture, to be more precise – of course I do have the odd aches and pains. It happens to us all, one way or another, as my human companion Sir Charles says, but thanks to his attention to my wellbeing I don’t have much to complain about. Once in a while Mr Vet from the village shows up, or we drive down to him, and I get an injection or two, which I hardly feel, and the panacea that is in those little syringes certainly does the trick. Sir Charles also has a thing about cleanliness, and even on wet and muddy days I smell like a rosebush.

The popularity of us Bulldogs has no parallel. We are being chosen as mascot whenever there is a need for a mascot, which seems to be quite often. Photogenic as we are, you’d also see us figure in films and on television – evidently, those humans who commission our services seem convinced that our appearance adds credibility to whatever it is they are trying to persuade other humans to believe.

Once upon a time – and this I have from Sir Charles himself – our nation was involved in a war bigger and uglier than most wars and one particular human emerged as a great leader and he was named after an ancestor of mine called Winston. Since then, a lot of Bulldogs have been named Winston but as with practically everything else that is being overused, the name is now preferred mainly by those humans I would classify as upstarts.

I may not be the largest and most imposing-looking of dogs, but as a guard dog I am second to none. I fear nothing and I would go to any length to defend those near and dear to me. But – and this is important – behind my menacing countenance and daring heart there is quite a tender soul; when there is nothing to be upset about I am as soft and gentle as a butterfly on a daffodil. Granted, I have a certain reputation for being stubborn but this is only applicable when I encounter stupidity. There are also those who claim that I can be somewhat pretentious and conservative of disposition and I do not deny this. On the other hand, who is perfect and what is perfection? Quite – irrespective of your conclusion to this conundrum – how boring life would be if diversity did not exist.

Let me add, while I am at it, that I greatly respect flexibility and precision of the mind; each – or rather the combination – so vital if one is to maintain one’s objectivity.

One point of importance at this early stage of my memoirs: when the idea first came to me, I pondered for some while whether I should refer to my work as Chronicles or Confessions. I settled for the latter simply because it would be impossible to present an honest account of the life of my friends and our human companions without a certain degree of disclosure, however subtly presented. I trust that you understand and sympathise with this resolution, not least because I have the greatest respect for discretion when so called for. Needless to say – as humans say when there is something they really want to get across – you’ll find that this characteristic, which can also be labelled as prudence, will reverberate through the pages of my work.

Now, you may opine and shake your head – something does not add up here. Production of literature is not a canine activity, you’d say. This observation is perfectly correct. Authoring is an enterprise we don’t indulge in, technically, that is. Our paws are not designed to operate typewriters or keyboards. Even putting pen to paper, like in the old days, has its limitations for us. Would not this mean that all roads towards word literary production are blocked?

Think again.

Mr Loftus, who is my friend Huxley’s companion, is a novelist. He says that a vast number of humans who call themselves writers can’t write – they have an idea or a concept and then they get other humans to do it for them. Sir Charles says that the pages of human history are littered with characters who couldn’t write, either. They have simply stayed famous during the ages because they had some learned friends who began to write down what these renowned chaps said, or were supposed to have said, or in some cases didn’t say at all but should have said.

That is exactly my chosen hi-tech procedure except – I emphasise this for the sake of absolute clarity, referring to the above observation – I do not have co-writers; every single word is my own. Prior to each chapter being composed I meditate, evaluate and consider all angles, morally and otherwise, and then Sir Charles and I congregate in our study and he writes on his computer what I relate.

One point of monumental importance, in this context: when I first aired the thought of producing this work, Sir Charles asked if he was also supposed to be my editor. I gave this some serious consideration but concluded that any human interference – even from someone as sapient and refined as Sir Charles – would be not only counter-productive but it could also – unwittingly, I hasten to add – touch the borders of mendacity. Hence, we agreed that he would not add or remove as much as a comma without my blessing.

And this is how my book is seeing the light of day – merely the creation of a close cooperation between human and canine minds. I trust that this revelation eradicates any doubt you may have had about spiritual and technical collaboration across the internal borders of the animal kingdom – also called psyche, I believe – which, to the best of my knowledge, includes humans.

Back to the notion of origin, pedigree and associated abstractions for a moment.

It is not in my nature to be self-righteous but honestly – this concept of breeding does make my nostrils flare. There is such an element of snobbery attached to it. A big colourful family tree hanging on the wall may look impressive to the insecure and the mentally restricted, that is, to those who are relying on past generations to give an impression of their importance, but what does it actually mean?

Not much, in my opinion.

This is also my philosophy when it comes to humans. Quality-wise, you are who you are and what you are as an individual, regardless of illustrious ancestors or how many ribbons or medals or whatever titles or honours are being bestowed upon you.

What matters is character. This means that you cultivate integrity, veracity and moral courage as the guiding lights of your entire being. From what I have seen so far, such attitude is rather rare among humans – my friend Braveheart says it is like reaching for the stars, according to his companion Mr Falk, who is a politician – but Braveheart himself agrees that giving in to disillusions amounts to a declaration of failure. You may not be able to actually get hold of a star, but isn’t the whole purpose of this activity that one must never give up trying?

I live with Sir Charles and Lady Christina Whintney-Henderson, but you have to forgive me for not revealing much about the intimate side of their life in my chronicles. Discretion will forever remain one of my hallmarks, together with my innate respect for privacy.

My co-inhabitants are nice humans, and – as opposed to a few of their neighbours, friends and acquaintances – snobbery is alien to them. They also have an understanding of canine psyche and never refer to me as the dog but always as their companion.

That says quite a lot.

You are undoubtedly aware that some humans have a rather inflated opinion of their own cerebral capacity. To bolster this, they compare the size of their brains with the assumed size of the volumes of other beings. For instance, I have heard quoted that a dog’s brain is roughly ten percent of that of a human’s. This, of course, is unadulterated drivel, produced by the vast congregation of less than mediocre humans who are in desperate need of being seen as qualified members of Homo sapiens. It is an old, worn-out and utterly inane trick – attempting to belittle somebody else does not make you superior. What it does do, is to unwittingly expose you as a cretinous philistine.

The fact of the matter is that a dog’s brain is roughly one third of the human brain.

Sir Charles, for one, fully comprehends this. He is in no doubt whatsoever that dogs have been vastly underrated; the ordinary human’s understanding of our capabilities and talents has barely scratched the surface. Here’s how he presents it: Humans use in the region of ten percent of their hundred-percent capacity to get by on a daily basis while dogs use one hundred percent of their thirty percent.

Which is perfectly correct.

And what does this say about the entire constellation?

I leave it to you to figure it out for yourself.

And here is another fact that may not have crossed your mind: we canines are in the position to observe humans in private and the very same humans when they socialise – and believe me, we do notice the vast difference not only in behaviour but also what they do or do not talk about. A male human may say to the female human – or vice versa, for that matter – what he or she would never utter if anybody else was present. This gives us considerable insight and understanding of how humans operate; what is façade and what is hypocrisy and what is genuine. Sadly, it seems that most humans are dominated by prejudices, narrow-mindedness, intolerance and self-righteousness; all traits that make them less sublime than they think they are.

I am not judgmental by nature but if things need to be said then I do. Add to this my firm opinion that a writer who avoids speaking his or her mind about any subject has a few things to learn about moral duties and ethics.

Another little secret is that some humans do know the language of dogs, and Sir Charles is one of them. This is why he and I can converse; there is no barrier between us and there is nothing we can’t talk about. Inhibitions do not exist.

Sir Charles is a quiet man, exceedingly well-mannered and patient beyond comprehension. I have never heard him raise his voice, utter a profanity or describe anyone with even a shade of contempt in his voice. I do realise that this makes him sound as too good to be real, but – being his only true confidante – I know that he wasn’t always like this. I’ll come back to his story a bit later.

I once heard someone describe Sir Charles as the quintessential British gentleman and, from what I have observed so far in life, this depiction is spot on. He is a shade below six feet tall, lean and always elegantly dressed – never ostentatious – and his elegant manners and composed demeanour make everybody around him instinctively feel at ease. His hair is white, his eyes blue-grey and there are not many lines etched on his face.

Which is quite remarkable, considering some of what he experienced in his younger days.

Lady Christina is an extrovert, excitable and bubbly and prone to see quandaries where none exists. Luckily, one of her many talents is problem-solving; real, imagined or yet to arrive. She is quite sweet for a human female but at times her agitated state of mind gets on my nerves. Sir Charles – never ruffled – calls her Chrissie sweetie and Chrissie darling and Chrissie angel and a variety of similar expressions of endearment irrespective of circumstances, gentleman as he is, but I do find his forbearance somewhat over the top, at times.

Personally, I address her as Lady Crisis.

Maybe it is just as well that she doesn’t fully have the capacity to comprehend what is going on in my mind.

I should add that she is universally described as beautiful; a heart-shaped face with light honey-coloured skin, large brown eyes, her dark hair with the odd streak of silver cascading over her shoulders and her petite and agile body reminding me of a cheetah on the move.

We live in Hampshire, south-east England, and I am happy here. The house is big and the property is large and I have all the freedom in the world to wander about. I am sorry I can’t give you any measurements – figures aren’t my forte – but I know that the house has got more than one floor and it takes a bit of effort to walk from one end to the other. My domain is the ground floor – staircases have no appeal to me – and at night I sleep in the kitchen on my thick bolstered bed in front of the Aga. I have several other beds too; one in the main sitting room, one in the conservatory and one in Sir Charles’ study. There are also what they call drawing rooms – more than one, to the best of my knowledge – but they are hardly ever used so no beds there.

The house is full of chairs and sofas and tables and cabinets and other things that humans can’t do without, and on practically every single wall there are paintings of some description or another. I am not too much into art but most of them are reasonably engaging, in particular those that show animals or landscapes or both. I once heard Sir Charles say that no work could be considered art unless it has intellectual, emotional or aesthetic appeal. He added that investing in beauty has its own rewards, that is, far beyond any material consideration. These observations make sense to me.

All the rooms except the kitchen have wooden floors but Sir Charles and Lady Crisis both have this affinity for rugs in all shapes and colours; they are scattered all over the place so you’d have to look twice to get a glimpse of the wood. I don’t mind this; wooden floors are slippery and thus a threat to my well-being.

When human visitors come to the house for the first time, they all comment on the beauty of the building itself and everything that’s in it. Taste, I’ve heard them say – Sir Charles and Lady Crisis really have got taste. Then they proceed to praise this, that and the other, which is really nice because – this is purely my pertinent conclusion drawn from such comments – evidently not very many are in the possession of this quality called taste; I mean, if such was the case, they wouldn’t go on about it, would they? Now, you could say, most humans say what they say because they have a modicum of manners – at least most of those who come to this house – and that’s why they drop these little tributes. I am not immodest enough to classify myself as a connoisseur either of culture or of human interiors, but please remember that I do have exceptionally fine-tuned ears. In other words, it does not matter what words humans are using; they can choose those with the greatest care also when being false or deceitful – what they can’t do is to control their voices. In short, I can hear the tingling of a sophism the moment it is being uttered. Does this please me? I can’t say it does. It would have been so much more positive and constructive if humans either mean what they say or they keep negative opinions to themselves.

Oh well – enough about their shortcomings.

Here is something that does touch my heart. Every time somebody pays tribute to the house and everything that’s in it, Sir Charles says: It is all due to my wife’s efforts. Give her an empty room and she’ll make a home out of it.

That this is true is one thing but what I admire and respect is what I call generosity of mind. Sir Charles and Lady Crisis always compliment each other, and I know that it comes from the heart. Sadly, this is not common among humans; in so many cases they seem to find pleasure in sneering at each other. Do not ask me the reason – I have no idea why elementary goodwill blended with a touch of affection is in such short supply.

They do have a bit to learn, don’t they?

My private dining quarter is against the wall opposite the Aga; a blue bowl for my breakfast/dinner and a white bowl for my water. Underneath is a plastic mat in appealing colours. The quality of the food is excellent and, I’ve been told, very nutritious. The biscuits are packet with vitamins and minerals, some cooked meat or fish added, a handful of pills against something called arthritis and the whole lot sprinkled with linseed oil, which is also supposed to be good for something. I’ve never queried this; Sir Charles knows what he is doing. All the water in the house has been filtered before it reaches the taps; another health issue no sensible being can argue against.

There is something I have to clarify before I go any further, and that is the concepts of time and distance.

I – and every single one of my many friends, for that matter – cannot comprehend why humans are so obsessed with this issue. They talk in seconds and minutes and days and weeks and months and years and eternities and so on – my rational mind asks: why?

I discussed this at some length with Tzarina, who is one of my neighbours. She’s a Black Russian, exceedingly intelligent, wise and knowledgeable, and, following this tête-à-tête, we thereafter organised a general assembly – Tzarina says there is a good dozen of us – but no one could come up with an explanation that could possibly be defined as a rational interpretation. Tzarina finally suggested that since not even humans themselves know why they are the victims of this addiction, we should consider the entire matter as an incurable human pathological problem and leave it at that.

So, there we are. The past is what happened before today. The past can be referred to simply as the other day. The future, event-wise, is what may or may not happen when today is over. The same applies to forever. Today is between it getting light and getting dark. The past can also be summed up with another three words: a while ago. A long while or a short while is immaterial in as much as a while is a while. Not even humans can do anything about that. One could also claim that time-wise, the future is whenever it arrives. Exactly when doesn’t come into it; essentially inconsequential, as Tzarina is fond of saying.

The concept of distance is equally simple: it is the ground you cover before reaching your target without getting tired, remembering, in this context, that you also have to get back again. In other words, distance is simply how far you are prepared to move your paws, mentally calculating if the effort is worth it, and then decide whether or not to go ahead. Thus, distance is merely a matter of common sense, evaluating exertion, which again is a question of knowing your mind and knowing your body. I mean, can it get any more unambiguous than that?

Now, you may say – what if one moves about in a car? This is equally simple. One travels from Point A to Point B and back again without employing the use of one’s paws and this too must necessarily be classified as a distance. The difference is in the concept of comfort. The question of exertion – see above – is purely a technical matter, and by this I mean how much petrol is in the tank and the overall state of the vehicle. Most humans seem to be aware of this rather evident supposition.

I hasten to add that the above observations are entirely my own; Tzarina, a genuine brain-box, may appear to agree, accommodating as she is, and Maggie, another intellectual, does also have her reservations when it comes to my earthbound if not simplistic reasoning. I should say, though – bearing in mind my respect for integrity and honesty – that my friend Huxley – the writer’s companion – once intimated that my reasoning bordered on naivety and not mere simplicity; in other words, it was more a case of absence of sophistication than cogitation. I welcomed this, as I welcome all objections to my cerebral activities; heterogeneity is not only Mother Nature’s way of making life interesting and rewarding, it is also a must in the process of ensuring progress. I have this from Sir Charles whose wisdom I never have had any reason to query.

Progress, by the way, is an interesting concept. Sir Charles says that we should never stop learning – we owe it to ourselves to widen our horizons whenever possible. I fully agree with this observation and that is why I keep my mind open, prepared to absorb today what I didn’t know yesterday. Never be afraid to change your opinion, Sir Charles says; that it, as long as such change is the result of your own cerebral activity and not something uncritically adopted from somebody else.

Talking about time, I’ve heard mentioned that Sir Charles is seventy-five years of age, Lady Crisis is sixty-four and I am five. Further pieces of overheard habitual conversations reveal that they are getting on a bit – apparently, this is negative – and I am in my prime, which is supposed to be positive. None of this makes any sense to me, as one would gather from the above observations, and I am not going to dwell on it. My only comment is that I do feel pretty good within myself and Sir Charles and Lady Crisis both look rather in their prime too.

Here’s how I ended up in this house.

A while ago, somewhere else, I was playing with my sister and brothers – our parents keeping a watchful eye – when a car pulled up in front of the house. Well, house and house – it wasn’t exactly like this one – but one could say it was adequate for its purpose, which was to give shelter to one male and one female human who made their living breeding dogs. I wasn’t aware of it at that time, but I later heard that there were two other kennels on the property; one for Rottweilers and one for Labradors.

I also learned and should add, in all fairness, that the two humans who operated the three kennels had a reputation for producing magnificent dogs. It wasn’t a factory – which regrettably is quite common, these days; the two humans were known for being selective and they were against over-breeding. Top quality, they said, was their motto and such attitude is praiseworthy in a world where obsession with money is so dominant.

I mean, I am living proof of the above. If this kennel had not produced the most impressive of bulldogs I wouldn’t have been there, would I?

The car