I thought they'd be back by now. The Big Ones 'volunteered' me for a babysitting job many meals ago and here I still am. I'm not complaining though, it's not in my nature. It's a really cushy number, there's this daft dog called Midge who needs looking after. She's very odd, doesn't like food, obsessed by sticks and 'squeakies' (whatever they are) and barks at her own poo (don't ask).

My daily routine involves supervising the walks, at least two a day, and making sure Midge doesn't leave any food (in the bowl). Next I have to test the beds for softness, wriggleability and crumbs. After that comes a cat food quality test (if I can reach it) and then a good root around in the kitchen bin (as an eco friendly service) to make sure that nothing biodegradable has been thrown away.

Midge's Big Ones are very nice, the one with the long hair stays around for most of the day and helps me take Midge out. She tries to talk to me but I can't understand what she's saying, it all sounds like 'woe wo wow woh' to me. I do my best to entertain her, I run into the wind, flap my ears and shout 'give me a biscuit'. She likes that one. The other big one is nice too, very caring and dedicated, he tries to teach Midge how to eat her food by getting her to bite him.

Of course all this responsibilty is knackering, sometimes I'm almost too tired to eat (I said almost). The little cloud is still around, I can hardly remember a time when it wasn't, the world gets quieter every day and my legs don't bend in the middle like they used to. I asked Midge what she thought might be wrong with me, her diagnosis was 'squeaky throw now', I think mine's right, 'Malnutrition'.

Editors Note: Shortly after writing this, her last report, Pugwash fell ill. A few days and several Vet's ('we'd like a fourth opinion') later she was put to sleep aged 16ish. Apologies and thanks to Judith and Phil for being there.