It has got to be said, however, that so far at least, this winter has not been anywhere near as bad as last year. It also helps that the furry hot water bottle is now old enough and continent enough to be allowed to sleep upstairs at night. He has developed into a complete `Mummy's Boy` and follows Corinna around with an adoring look on his muzzle. Luckily (for me) he insists on sleeping upon her side of the bed, but last night (and I'm not quite sure how he did it) the bloody animal ended up taking all of the quilt and all of the bed, and I for one, woke up with a very stiff neck.
Biggles enjoys Christmas far more than any of the human residents of Myrtle Cottage. For one thing there is a tree in the sitting room, which always amuses him, although this year he has not tried to wreck it or pee against it, merely attempting to eat the tinsel as Corinna put it on the tree. There are also more interesting foodstuffs around and despite the efforts of Shoshannah who, now she has qualified as a vet, takes a disturbingly Ubersturmfuhrer-like attitude to animal diets, insisting that as a specimen of Canis lupus familiaris Biggles should not eat Christmas cake, mince pies or pickled eggs; Biggles insists that as his subspecies has been commensal with the human race for at least 15,000 years (and it has even been suggested that the dog domesticated man rather than the other way round), he has earned the right to eat the same food as his master and mistress, although he will guzzle down his meat, bones and biscuits for form's sake.
This is a debate that will continue indefinitely. I, as a mere bloke, am sitting firmly on the fence and refuse to get involved.