04/09/2026
Chapter One Continues...
Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and messages. Here's the next instalment of Diary of a Dog Walker.
Last week we had Christmas, chaos and a missing puppy.
This week things get even more ridiculous...
📖 Diary of a Dog Walker
Wednesday 27th December 2023
Today was supposed to be a quiet “in-between” day.
You know the one — that weird time between Christmas and New Year when time loses all meaning, everyone’s wearing pyjamas with absolutely no structural integrity, and the fridge contains fourteen types of leftovers, three of which nobody remembers making.
Andy and I were still clinging to “short break from work” mode — a.k.a.
Not being dragged through fields by Labradors and not digging frozen trenches for someone’s new patio.
Instead, we were at home.
Relaxing.
Again… in theory.
The dogs had other ideas.
________________________________________
Morning Chaos (Featuring: The Usual Idiots)
Alice had fully embraced her new identity as a “Leftover Opportunist.”
She patrolled the kitchen like she was doing a full security sweep for gravy-based contraband.
Nicolas had entered his annual Post Christmas Vigilance Mode — meaning he barked at:
• the back door
• the front door
• a leaf
• Andy making coffee
• and at one point, quite passionately… a cushion
To be fair, the cushion was looking at him funny.
Shiva positioned herself in the middle of the kitchen like a giant living rug that occasionally lifts its head to judge your entire existence. A proper Yorkshire mum energy.
________________________________________
Meanwhile, The Cats…
Blossom wafted gently around the house looking all innocent and angelic, which is impressive considering she had already knocked two items off a shelf before 9am.
Mortimer decided Andy was the weak link in the chain and followed him everywhere, radiating “feed me, servant” energy.
Ursie, sitting on the windowsill, looked like a lynx guarding her territory and preparing to file formal complaints.
________________________________________
The Chocolate Incident
Bob wandered into the living room holding a leftover chocolate selection box and innocently asked:
“Can the dogs have any of this?”
Every dog in the house rotated their head at the exact same time like synchronised swimmers who’d just heard the starter pistol.
Alice: Alert mode activated
Nicolas: bark paused mid bark
Shiva: rose slowly, like a wolf fulfilling an ancient prophecy
Answer: Absolutely not.
Outcome: three dogs tailing Bob like he was the President’s biscuit detail.
________________________________________
A “Nice Relaxing Walk” (Ha.)
Around midday Andy, bless him, suggested:
“Let’s go for a nice relaxing walk.”
This is adorable, to a professional dog walker.
A “relaxing walk” with your own dogs is basically:
A chef trying to enjoy a quiet meal
while three other chefs shout,
“THAT’S NOT HOW YOU DO IT!”
Within seven minutes:
• Alice found something unspeakably disgusting to roll in
• Nicolas barked at two pigeons, one distant dog, and possibly… the wind
• Shiva walked beside me with the calm resignation of someone who’s read the script and knows the ending is chaos
We returned home cold, muddy, and no more relaxed than when we left — which is impressive considering we technically weren’t working.
________________________________________
Home Again, Same Nonsense
The cats were in the exact same positions as when we left.
For all I know, they hadn’t blinked.
Blossom — asleep
Mortimer — supervising the kitchen like a grumpy middle manager
Ursie — perched like a judgemental furry gargoyle
Andy made another coffee, I sat down with my diary and Alice wandered past carrying something from the kitchen she absolutely should not have had. I did not ask what it was. I no longer have the emotional bandwidth.
After 35 years working with dogs, you learn an important truth:
Sometimes… it’s better not to know.
Today I’m grateful for: Leftovers, family, coffee, and six furry lunatics who somehow turn doing absolutely nothing into a full-time spectator sport.
Thursday 28th December 2023
Today dawned grey, damp, and suspiciously quiet — which in a house full of animals is basically the opening scene of a disaster movie.
Quiet, in our world, only ever means one thing:
Someone is plotting something.
Andy, still desperately clinging to the fantasy of a “short break from work,” announced he was going to drink his coffee in peace.
A bold statement.
A foolish statement.
A statement that lasted thirty seconds.
Alice had already located a discarded sock and, from the look on her face, had declared it her emotional support item for the foreseeable future.
Nicolas barked at her, then the sock, then Andy — because apparently everyone needed telling off.
Shiva, ever the calm, ancient spirit of the house, looked at me as if to say:
“Control your staff, woman or I will have to do it.”
Meanwhile the cats had formed some sort of mysterious feline coalition.
• Blossom floated about like a pretty little ghost, knocking things over with the grace of a ballerina who’s had enough.
• Mortimer patrolled the kitchen with the solemn authority of a retired military general.
• Ursie sat on the stairs glaring at us with the intensity of someone waiting for a performance review.
We decided a short walk might help restore order — and continue the ongoing search for the missing puppy.
The dogs interpreted this as a military mission requiring full enthusiasm and zero common sense.
Alice immediately located something unspeakable in the hedgerow to bury, presumably for a future apocalypse.
Nicolas discovered a puddle and barked at it like the puddle had personally insulted his mother.
Shiva walked beside me, doing gentle course corrections every time chaos approached — the canine equivalent of grabbing you by the coat hood and steering you away from disaster.
We returned home drenched, mud spattered, and emotionally defeated — still no sign of the puppy.
Back in the kitchen, Andy attempted to tidy while I tried to stop the dogs turning the living room into an obstacle course that health and safety would condemn instantly.
Lunch was interrupted by:
• Alice stealing Bob’s sandwich
• Nicolas screaming about it like an alarm system set to overreact
• Shiva calmly eating a piece of unattended toast
• Ursie knocking over an entire coffee with the finesse of a tiny furry sumo wrestler
• Mortimer attempting, unsuccessfully, to negotiate peace between humans and dogs
• Blossom watching the chaos like a posh lady silently judging the lower classes
By mid-afternoon, everyone had either worn themselves out or decided they’d inflicted sufficient psychological damage on the humans for the day.
We finally achieved five whole minutes of peace.
Andy leaned back with his coffee.
I sat with my diary.
The house was… calm.
And then Alice remembered she had a sock.
And that was the end of that.
It is Thursday.
It is still December.
And life with six animals has taught me many things — but mainly this:
Relaxation is a myth. A rumour. A bedtime story for people without kids and pets.
Today I’m grateful for: Five whole minutes of peace, which in this house counts as a luxury holiday, plus family, coffee and six animals who keep life wonderfully ridiculous.
Friday 29th December 2023
(Otherwise known as: We Are So Very Tired.)
Friday arrived like a soggy blanket someone had thrown over the entire country — grey, damp, and absolutely refusing to offer even a glimmer of enthusiasm.
Andy, in a moment of reckless optimism, declared it a “gentle day.”
Of course, in this household, the phrase “gentle day” is just another way of summoning chaos.
________________________________________
This Morning: A Masterclass in Not Being Gentle
The dogs immediately took “gentle” to mean “do whatever you want, but louder.”
Alice found a box of leftover wrapping paper and performed what can only be described as an interpretive dance of destruction across the living room.
Nicolas barked at:
• the paper being torn
• the fact Alice was tearing it
• the possibility Andy might stop Alice tearing it
• and then barked at Andy anyway, for balance
Shiva sat in the corner like an exhausted supply teacher who’s mentally calculating how many hours until w**e o’clock.
She watched the chaos unfold with the energy of someone who has accepted her fate.
________________________________________
Meanwhile, in Feline Headquarters…
The cats held a private board meeting.
Blossom swanned through the house with the elegance of a woman who’s above all this nonsense.
Mortimer patrolled the edges like security at a budget supermarket.
Ursie sat on the sofa like a small furry statue carved entirely out of judgement.
Every so often she’d flick her tail in the direction of the dogs — a silent message:
“Pathetic.”
________________________________________
Andy vs. The Broom (A Tragedy in Three Acts)
Andy attempted to tidy the living room with a broom.
A broom.
This triggered a full canine Olympics:
• Alice tried to catch the broom
• Nicolas barked like the broom was an armed intruder
• Shiva exhaled the world’s heaviest sigh
• A cardboard tube rolled under the sofa like it was making a break for freedom
Somewhere behind us, Bob’s LEGO fortress was being dismantled one illegal snack at a time by Alice, while Eli filmed everything, presumably for future blackmail or a documentary titled:
“Britain’s Most Chaotic Families.”
At one point Andy shouted over the noise,
“I thought today was meant to be gentle!”
I nodded, because if I spoke, I might cry.
________________________________________
The Not At All Gentle Walk
We abandoned gentleness and headed across the road to search the fields again for the missing puppy.
The dogs behaved exactly as expected:
• Alice rolled in something immediately
• Nicolas picked a fight with a twig
• Then a puddle
• Then the concept of weather itself
• Shiva stayed at heel, clearly calculating whether she could end global idiocy using only her mind
After two hours of rain, wind, and the sort of mud that ruins your will to live, we admitted defeat and trudged home.
________________________________________
Our Return: A Scene of Devastation
Home sweet home.
Except it looked like post apocalyptic Christmas carnage:
• Wrapping paper everywhere
• Dog toys scattered like battlefield debris
• What remained of Bob’s LEGO fortress looked like it had been personally attacked by Godzilla
• The cats had vanished (sensible)
• Except Ursie, who sat halfway up the stairs like a disappointed landlady
“Look at the state of you,” her eyes said.
And frankly, she had a point.
________________________________________
The Reflection (In Between Sips of Lukewarm Coffee)
So there we were:
soaked, muddy, exhausted, and quietly questioning every life choice that led to this moment.
And yet — even with the barking, the mud, the shredded wrapping paper, the disappearing sandwiches, the barking at puddles, and the general ambience of absolute bedlam…
I sipped my coffee and thought:
This is our life.
Ridiculous.
Messy.
Sticky.
Loud.
But somehow… utterly brilliant.
Because for all the chaos, the barking, the mud, and the ever present threat of a dog eating something medically concerning —
we still wouldn’t trade it.
(Well… maybe the wrapping paper.)
Today I’m grateful for: Family, laughter, muddy walks and the fact that despite the chaos, barking and general carnage, this ridiculous little life of ours is actually rather brilliant.
Saturday 30th December 2023
Saturday began with the noble intention of a calm, ordinary dog walk. Andy had even promised himself he would keep his muddy boots under control. I believed it for approximately 17.3 seconds.
The cast assembled:
• Alice, who clearly thought every walk is a competitive sport.
• Nicolas, whose tail alone could generate enough energy to power a small kettle.
• Shiva, wise, calm, and only occasionally tempted by minor chaos.
The plan: a gentle stroll to the bottom field, look for the puppy, a bit of running around, a sniff here and there, then back home. Relaxing. Normal. Safe.
The reality: something out of a low-budget action-comedy.
It started innocently. Alice spotted a stick. Not just any stick. A stick of destiny. She grabbed it like she had invented sticks, and immediately Nicolas decided it was his personal mission to retrieve it. A tug-of-war ensued. Shiva, sensing the escalating drama, ran circles around them like a furry referee.
Then came the puddle. Not a small puddle. A huge, suspiciously deep puddle. Nicolas, in his infinite wisdom, decided the puddle was hostile. Alice, still clinging to the stick, decided puddles are meant to be conquered. Shiva, forever the adult, attempted to steer them both away from total disaster.
But disaster had already RSVP’d.
Alice launched herself into the puddle at the same time Nicolas lunged for the stick. They collided mid-splash. Water, mud, and leaves flew in all directions. Shiva barked, which in German Shepherd fun police terms is a precise combination of “Stop this nonsense immediately” and “I am judging all of you.”
Andy, who was walking a little behind us and quietly thinking he was safe from chaos, suddenly found himself smacked in the shin by a very wet, very determined Alice. He stumbled into the puddle as well, flailing like a human prop in a slapstick film.
At this point, Nicolas had invented a new move called The Human Drag, which involves wrapping himself around your leg while barking dramatically. Shiva, deciding she had done her duty, sat down and stared at us with a calmness so intense it felt like passive-aggressive judgement.
And of course, at the absolute height of chaos, a large stick—possibly the same one Alice had claimed as her own—flew directly into my shoulder like it had been fired from a catapult. Somehow, I ended up tangled in a muddy, barking, spinning spectacle that looked suspiciously like the cover of a very wrong children’s book called “How Not to Walk Your Dogs.”
Eventually, with considerable effort, bribes, and a heroic bit of coaxing involving biscuits, I managed to extract all three dogs from puddle, mud, and each other. Andy stood dripping, blinking, and muttering something about changing careers.
We returned home like survivors of a minor natural disaster. The cats, who had wisely stayed inside, did a slow, measured inspection of the scene. Blossom blinked. Mortimer wandered around the periphery. Ursie sat on the stairs like a small furry general, clearly plotting how she would maintain order if she were in charge.
Lunch consisted of coffee and damp toast. Everyone was wet, muddy, slightly traumatised, but strangely proud.
Memo to self: on Saturday walks, the laws of physics and canine chaos do not apply.
Today I’m grateful for: Surviving another dog walk without needing medical attention, and for a family and three dogs who can turn complete chaos into a memory we’ll laugh about for years.
Sunday 31st December 2023
New Year’s Eve.
Today was a day meant for reflection, bubbles, and minimal chaos. A day for dressing up, pretending to be fancy, and watching the clock with a smug sense of impending celebration.
In our house, it is a day best described as chaos in a kettle, whistling furiously.
The dogs knew it, of course. Alice was wide-eyed and jittery, as if she suspected something catastrophic might happen at any moment. Shiva, calm and wise, remained seated like a furry zen master—but even she kept one eye on Nicolas, who was clearly preparing for some kind of apocalypse.
Why? Because Nicolas has trauma. Last year, the oven set the fire alarm off during Christmas, and Nicolas spent the rest of the day treating every household appliance as a potential incendiary device. He also has a lifelong phobia of fireworks. Which, given the date, is conveniently relevant.
The plan was simple: a short walk before the fireworks started. A controlled, civilised stroll to stretch legs, sniff a few hedges, and avoid complete disaster. Planning to check for the puppy as we go, feeling sad that there had been no sign of him since he disappeared on boxing day and aching at the idea of him spending new years ever with the fireworks alone.
Step one: exit the house.
Immediately, Alice locked onto the gate like it had personally insulted her. Nicky, sensing excitement, leapt and yipped and nearly dragged me into the hedge. Shiva stayed calm, but I suspect she was internally calculating the probability of us all surviving.
Step two: the puddle of doom.
Alice saw it. Nicolas barked at it. Shiva carefully avoided it while simultaneously keeping a tactical eye on both of them. I ended up soaked from head to toe. Andy, bless him, looked at me as if to say: I told you we should have stayed in bed.
Step three: the “incident.”
Somehow, in the middle of the walk, Alice discovered a stick that was clearly enchanted. Nicolas, already keyed up by the general tension of being outside on New Year’s Eve, decided the stick represented some terrifying enemy. Shiva attempted diplomacy. I attempted survival. Andy attempted not to cry.
There was shouting. Barking. Splashes. Leaves flew. I got smacked in the shoulder by Alice, who clearly thought I needed to learn a lesson about ownership. Nicolas barked like the world was ending, and Shiva barked like the world might survive if only humans could get a grip. In the distance we could hear voices shouting “Teddy….Teddy”
Step four: the fireworks rehearsal.
A distant pop in a neighbouring street—and Nicolas froze. Then screamed. Then ran in a small circle. Alice joined in, thinking screaming was a game. Shiva sighed deeply. Andy muttered, I’m not paid enough for this. Quietly thinking about the poor puppy that is out there all alone with the fireworks.
Step five: retreat.
We staggered home, soaking wet, muddy, and covered in leaves, sticks, and whatever Alice had rolled in. Nicolas stayed pressed against my leg, quivering, while Alice flopped dramatically onto the sofa. Shiva calmly licked her paw as if nothing had happened.
Inside, the cats held a meeting. Blossom blinked slowly. Mortimer carefully assessed the situation. Ursie glared at us all like we had personally failed as household managers.
Lunch was coffee, dry toast, and a shared moment of silence for all the humans, dogs, and cats who had survived the morning’s events.
New Year’s Eve, in our house, is not glamorous. It is wet, muddy, loud, slightly terrifying, and utterly, impossibly hilarious. And Nicolas? He slept through the actual fireworks. Wise boy.
Today I’m grateful for: Family, laughter, warm homes, kind people searching for Teddy, and the small miracle that Nicolas slept through the fireworks after spending the day convinced the apocalypse was coming.
