22/10/2026
BREAKING NEWS: PEANUT HAS GONE GLOBAL, AND IM UNDER INVESTIGATION AND THE REST OF THE HOUSEHOLD IS REQUESTING WITNESS PROTECTION!!!
Well, this has got completely out of hand!
What started as a perfectly innocent description of my colourful little annoyance, an eight month old, fox poo perfumed, copper coloured biological disaster with the impulse control of a drunk shopping trolley, has now attracted over 4.8 MILLION VIEWS!!!
FOUR POINT EIGHT MILLION!!!
I was hoping for a little sympathy. Perhaps a collective nod of understanding from fellow dog owners who've also considered faking their own deaths just to get ten minutes of peace. A few reassuring words that adolescence doesn't last forever. Possibly someone offering to swap him for a houseplant.
(CALM DOWN, BRENDA. I'M JOKING! Please don't report me to the RSPCA. Try to read past the capital letters before reaching for your emergency outrage cardigan.)
Peanut, meanwhile, has taken his newfound celebrity status with remarkable humility. That's a lie. The little ginger hobgoblin has developed an ego so enormous it now requires its own postcode. He's demanding a dressing room, a personal chef and a security detail to protect him from the paparazzi. His preferred celebrity fragrance is Eau de Decomposing Badger.
He has declined to comment.
Now, the comments.
OH, THE COMMENTS!!!
I've spent two days wandering through them like a confused pensioner who's accidentally stumbled into a swingers' convention.
Some have been wonderful!
We've had people sharing stories of their own four legged catastrophes, some of which make Peanut look like a Guide Dog with a degree in theology and a part-time job helping little old ladies across the road.
Ive had offers of w**e, gin, love, sympathy, emotional support and, rather alarmingly, marriage!
To those offering alcohol, I love you. Clearly, you're people of impeccable taste and superior intelligence. I'm accepting your offers with the enthusiasm of a menopausal woman finding a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, an empty house and a thermostat nobody's dared to touch.
Please don't worry about glasses. At this stage, a funnel and a length of garden hose would be considerably more practical.
(MAUREEN, BEFORE YOU START, I AM NOT ACTUALLY DRINKING THROUGH A GARDEN HOSE! ALTHOUGH, AFTER READING SOME OF THESE COMMENTS, I'M BEGINNING TO QUESTION WHY NOT.)
To those offering marriage, I should probably point out that I already have a husband.
Although, given that he currently shares his bed with a collection of ginger breakdancing hotwater bottles with legs, hasn't watched an uninterrupted television programme since approximately the invention of electricity and considers finding a dog free patch of sofa the height of luxury, I suspect he'd hand me over with the enthusiasm of a fat kid being given the keys to a cake shop.
(CHRISTINE, PUT YOUR READING GLASSES BACK ON! I'M NOT AUCTIONING MY HUSBAND OFF ON FACEBOOK. HE'S NOT FOR SALE, THERE'S NO BUY IT NOW OPTION, AND FRANKLY, AFTER YEARS OF TRAINING HIM, I'M NOT STARTING AGAIN WITH ANOTHER ONE. DO TRY TO KEEP UP!)
One person even offered to take Peanut!!!!!!!
Well!!!
I haven't moved that quickly since someone shouted FREE W**E at a village fête.
For approximately eleven glorious seconds, I experienced a level of excitement usually reserved for a Labrador discovering an unattended wedding buffet, complete with a chocolate fountain and a bride who's too drunk to notice.
I was mentally packing his suitcase, writing a heartfelt farewell speech and planning what to do with my newfound freedom.
Then I realised they were joking.
JOKING!!!
Honestly, people. Don't toy with a woman's emotions!
I'd already started imagining a future with clean carpets, matching socks, furniture that didn't smell like a damp badger's armpit and a garden that didn't require a forensic investigation, a full body hazmat suit and a tetanus booster before breakfast.
A world where I could walk barefoot across the kitchen without discovering something cold, wet and of questionable biological origin between my toes.
Where the washing machine wasn't permanently spinning like a possessed cement mixer, the hoover didn't require counselling and I could open the back door without three ginger lunatics launching themselves into the garden like radioactive sheep escaping a nuclear power station.
I could drink a cup of tea while it was still hot, go to the toilet without an audience and perhaps, just perhaps, own a cushion that hadn't been sxually assaulted, disembowelled or dragged through a puddle of something that once had a heartbeat.
(SUSAN! PUT THE PHONE DOWN! PEANUT IS NOT BEING REHOMED, POSTED, PARCELLED, BUBBLE-WRAPPED OR EXCHANGED FOR HOUSEHOLD APPLIANCES. IT'S CALLED HUMOUR. YOU SHOULD TRY IT SOMETIME, IT'S CHEAPER THAN THERAPY!)
Anyway, Peanut remains here, completely oblivious to the fact that his mother has briefly experienced hope.
He's currently asleep with all four legs in the air, looking like a badly assembled deckchair.
And I'm sitting here wondering whether it's too late to abandon dog training altogether and start teaching guinea pigs to detect paranormal activity in haunted garden sheds??
I could have an entire operational team living in a rabbit hutch, paid exclusively in cucumber, with the combined emotional stability of a damp tea towel.
(DORIS, BEFORE YOU START, NO GUINEA PIGS ARE BEING SENT INTO HAUNTED BUILDINGS, EXPOSED TO SUPERNATURAL ENTITIES OR FORCED TO COMMUNICATE WITH THE DEAD. ALTHOUGH FRANKLY, I'D HAVE MORE CHANCE OF GETTING A SENSIBLE CONVERSATION OUT OF A GHOST THAN SOME OF THIS COMMENTS SECTION!!!)
Then, of course, there's the other camp.
The Facebook Department of Unsolicited Opinions, Moral Outrage and People Who Really Shouldn't Be Left Unsupervised With a Keyboard.
GOOD GRIEF!!!
What an extraordinary collection of professionally offended, curtain twitching, keyboard polishing little treasures we've managed to attract.
Apparently, I'm cruel, irresponsible, incompetent, emotionally unstable and shouldn't be allowed within fifty feet of anything with four legs and a pulse.
Well, that's a bit of a pickle.
Considering I've spent over years working professionally with dogs.
All those degrees, qualifications, courses and decades of experience.
What a monumental waste of perfectly good brain cells!
Turns out I could have saved myself thousands of pounds by consulting Linda from Facebook, whose profile picture is a sunflower and whose extensive canine expertise appears to consist of once owning a Labrador called Biscuit who lived to be fourteen.
Some of these people have managed to diagnose my personality, dismantle my professional career, question my suitability as a mother and arrange Peanut's emergency adoption before reaching the second paragraph.
Sherlock Holmes himself would have struggled to keep up.
Although, to be fair, Sherlock generally examined the evidence before announcing that the butler had done it.
One lady was so furious I genuinely considered sending her a damp flannel, a packet of Hobnobs and the telephone number for someone who could talk her down from the ceiling.
Another very helpfully informed me that dogs are a lifelong commitment.
WELL, STRIP ME NAKED AND COVER ME IN TAR!!!
ARE THEY REALLY???
Good heavens, Gladys! Fetch the smelling salts!
Thirty years in the profession and nobody thought to mention this rather crucial piece of information.
I had absolutely no idea!
There was me thinking they came with a 30 day money back guarantee, a returns label and a little box marked 'Reason for Return'.
☑️ Faulty recall.
☑️ Excessive wind.
☑️ Appears to have been assembled from the leftover parts of a bog-eyed donkey and a radioactive sheep.
☑️ Not quite the colour advertised.
Thank goodness the Facebook Canine Welfare Committee was on hand to explain the concept of lifelong responsibility.
I'd never have worked that one out without the combined investigative powers of Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple and a curtain twitching woman armed with a Facebook account, a magnifying glass and absolutely no understanding of sarcasm.
And apparently, sarcasm is a sign of emotional instability.
WELL, THERE'S ANOTHER REVELATION!!!
I'm Gen X, darling. We were practically raised on sarcasm, questionable parenting decisions, hosepipe water and being told to go outside and not come back until the streetlights came on.
I've been using sarcasm as a coping mechanism for decades. It's practically my mother tongue.
Without it, I'd probably be sitting in a darkened room knitting little hats for zombie pigs and arguing with the kettle.
And on that note, I must leave you.
Apparently, the rest of the household has called an emergency meeting to discuss my continued suitability as their mother.
Three Hungarian Vizslas, a Coonhound cross, a terrier, a cat and one thoroughly exhausted husband have convened what can only be described as a kangaroo court.
The cat has appointed himself judge.
The terrier is prosecuting.
The Coonhound is providing character references at approximately 400 decibels.
And my husband has requested legal representation, a comfortable chair and two uninterrupted minutes of television.
Peanut, naturally, is the star witness.
Which is rather unfortunate, considering he's got the credibility of a second hand car salesman selling submarines in the Sahara.
I've been informed that my position as Head of Household is under review.
Apparently, the allegations include emotional neglect, insufficient cheese distribution, unreasonable restrictions on rolling in dead things and a deeply concerning tendency to say NO.
The verdict is expected shortly.
I'm not optimistic.
STAY TUNED FOR PART THREE: THE HOUSEHOLD REVOLTS!!!
Six animals. One husband. One mother in the dock.
And not a single functioning brain cell between the prosecution and the defence.
(DORIS, BEFORE YOU RING THE POLICE, IT'S NOT A REAL COURT! THE CAT HASN'T PASSED HIS BAR EXAMS AND THE TERRIER'S LEGAL QUALIFICATIONS WERE PURCHASED FROM TEMU!!!) 🐾😂
