Warzone

The mansion is turning into a battlefield. Of the pitched variety. A few weeks ago, the House Bitch of Doom had the temerity to attack me outside and sink her evil fangs into my thigh. She had caught me totally by surprise, pouncing from behind a bush.

I suffered the humiliation of a trip to the vet next day, after She Who Controls the Can Opener noticed I had a slight limp. The bastard who mauled me out of my basket and then manhandled me stuck a needle into me then despatched me home with tablets.

I ask you, what dignity is there when She is sticking Her fingers down one's throat twice a day to ensure one has swallowed one's medicine? None.

Upon recovery I declared war on the House Bitch. The day is punctuated by bouts of sprinting around the place in hot pursuit (accompanied by cries of "Oi! Pack it in, you two!" from Her as She tries to work) and standing guard over the food supplies so that the House Bitch will hopefully starve to death. She must surely be seriously regretting the day she tried to take me on. If she thinks some half-breed chav of unknown origin is going to lord it over a pedigree, she is very much mistaken. Only my superb bloodline prevents me from lowering myself to her level.

Battlelines are being continuously redrawn as I strive to maintain my upper hand...