I have let sleeping dogs lie and it is for that reason that I find myself tinkling the ivories of my keyboard at this ungodly hour of the morning. Two black dogs, poodles by race,Trigger and Gypsy by name, have turned our mature household into a ménage à quatre. Very French and very tiring. The problem is that the lying dogs are the only ones sleeping. I am starting to look enviously at their cosy little, yet empty, beds that surround our own. I remember a line from Marlon Brando’s “One Eyed Jacks” in which our Marlon mumbles to Karl, of the incredibly fucked up nose, Malden that he is “..lying faster than a dog can trot” whereas Trigger and Gypsy are “…lying fast asleep” which is much less tiring for a dog but which wouldn’t have worked for Marlon as it lacks the intended threat. Dogs, when one is not accustomed to them, change one’s routine in many ways, most of them very annoying which makes me wonder which master of irony named them man’s best friend. I have no idea what sort of psychotic friends he may have had but I assume their behaviour was so beyond the pale that he was reduced to considering beasts that lay all over his bed, often with their bums in his face, evacuated their bladders and bowels with indecent frequency in his garden and enjoyed eating his shoes, as his “best friends”. Be that as it may, the dogs are here and we band of brothers ( and sisters), we happy band were out walking through the nearby lanes in the way that people with “best friends” do on a daily basis, come rain or shine. The dogs’ ability in keeping their sphincters closed while out walking is similar to us humans. The only fly in that ointment ( a very unpleasant metaphor in this case ) is that they are not meant to employ that control. They are meant to evacuate in the ditches which are the bathroom of voles, foxes and all things with more than two legs. The simple rule is that on leaving the house they enter their lavatory. This has not been understood by Trigger and Gypsy who when in Rome want to do as the Romans. Thus sphincters are held firmly closed until we return and they can rush through the house, into the garden, piss on the leg of my chair and shit on the gravel. “So good to be home” they mumble and rush upstairs for a lay down on the freshly made bed. Whilst I waited for our new best friends to come down for supper I took some pictures of eggs.