‘Get her outta here’ I shout to Timmy who runs into the kitchen. On seeing the huge hole in the shepherd’s pie I had put out to defrost, and the satisfied slurping noises Fubby is still making, he ushers her out of my way.

If it is not the children driving me mad, it’s Fubby. Apart from the usual doggy pong she leaves wafting around the house like a rancid ghost, she is NEVER satisfied. Despite being very well fed, she begs snacks all day long from us, and any visitors we have, even those who patently disapprove of begging dogs. In fact I think she is deliberately worse with them.

Apart from this, chewing up my favourite books or items of clothing, or shoes – while they are on my feet, and sleeping, she does nothing apart from following me around so I see her looking mournful in every room I enter. So even when I do finally relax, part of me is wondering if she is okay and if not, what it is she wants – a walk, food, water, a game, de-fleaing, stroking, brushing…, clever old Fubby.

Then it’s the mess. Her hair is worse than dust. How does it get onto the top of wardrobes, in between the pages of books or even in the cutlery drawer? She buries bones in the settee and gets all her toys out of her basket at once. Yet can she do a bit of ironing or make me a cuppa in the morning?

While we eat lunch (sausages,) I wonder whether it would be better to feed Fubby the rest of the shepherd’s pie she ruined, for her dinner tomorrow rather than wasting it. As I’m pondering I jump as a wet nose briefly touches my hand and then my last sausage disappears under the table.

“Get her outta here!”