‘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!”

Sunday Sunday. The birds were tweeting as we skipped to church. All the shops were closed which made us so happy to have that special family bonding time. I made a lovely roast meal while the children played quiet games and read books. NOT! The sound of children shouting woke me. I staggered to the fridge for milk to make a cuppa and discovered that Timmy had fed the last of it to Fubby, our huge fat Labrador who needs milk like a dragon needs a lighter.

Throwing some jeans on and telling the kids to do likewise we piled in the car and headed for Asda. I left Ben to tie Fubby somewhere so she didn’t bake in the car. The store was heaving with families. Asda is church! Timmy and Chloe grabbed a trolley and headed for the DVD’s while I shrieked ‘NO’ in my witchiest voice scaring three old ladies and the greeter but doing nothing to faze my kids. “We just want a quick browse….” Chloe started. Ben appeared and noticed the trolley. “Oh cool are we doing a big shop?”“

“No we are getting milk and going home. I haven’t even had a cup of tea yet,” I squeezed the words through gritted teeth and felt like an old bat as they gave each other ‘humour her’ glances, ditched the trolley and followed. I was assailed with so much healthy eating propaganda after purchasing milk and three cheer up Mum’s not so bad, chocolate bars, I felt I had just bought them poison.

Outside, Fubby had disappeared. Panic, tears from Timmy, searching, asking people, and then somebody pointed to the other side of the car park where a trolley was being pulled along by a big fat Labrador. Ben suffered such an ear bashing on the way home that he chucked his chocolate bar at the others, went to his room and played Babyshambles full blast, all day. Chloe ate both chocolate bars, felt a spot sprouting and loudly wished for a proper mother who bought healthy nutritious treats. I drank tea and pondered the rest of the day. It was just 11am. Timmy consoled Buffy with the rest of the milk.