Happy birthday to me!

Hello Minshulleers! The title of this month's blog should give you a clue, I've just had my birthday, so if you see me out and about please feel free to offer cake ..... but leave off the candles as they play havoc with my fringe. I'll let you into a secret, which is that I dictate to himself about stuff that has already happened – of course dogs can't see into the future, that would be almost as daft as them being able to write! Well I have told you my birth date before, but it will be buried somewhere in my home pageand old blogs, so this time you'd better remember it for next year: February 14th, St Valentine's Day, and I'm now 3 years old. Twenty one in human years (...click got the key of the door and turn the volume up...) if you use the popular idea of multiplying by 3. I'll let you into another secret which is that dogs mature more quickly than you lot so the maths isn't actually straightforward and I'm really 28 of your years. Are you following? There'll be a short test later ....

Well what with it being my birthday things have been really busy and complicated: I went off to Auntie Audrey's kennels when themselves tripped off to Blackpool in their sparkly costumes, played canals with my mate Dexter after which his dad Roger the Dodger had a "baby breakfast" at the Venetian cafe. He did well to finish it, Dexter and I were on standby throughout. Then I had my pal Finn for a sleepover (he's the one trying to look like a wooden serpent in the picture) before I met Monty who looks after himself's doctor friend Roger. Not Roger the Dodger but Roger the Number. Not like one to ten, it's a cryptic crossword thing: think numb, anaesthetised, so number, someone who anaesthetizes. And then a few days ago themselves took me to meet himself's sister and we stayed with their mum. She (sister) has three dogs to look after her, though one's not really her dog: it belongs to one of her boys who chases a ball for a living, but he's in a different league to us. He's been sold to somebody called Mr Fullem in London who wants him to kick his ball at Craven Cottage (mind the windows!), so he can't look after his dog. Mr Fullem has other people to kick the ball as well but they don't seem very good at it and they all might get sent down I heard. Perhaps they did break a window? Himself said I should go and help, and show them how to puncture a ball.

Anyway if I had been able to see into the future I'd have known not to come home, as when we opened the car door yesterday that "Cheshire growing smell" filled the car as the muck spreader went to and fro in my field. I think it's walks along the canal for the next week or so! And another thing, I'd have stayed in the South where its warmer and not written that the "sad times are over" last month. Perhaps next month I'll be able to write about Brexit? Now won't you all love that!!

Madai the Labrador – your rovering reporter
PS: no ps's this month!
PPS: oh yes, hot news, himself says I should help Mr Fullem out now that his friend Mr Ranieri has been run off.