Upstairs, in the great room – the tv on, playing an old episode of Homicide: Life on the Street (a great show in my books). Tuffy P made coffee. George wanted to play but I was ignoring him. It had been a long day and I was trying not to be grumpy. For Homicide: Life on the Street fans, the episode was Nearer my God to Thee, the episode in which we first meet Lt Megan Russert, the one in which a Samaritan of the Year figure is murdered, left in a pair of white gloves.

George was determined I play with him. He brought me several different toys, offering to play tug or perhaps chase the toy. I ignored him steadfastly, and took a sip of coffee. Let me say at this point that George has paws like canned hams. They’re big and they’re powerful. He looked at me with the look that could only be saying, “we could be having fun now and you know it”.

Without warning, George brought up his left paw and whacked my half full mug, spilling coffee all over me, soaking my shirt. Fortunately I’m a slow coffee drinker and my beverage had already cooled considerably. I thought I detected a tiny smirk from George, but maybe I’m projecting. I believe I may have shouted some words you can’t say on television before storming out of the room to get changed. When I returned to the sofa and Life on the Street, George remained downstairs, sulking.

“Hey Georgie, bring me your toy….” He came running, toy in mouth and we played tug and we played throw the squeaky toy and we wrassled, and I scratched his ears and I forgot why I was grumpy.