An open letter to Mattie, that other Airedale, the “Golden Dog” with whom I graciously share my space:

“My dear dog, I pose to you a question – What IS the difference between a dog and a hound? The answer – A thousand years of evolution. Respectfully yours, Barnaby H.”

Opinions are like tails, everybody has one.

The good people at PoodlesSkirt tell me that soft and sensible, yes, but what about stylish? I have seen the spring shirts and I approve, despite some initial misgivings regarding the Hawaiian theme. Barnaby H. remains thoroughly chastened.

The PS Corporation has approached me to act as a consultant for the new spring line of clothing. I value my time and sent them packing with only this advice: “Something soft, something sensible.” See what they came up with, but for heaven’s sakes don’t hold me responsible…

I was worried that the PoodleSkirt stripes would make me look fat. The company assured me that this would not be the case. I trust them implicitly. Of course I do, they pay me to do so. Payment takes the form of rawhide bones and… there has been talk of another monkey, one to make up for the mysterious disappearance of the last…

Consider this. “Barnaby” is not a diminutive. It is a full name and CANNOT be subdivided (Hold your tongue—a “Barn” is a thing for chickens…) The name “Mattie,” on the other hand, is short for “Mathilda.” And yet who in their right mind would call that Golden Airedale by the name “Mathilda” without a snigger? Yes, you know, I have given it some thought. I think “Mattie” will do just fine. You look like a “Mattie.”

Have discovered that Ms. Maureen uses the name “Mattaby” as a password when she sits at her “glowbox” (my disparagingly clever term for that device the computer). I will have you know that in this house there is a “Mattie” and there is a “Barnaby.” We have no “Mattaby” here. You will pay for this unholy crossing of species, Ms.Maureen, or should I say… MS. MOREAU?!

Birds again. This time, the impudent blue jay. The birds scattered the moment I appeared on the scene. One of them had the gall to “titter” as I paced back and forth beneath her branch. I will not brook this sort of mockery. I find the best way to deal with such creatures is with one’s backside. I sat on my haunches and simply looked the other way.

Why won’t these devils respect the food chain?

Blizzard today. Mattie ran about like the great clod that she is, kicking up such a fuss and a good deal of white powder. What she owns in beauty (yes, yes, ANYone can win the lottery, it’s true) she lacks in finesse. The old girl doesn’t know her tail from her left forepaw. She ran so far and so fast that she overlooked a roving band of cardinals, hopping around the birdfeeder, scavenging for little bits of grain. Poor things must have been freezing. I will of course eat them if I catch them on my property again.

Resolutions were made to be unresolved. The Weaver boy’s delightful little sister crossed over onto our property bearing biscuits. Perhaps you are not unaware that when I am scratched under my beard just so, I am as putty in the child’s hand. But as I crunched upon my treat, the Weaver boy took advantage of my distraction to sneak behind and pull my tail. The witless girl had played into the hands of her cruel brother, inadvertently proving herself a Trojan Horse. I hesitate to use that infamous steed as an analogy, out of respect to the poor girl’s face. Some of us were just born with long faces. I can identify. My own snout is just as disproportionate, and by that I mean it is much longer than it is wide. Haven’t I suffered for years the same barbs from Mattie, that conventionally attractive Airedale, who never misses an occasion to ask, “Why the long face?” That hoary chestnut only proves that some canines are not above being “catty.”

Happy New Year! I resolve to keep that cursed Weaver boy to HIS side of the fence.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot? I should think not! Brought a tear to my eye… I assured Mattie it was only a cataract. She will not make a monkey of me.

MONKEY PIECES! MONKEY PIECES!!!

I cannot sleep at night but I twitch and whimper. I imagine myself a hound of the jungle, swinging through trees.

Mattie is not your dog in a pinch. By no means. She sniffed out the little bits of cotton monkey. Poking her head behind the couch, she began to bark like mad, attracting the attention of Ms. Maureen. Walking over to the couch, Ms. Maureen stood only inches away from the evidence. I waited with bated breath as she looked everywhere but behind the couch. Luckily, Ms. Maureen surmised that Mattie, like the dog who cried wolf, was only hungry for her supper and, a smile on my face even as I write this, Mattie was instantly reprimanded – hoist with her own petard. For me, a narrow escape. Mattie may be part bird dog…

After an unsuccessful attempt at swallowing the monkey’s noisemaker, I concealed the hideous monkey pieces behind the divan. My own resourcefulness surprises me.

I have torn the monkey to pieces.

Rawhide and a monkey that screams when one bites him. No, this is not the latest production courtesy of the theater of cruelty, but the gifts I found in my stocking this morning. The noise the monkey produces is not displeasing. Thank you, Santa Claus (make the pun if you wish, I for one am above it). I was so excited that I gave Ms. Maureen, my human companion, a flurry of kisses. She appreciated them for what they were. I, for one, am not as profligate with my smooches as another Airedale whom I will not mention, ahem…

I wonder what I will get for Christmas. A PS shirt? I have come up with the perfect gift for Mattie. I will bestow upon her a morsel of good advice. It is perfect because it costs me nothing and is at the same time priceless. Of Mattie, I only ask that she forgo gnawing upon my ears for a fortnight. That would be the greatest gift.

The holidays are so busy. The mailman is ruthless with his holiday cards and his packages. No sooner do I lay my head down for a late afternoon nap than I hear his car pulling into our driveway. I am a nervous wreck.