By Max (Chief of Security, self-appointed)

Life was perfect. We were on the shores of the Med, the sun was shining, and my only duties were lying about and looking magnificent. Then, out of the blue, the phone rang. It was Iris’s Guardian Mother, Sophie, with news: Iris was in season.

My Human (Lynn) had it all worked out. Late October, early November, she said. Clearly nobody had briefed Iris.

Lynn had to leave us and somehow “fly” home. I’ve never trusted this flying business. It means she goes up in the sky and I’m left with Bernie, who likes to think he’s in charge.

We all know he isn’t.

So I promoted myself to First in Command. Security was upped immediately. I patrolled the pitch and checked the bushes. I stared suspiciously at passing seagulls, and a man in a red shirt walked past and got a very hard look. Not one predator crept up on us. I’d say that was a total success, even if I do say so myself.

Even at first light I kept watch from the command post. Bernie called it “looking out of the window”. I call it Strategic Coastal Surveillance.

Meanwhile, back in Blighty, My Human had landed at Bristol airport, where Sophie kindly collected her. Sophie then drove her all the way home to Torquay, and Princess Iris came along for the ride. Princess Iris, in a car, with no security detail. Had I been there, I’d have been in the back seat, scanning every lorry on the M5. Some of us are born to be bodyguards.

Then the diary got silly. Lynn was taking Iris to the vets for daily progesterone tests, every single day. I only heard about it on the phone, but I’d have had views on being poked daily. Next came a 400-mile round trip to meet Rufus the stud. That’s a lot of miles for a first date.

Soon after, word came through. Iris and her new boyfriend had “consummated” their relationship, and puppies should be on the way in due course.

All that fuss, all that telephoning and messaging between my two Humans, flights and plans and vets and motorways, just so she could make puppies? What a palaver.

Naturally, all that heavy responsibility wore me out. I had to rest on the big bed. Strictly for morale purposes, you understand.

Finally the day came. Bernie drove us to Marseille, and there was My Human, back safely from the sky. I nearly cried with relief. Head of Security is a heavy title for a fluffy pair of shoulders.

Lynn told me I could stand down. My pay for weeks of relentless, unblinking service? One beef pizzle.

Delicious, I’ll admit. But then I remembered that Nel and Bonnie got a pizzle too, and they did no security work at all. They lay about in the sun like retired film stars.

Something smells fishy, and it isn’t the pizzle.

I shall be having words with my union, the Workers’ Organisation Of Furry Security (W.O.O.F.), Pizzle Pay Differentials Branch. I’ll be demanding a fair pizzle for a fair day’s patrol, plus overtime for the seagulls.

So, are there puppies? Nobody knows yet. Iris gets scanned when we’re back in Torquay on 30th October, and until then we wait and wonder.

But I’m not worried. My Human Lynn did all the background checks on Rufus before they even met, so I’m not concerned in the slightest about his background. He passed all the “Lynn tests”, and believe me, those are tougher than any security vetting I could have come up with. I’d trust him with my beef pizzle, and that’s saying something.

I’m off duty, but I’m never really off duty. Until the scan, I remain on standby,
Max.

Paw-signed and chewed, with the beef pizzle pending.