Smudge’s Diaries: The Golden Menace Arrives

🕒 Reading Time: 20 minutes

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Introduction: I was the Centre of the Universe

Once upon a time, everything was purrrfect.

I had the house to myself. The Blonde One adored me. The Tall One respected me. The Smoky One brought snacks and warm laps every weekend. I napped in the sunshine. I was fed on time. I was the centre of the universe.

Then he arrived.

A golden, floppy eared, cushion chewing, tail chasing disaster in a fur coat. They call him Teddy. I call him The Golden Menace.

Now I spend my days perched behind the stair gate, peering through the bars like a prisoner in my own home. Or I sit high on the garden fence, watching the chaos unfold below like a general surveying the battlefield. Sometimes I retreat to the bedroom window, where I can judge from a safe distance.

This diary is my record. My therapy. My warning to others.

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Smudge’s Diary: Day 1 – The Arrival of Chaos

It was a peaceful Sunday. The kind where I’d usually be curled up on my garden chair, occasionally glancing at The Blonde One to remind her I exist and require Dreamies. The Smoky One wasn’t visiting, so the garden was unusually quiet. The Tall One was napping. All was well.

They popped out for an hour, I assumed it was to get me snacks.
The front door opened.
And he arrived.

A golden blur of paws, ears, and unearned confidence. They call him Teddy. I call him The Golden Menace. He bounded in like he owned the place, tongue flapping, eyes wide, and absolutely no sense of personal space. Within minutes, he’d chewed the decking plants, slobbered on The Blonde One’s drinking cup (does he know nothing of hygiene?), and tried to climb onto my garden chair. The Blonde One said “no” seventeen times. He heard none of them.

I watched from behind the stair gate. My throne. My fortress. My observation deck. I peered through the bars like a prisoner, silently judging.

He looked up at me. I blinked slowly, the universal feline signal for “you are beneath me.” He wagged his tail so hard he fell over.

I was not impressed.

Later, I relocated to the garden fence, my high ground. From there, I watched him trip over his own feet, bark at a neighbouring dog’s bark (yes, he barked at a bark. Revolutionary!) and parade around with a lilac octopus in his mouth like he’d hunted it himself. It squeaked. He squeaked. I considered moving out.

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Conclusion:

The humans have brought home a golden liability.
My reign has been interrupted.
My peace has been shattered.
I will observe. I will judge. I will outlast him.

Mood: Personally victimised.

Destruction tally: Decking plants: 1 casualty, squeaky hedgehog missing an ear.

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Smudge’s Diary: Day 2 – The Plush Toy Cult and the Bark Heard Round the Neighbourhood

Day two.
Still here.
Still golden.
Still a menace.

I hoped they’d return him to wherever he came from. Probably some muddy field where the grass is patchy, the puddles are deep, and the only thing golden is the mud on his paws. But no. He’s still here. Chewing things and wagging like he’s won something.

Today, I discovered his obsession: soft things.
Tea towels. Cushions. Throws. The Blonde One’s jumpers. My chair. My patience.
He’s building a plush toy cult and the space under the coffee table is his temple.

I watched from behind the stair gate as he dragged a tea towel across the floor like it was a prize-winning kill.

At one point, The Golden Menace tried to join me behind the stair gate. He wedged his nose through the bars, stared at my Dreamies stash on the other side, and whined until The Blonde One bribed him away with a squeaky carrot. I have never felt so personally attacked. My Dreamies are sacred. There are rules.
I hissed.
He sneezed.
We are not friends.

The humans are trying to train him. They say “no” a lot.
He hears “party time.”

Then came dinner.
They were eating salmon pastry… my favourite! I usually get a little corner, a flaky offering to honour my presence.
But not tonight.
Tonight, they were too busy dealing with the barking.

They put him in the garden for five minutes of peace.
He barked.
And barked.
And barked.

Five minutes in, The Next Door Neighbour struck.
A text.
All sunshine and “just checking” energy, but you could feel the passive-aggressive heat radiating off the screen. Apparently, the barking was “disturbing the peace” and “upsetting her household.”
Translation: someone under three feet tall was trying to sleep and the golden foghorn was ruining it.

Honestly?
Fair.
Welcome to my world, sweetheart. I haven’t had a proper nap since he arrived. I used to dream in silence. Now I twitch!

The Blonde One was fuming. She muttered something about how next door can’t give a puppy a chance to settle in.

She wanted to wait it out. Let him bark. Let him learn.

Sorry, Blondie, you may be my human, but I’m siding with The Next Door Neighbour.
The noise is criminal.
Let’s get him out.
In fact, I’m starting a petition.
Out, out, Biscuit Breath out!
I’ll sign it in litter. I’ll even campaign.
Door-to-door. Fence-to-fence.
I’ll wear a rosette.

The Tall One, ever the patient warrior, brought him back inside.
He immediately bumped into the coffee table, then tried to eat the tea towel.

And me?
I got no salmon pastry.
Not even a crumb.

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Conclusion:

The Plush Toy Cult is growing. The neighbours are cracking. The Blonde One is simmering. The Tall One is zen.
And I? I am pastryless.

Mood: Teetering between disbelief, disdain, and deep pastry-related betrayal.

Destruction tally: Tea towel dragged, squeaky hedgehog now missing a nose, coffee table bumped but no crack.

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Smudge’s Diary: Day 3 – The Cage, the Howling, and the Padlock of Dreams

There is one, and only one moment in the day when I feel truly safe.
When The Golden Menace is locked in his crate.

It’s the only time the house is quiet. The Blonde One exhales. The Tall One stretches his back. And I? I descend from the stair gate like a queen returning to her throne. I reclaim the floor. I reclaim my dignity.

If it were up to me, he’d be in there permanently. I dream of a giant padlock. Maybe even a moat. With crocodiles. And a sign that says, “No Puppies Beyond This Point.” The crate is the only piece of furniture I respect. It serves a higher purpose.

But alas, bedtime is the only window of peace, and even that has been compromised.

Night One:
They tucked him in. Turned off the lights. Went upstairs.
He howled.
And howled.
And howled.

For thirty minutes straight. I timed it. I was trying to nap. Instead, I got a front-row seat to the Golden Opera of Despair.

Night Two:
Same performance. Slightly louder. Bit more drama. I think he added vibrato. For effect, obviously.

Night Three:
The Tall One tried to make it a game. Tossed in a toy. Then tossed in Teddy like a squeaky sack of potatoes.
It worked. Sort of.
He went in. But the howling continued.

Then the Blonde One took over. She wanted calm. Structure. A firm “bedtime” command.
It didn’t work.
She ended up bribing him with treats.

Meanwhile, I’ve been a picture of grace and composure for fifteen years and I get ignored.
Where’s my treat for for demonstrating proper bedtime etiquette? Curled up, silent, not a peep, not a whimper. I even did my best “I’m starving” face at the bedroom door. No one noticed.

But hey, whatever works, right?

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Conclusion:

The crate is my sanctuary. The howling is my curse. The Blonde One is bribing. The Tall One is tossing.
And I? I am dreaming of padlocks… and justice.

Mood: Sleep-deprived and morally outraged.

Destruction tally: Peace shattered, Dreamies withheld.

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Smudge’s Diary: Day 4 – Mud, Mayhem & the Spider That Haunts Me

This morning began as all mornings should:
With dignity, privacy, and a soft patch of grass in The Topless Gardener’s garden. Best in the neighbourhood. Quiet. Secluded. Perfect for a dignified morning tinkle. I’ve always said, if you’re going to go, go somewhere with standards.

Afterwards, I returned home for breakfast, expecting the usual: my meal freshly laid out on a china, floral saucer, a stretch, and a nap in the sun.

The Blonde One opened the front door, just a crack to let me in. I was ready. I was relaxed. I was…

Ambushed!

The Golden Menace launched himself under her legs like a furry torpedo and came straight at me.
I had to run.
At fifteen. With arthritic hips.
I scaled the fence like a ninja with a limp and vanished into The Next Door Neighbour’s garden. I may never emotionally recover.

He, of course, thought it was a game.
He came skidding back into the house like a cartoon character, planted his muddy paws on the new corner sofa, and stood there like he’d just conquered Everest.
The Blonde One looked like she was about to faint.
I was already halfway through writing my will.

Then came the garden furniture incident.

In a rare moment of strategic brilliance, the Blonde One tried to protect the biscuit-coloured cushions from getting a mud spa. She stood them upright, exposing the cold, metal frames beneath, a bold move. I approved.

But as she did this, a massive spider scuttled out from underneath.
She froze. I froze.
The spider ran.
And Teddy?
He ate it.
Just… chomp. Gone.

I’ll never sleep again. I can still hear the crunch.

But the worst was yet to come.

Later, he was being particularly unruly. Barking, lunging, pushing boundaries like a toddler on smarties. The Blonde One tried to calm him down. She reached for him.
And then I heard it.
A scream. A real one.

Her nail extension bent backwards, taking her real nail with it.
There was blood. There was chaos.
There was me, watching from the stairs in horror.

She’s still in pain. I’m still traumatised.
Teddy? He’s currently chewing on his octopus like nothing happened.

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Conclusion:

He’s muddy. He’s mouthy. He eats spiders. He causes bloodshed.
And yet somehow, he’s still here.
I need a sedative. Or a holiday. Or both.

Mood: Appalled. Slightly damp. Emotionally scarred.

Destruction tally: Sofa muddied, spider eaten, nail bent, dignity lost, hips pushed beyond reasonable limits.

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Smudge’s Diary: Day 5 – Line Dancing, Loud Protests and the Sleepy Warrior

This evening, something unthinkable happened.
The Blonde One… left.

She put on her boots, fluffed her hair, and announced she was going to line dancing class.
On a Thursday. While we had a puppy! In the house! Destroying everything!
Which apparently, was fine.
But did anyone ask me? No. No warning. No consultation. No regard for my emotional wellbeing.

She left me with him.
And left him with the Tall One.

Now, the Tall One had spent the day on a construction site. He was tired. He wanted to lie down, eat something spicy (as usual), and not be barked at.
But the moment the front door closed behind the Blonde One, The Golden Menace realised something was wrong.

He barked.
And barked.
And barked.

It wasn’t just barking. It was a full-blown protest concert.
Volume: 11.
Genre: Desperation.
Duration: Until the Tall One came downstairs looking like he’d aged ten years in ten minutes.

He stood there, all 6ft 3 of him, staring at the puppy like he was trying to summon patience from another dimension.
He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.
He stood there like a man trying to remember why he agreed to this in the first place.

Eventually, The Golden Menace calmed down.
He flopped onto the floor with a dramatic sigh, like he was the victim in all this.

Meanwhile, I took a moment to reflect on this whole “line dancing” situation.

I’ve seen the Blonde One practising in the living room, stomping around in circles, clapping off-beat, and singing Taylor Swift.
Her cowboy boots tucked safely behind the stair gate, out of reach of Biscuit Breath.
Smart.
He’d probably try to eat the tassels. Or the heels. Or both.

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Conclusion:

The Blonde One danced. The Tall One suffered. The Golden Menace howled.
And I? I remained calm, composed, and quietly smug, with a front-row seat to the chaos.

Mood: Entertained. Slightly smug. Still pastryless.

Destruction tally: Cushion chewed, corner of another tea towel frayed, squeaky hedgehog finally gone.

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Smudge’s Diary: Day 6 – The Wrapper, the Waddle and the Tall One’s Breaking Point

Today started with digestive biscuits.
Not for me, obviously. I only do Dreamies.
The Tall One was eating them, quietly, peacefully, like a man who thought he was safe.

Enter: Captain Clueless.

While the Tall One was distracted, The Golden Menace snatched the wrapper.
Not the biscuit.
The wrapper.

He ate it.
All of it.
Like it was a delicacy.

Hours later, nature called.
And the wrapper… didn’t want to leave.

I watched, horrified and fascinated as Teddy waddled around the garden, straining like a malfunctioning sausage machine.
The Blonde One was gagging.
The Tall One was praying for strength.
And then… he had to pull it out.

With his hand.
His actual hand.

I’ve seen some things in my time.
I once watched Barry, the pharmacist a few doors down, hose down a garden gnome while wearing Crocs and humming “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”
But this?
This was way worse.

Teddy wagged his tail like he’d just won a medal.
The Tall One looked like he needed a sabbatical.
I needed bleach for my brain.

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Conclusion:

The Tall One endured. The Blonde One dry-heaved. Teddy pooped packaging.
And I? I will never emotionally recover, but I did enjoy the drama.

Mood: Disgusted. Delighted. Deeply traumatised.

Destruction tally: Digestive biscuit wrapper swallowed whole. Tall One’s patience snapped. Blonde One’s breakfast nearly revisited.

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Smudge’s Diary: Day 7 – Warnings, Wandering & the Spoiled One

Today was… different.
Not for me, I know Saturdays.
The Blonde One doesn’t sit at her laptop. She flits around the house cleaning things that don’t need cleaning, sorting things that don’t need sorting, and occasionally vanishing with The Smoky One to buy things we don’t need (like decorative pumpkins in July).

But The Golden Menace?
He doesn’t know that.
It’s his first Saturday.
And low and behold, I had to school him.

The Blonde One left early with Granny. The Tall One went to the gym, which is apparently a place where humans go to lift heavy things and come back smelling like ambition and sweat.

Every time he returns, he’s bigger.
More muscly.
More pumped.
I assume he’s training to carry me around like the queen I am.
Or to intimidate Barry’s tabby, who’s been getting ideas again.

So yes, I was alone.
With him.
I gave him the look. You know the one. The slow blink. The narrowed eyes. The subtle tail flick that says, “Try me, biscuit breath.”

He stared back. Confused. Possibly thinking I was a lamp.

But to his credit… he behaved.
Mostly.
He didn’t bark (much). He didn’t chew anything visible. He even napped.
I’m not saying he’s learning. I’m saying I’m terrifying.

Later, The Smoky One returned, my weekend queen.
She brought gifts.
For him: a giant bone and a new plush toy (a grey elephant, because clearly the octopus wasn’t enough).
For me: treats. The good kind. The kind that come in a crinkly packet and smell like victory.

Then came the biscuit mix-up.

The Smoky One reached into her bag and pulled out a treat.
I stepped forward.
He stepped forward.
She hesitated.
He wagged.
She gave it to him.
The betrayal.

I stared at her.
She stared at me.
She gave me two more.
Balance restored.

So yes, he’s spoiled.
But I’m still the favourite.
Obviously.

Later, I made my neighbourhood rounds, strolling along fences, pausing dramatically on shed roofs, letting the other cats see me.
I don’t say much. I don’t need to.
They know who I am.
And they know who he is.

I simply glance in their direction and let the thought linger:
“I live with a warrior now. You live with Barry, who wears bright yellow marigolds to clean his bird bath whilst humming along to 80s power ballads.”
He once waved at me while fluffing a novelty cushion shaped like a sausage dog.
I blinked.
He blinked.
I left.

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Conclusion:

The Blonde One wandered. The Smoky One delivered. The Golden Menace behaved (barely). The Tall One trained for battle.
And I? I ruled the house for one glorious day.
Let’s see if he got the message.

Mood: Cautiously optimistic. Mildly snacky.

Destruction tally: Red dinosaur horn bitten off, plush elephant introduced (ears intact, for now), squeaky octopus ignored, biscuit treat stolen.

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Smudge’s Diary: Day 8 – Cupcakes, Confusion & Crumbs of Injustice

Today marked one week since The Golden Menace arrived.
A whole week of barking, bumping, biscuit-brained behaviour.
Naturally, the humans decided to celebrate.
Not with a nap. Not with silence.
But with a cupcake.

Not for me, obviously.
No, this was a dog cupcake

A “Pawlicking Doggylicious Iced Woofin” from Barking Bakery. It came in its own case. It had icing. It had biscuits.

It looked suspiciously like something I should be eating.

They placed it in front of him like he’d just completed a degree in Barkonomics.
He took one enormous bite, then sprinted under the garden table like the floppy fool he is.
He devoured it.
Then hoovered up every crumb like a Dyson on a mission.

I watched from the fence.
Horrified.
Hungry.

And now?
Now he thinks every cake is his.

Later, The Blonde One sat down with a slice of actual cake, the human kind. The kind I usually get a polite sniff of. A crumb. A nod of respect.
But no.
The Golden Menace launched himself forward like a frosted missile, convinced it was another celebration in his honour.

He barked. He begged. He drooled. It was undignified.

I didn’t get a crumb.
Again.

Meanwhile, I’ve been serving looks and silence for fifteen years.
I’ve defended this house from a Cane Corso (I was younger then. Blondie needed help. It was a whole thing I’d rather forget.)
I’ve peed on slippers in protest.
I’ve mourned the loss of the old wooden coffee table, the one I used to steal food from underneath.
And this is how I’m repaid?

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Conclusion:
He gets cupcakes. He gets applause. He gets mistaken for a dessert connoisseur.
And I? I get crumbs of injustice and a front-row seat to the cake frenzy.
This household is spiralling.

Mood: Betrayed. Frosted. Emotionally underfed.

Destruction tally: Dog cupcake:obliterated, squeaky octopus still ignored, human cake nearly intercepted, Smudge’s patience wafer-thin.

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Smudge’s Diary: Day 9 – Soggy Paws, Soggier Morals & the Crate Conspiracy

It rained today.
Which, as everyone in this house should know by now, means I do not go outside.
I don’t tiptoe across wet decking. I don’t frolic in puddles. I don’t “embrace the drizzle.”
I am a cat. Not a sponge.

But The Golden Menace?
He loves it.
He charged out like it was a water park, skidded across the wood, then came flying back inside, soaking wet and full of joy.

The laminate floor turned into a slip hazard.
He slid halfway across the living room like a hairy curling stone and nearly took out the coffee table.

The Blonde One tried to towel him off.
He thought it was a game.
He bit the towel. He bit her sleeve. Then her fingers.
She muttered something about “rethinking all her life choices.”
I nodded in agreement.

But the real shocker came later.

He went into the crate.
Willingly.
No treats. No bribery. No dramatic protest concert.
They turned off the lights, put the toys away, pointed at the crate, and said “bedtime.”
And he just… went in.

I watched from the stairs, stunned.
No howling. No jumping around. No emotional blackmail.
He curled up with his octopus and fell asleep like he hadn’t spent the last week performing nightly operas of despair.

The Blonde One whispered, “Maybe he’s finally getting it.”
The Tall One didn’t say anything. He just narrowed his eyes at the crate like it might explode.
Smart man.

I’m not buying it either.
It’s a fluke. A glitch in the matrix. A momentary lapse in chaos.

Let’s not forget: I go to bed every night without treats.
I don’t get a biscuit for being quiet.
I don’t get applause for basic obedience.
I get ignored.
And crumbs.
If I’m lucky.

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Conclusion:

He’s wet. He’s weirdly well-behaved. He’s suddenly crate-trained.
And I? I am watching. Waiting.
Because this peace?
It won’t last.

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Smudge’s Diary: Day 10 – Routine Ruined & the Rise of the Fire Farts

This morning began with a lot of noise and a very bad decision.

The Blonde One was jolted awake by barking, howling, and what I can only describe as a full-blown emotional meltdown.
Why?
Because the Tall One forgot the routine.

Normally, he lets The Golden Menace out of his crate for a quick pee before leaving early for work. It’s a sacred ritual. A rhythm. A system.
The puppy gets his moment of fresh air.
Then he spends two quiet hours alone with me, under my watchful eye, until the Blonde One descends for breakfast and playtime.

I know the routine.
I respect the routine.
I enforce the routine.

But today?
The Tall One skipped it.
He left without the ceremonial pee.
And The Golden Menace?
He lost his mind.

The Blonde One woke up fast. Like, ‘hair everywhere, pyjamas sideways’ fast.
I watched from the hallway, amused but appalled.
She stumbled downstairs, hair like a haystack, muttering threats and apologies to no one in particular.

The Golden Menace was spinning in circles, and yelping like he’d been locked in a cupboard full of unlickable biscuits. Talk about dramatics.

And me?
I simply recalled the previous night when he went into his crate without treats.
I told you so.
Evil laugh.
Haha.

That obedience?
A fluke.
A statistical anomaly.
He is not a “good boy.” He is a golden liability with a short memory and a loud mouth.
And now he’s ruining my morning routine, the one I’ve curated over years of silent judgement and perfectly timed stretches.

Later, the Blonde One tried to cheer him up with dog-friendly bubbles.
He chased them like they were floating snacks, then looked personally betrayed every time one popped in his face.
Honestly? It was kind of cute.
But I still don’t trust him.

Then came dinner.

They were cooking which means one thing: spice.

There was garlic. There were onions. There were chillies. The Blonde One was chopping and The Tall One was stirring something that smelled like fire and regret. My eyes were streaming. Again.

I tried the windowsill. Too spicy.
The stairs. Still spicy.
Eventually, I retreated to the bedroom and buried my face in a jumper that smelled like vanilla and safety.

And then (of course), Teddy stole a chilli.
A long red one. About the length of my broken tail.
He snatched it off the counter and ran like he’d just robbed a butcher.

The Blonde One screamed, “Where’s the chilli?!”
Then she saw him.
Tongue out. Seeds gone.
He’d eaten the spiciest part.

I dread the fire farts.
The Tall One sniffed the air later and said, “What is that?”
I said nothing.
I just stared at Teddy. Knowingly.

They slept soundly in their bed.
Whilst I spent the night marinating in the pong.

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Conclusion:

The Tall One broke protocol. The Blonde One broke a sweat. The Golden Menace broke wind.
And I? I upheld the routine and suffered the consequences.

Mood: Offended. Gassed out. Deeply routine-conscious.

Destruction tally: Red dinosaur completely destroyed (head ripped off), morning routine obliterated, Blonde One’s hair dishevelled, chilli vanished, air quality compromised.

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Smudge’s Diary: Day 11 – Silence, Suspicion & Sofa Crimes

This morning, I woke up to silence.
No barking. No howling. No Blonde One thundering down the stairs in a panic.
Just the gentle hum of the fridge and the faint scent of toast.
Suspicious.

I crept downstairs to investigate.
The Golden Menace was… calm.
He was lying on the floor, chewing his octopus. Then the elephant. Then back to the octopus.
The Blonde One was scrolling on her phone, looking far too relaxed.
The Tall One had already left for work, and remembered the ceremonial pee break.
I sat staring at them both until someone acknowledged how weird it all was.

They didn’t.
The Blonde One just said, “Morning, Smudge,” like this was normal.
It isn’t.
Not after last night.
Let’s just say the chilli made its way through the system.
They slept soundly in their bed.
I spent the night breathing through my mouth.

Later, I noticed the Blonde One’s cowboy boots were back behind the stair gate, a day early.
Odd.
Then it hit me: line dancing.
Again.
On a Wednesday this time.
No warning. No goodbye. Just boots and a whiff of Taylor Swift.
Nobody asked me. Nobody consulted me.

I suppose it’s for the best.
If Biscuit Breath had chewed on those tassels, who knows what kind of fart would’ve followed.
He’d probably let one rip and call it “Shake It Off.”

While she was out, the Tall One went upstairs for a nap.
And The Golden Menace?
He climbed onto the expensive sofa, the one with the “no paws” rule and the cushions nobody’s allowed to lean on.
He wasn’t muddy. But he was stinky.
Dog stink.
That damp, biscuity, slightly tragic smell they all seem to carry.
Not like us cats, we smell like dignity and roses.

When the Tall One came downstairs and saw him, he didn’t shout.
He just raised one eyebrow and said, “You better not be comfortable.”
Teddy slid off the sofa like a guilty jellybean.
I was impressed.

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Conclusion:

The Blonde One danced again. The Tall One delivered a warning. The Golden Menace stank up the furniture.
And I? I remained the only creature in this house with standards, and a working nose.

Mood: Cautiously smug. Slightly traumatised. Still recovering from last night’s air quality.

Destruction tally: Sofa tainted (dog stink), cowboy boots narrowly escaped, air quality still questionable.

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Smudge’s Diary: Day 12 – Bribes, Bones & the Blonde One’s Disappearance

Something’s not right.
The Blonde One was out all day.
And I mean all day.
She didn’t come home until late, which is extremely unusual.
I kept checking the front door. Nothing.
I even sat on the windowsill for a bit, just in case she’d been kidnapped by a rival cat gang.

All I know is she’s been making constant Teams calls all week with her boss, muttering about “golf,” “women,” and something known as the “AIG.”
I assume it’s a mouse hunt. Possibly a secret society.
Whatever it is, it’s clearly more important than me.

I want my old life back, the one where she sits on the sofa with her laptop and I get timely strokes and treats.
Not this… absence.

In her place, we had Granny.
Now, I love Granny. She gets it.
But today? She was on a mission.

The Golden Menace was, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, well-behaved.
But only because The Smoky One was bribing him constantly.
Gravy bones. A new giant bone.
And then, I kid you not, another octopus.
Not to replace the fat lilac one he already has.
No, no.
This one was slimmer. Teal. Slightly squeakier.
Apparently a wife.
I watched him parade them around like he was introducing newlyweds at a reception.
He even dropped them side by side and wagged like he was proud of the match. It was weird.

The Smoky One got to nap. She got to smoke. She was very happy.
And me? I got to watch the slow erosion of my status.

I’m beginning to wonder if I should move out.
Maybe head over to Gwen’s across the road, the one who takes in strays, the one we call the cat lady.
She once gave me ham through the fence.
She doesn’t live with a retriever.
She might understand me.

Because this doesn’t feel like a temporary visitor anymore.
This isn’t Jasper the King Charles, who pops in for a night, eats half the fridge, and leaves.
This is different.
This is… permanent.

And I’m not sure I’m still the favourite.
Not when he’s got a plush octopus couple and I’m being ignored for golf and mystery meetings.

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Conclusion:

The Smoky One bribed. The Blonde One vanished. The Golden Menace played house.
And I? I’m weighing up my options and watching Gwen’s front door very closely.

Mood: Abandoned. Bribed-by-proxy. Mildly panicked.

Destruction tally: Gravy bones vanished, giant bone paraded.

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Smudge’s Diary: Day 13 – Grooming Gloves, Growling Girls & the Great Stink Returns

It’s Day 13.
Unlucky for some.
Especially me.

The Blonde One decided today was the perfect time to “bond” with The Golden Menace using a grooming glove.
She sat on the floor, brushing him like he was a show pony.
Clumps of fur came off in handfuls.
And what did he do?
He ate it.
His own hair.
Like it was a delicacy.

This is the same creature who’s eaten cat poo, his own poo, decking plants, spicy food, stones, and now… himself.
He’s a walking bin with a tail.

Then came fetch training.
She threw a ball. He ran after it.
She clapped. He brought it back.
She called it “clever.”
I call it tragic.
Running back and forth for no reason?
Pointless.
Just another reason he’s beneath me.

Later, she took him out for a walk. It must have rained because she came back looking like a drowned rat.
He came back smelling like one.

I didn’t witness the walk myself, obviously.
But I heard all about it when the Blonde One called The Granny Hotline.
I was on the stairs, pretending to nap.
Classic intel-gathering position.

So they met a grey and white Dulux dog called Meg.
She had a side ponytail so she could see where she was going.
Meg growled a bit – fair. He was being over-familiar.
Then they met a retriever-husky cross called Rowdy.
Six months old. Rowdy by name, rowdy by nature.

There was nose-kissing. Then wrestling.
Meanwhile, the owners got tangled in the leads like spaghetti.
The Blonde One said it was “adorable.”
Oh please!

All I know is, when they got home, the smell hit me first.
Wet dog.
That damp, earthy, biscuit-meets-bin smell.
Disgusting.

The Tall One walked in, sniffed the air, and said, “That’s it. He’s having a bath tomorrow. I can’t take it anymore.”
Finally. Someone with sense.

And just when I thought the day couldn’t get worse, I had a run-in with the neighbour.
You know the one.
All smiles and soft tones, always lurking.
She was in her garden, watering her plastic sunflowers like they were real.
I wandered over to inspect, purely out of curiosity, of course, and she shooed me away.

Shooed.
Me.

I just stood there for a moment.
I don’t think I’ve ever been shooed before.
I didn’t even know people were allowed to do that to me.
I walked off slowly, pretending I didn’t care.
But I did.

---

Conclusion:

The Blonde One brushed. The Golden Menace ate fluff. The neighbour shooed. The Tall One reached his limit.
And I? I endured it all, with dignity, disgust, and a very strong sense of smell.

Mood: Unlucky. Unimpressed. Over-sniffed.

Destruction tally: Grooming glove bitten, fingers nibbled, fluff eaten.

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Smudge’s Diary: Day 14 – The Decking Dunk & the Drenched Disaster

Today was bath day.
Not for me, obviously.
For him.

The Tall One was in charge.
And when he speaks, he means business.
He walked into the kitchen, looked at The Golden Menace, and said, “Right. That’s it.”
No raised voice. No fuss. Just pure, quiet authority.
Even I sat up straighter.

And then, oh, the joy, he didn’t even take him to the bathroom.
He bathed him on the decking.
In full view of the neighbourhood.
I spotted at least three cats watching from their windowsills.
One of them was Barry’s tabby. He looked horrified.
It was glorious.

No fancy hose. No spa setup.
Just two buckets of warm water, tea tree shampoo, and the Tall One’s big hands.
It was like watching someone wash a muddy rug with opinions.

The Golden Menace wagged at first.
He thought it was a game.
Then the water came out.
And the shampoo.
And the scrubbing.

He wriggled.
He tried to escape.
At one point, he looked directly at me like I might help him.
I blinked slowly.
Absolutely not.

The Tall One stayed calm.
He scrubbed behind the ears.
He rinsed the tail.
He even complained about his back, something about “puppies being too low to the ground for tall men with dignity.”
It was the most peaceful act of vengeance I’ve ever witnessed.

The Blonde One helped, a bit.
She passed the buckets. She held the towel.
But she kept her distance when the shaking started.
Smart.
Then she went back inside and watched a marathon of Gavin & Stacey with a blanket and a snack.
This is one of her competent phases. I approve.

When it was over, The Golden Menace looked like a soggy mop.
He shook. He sneezed. He sulked.
The decking was soaked.
So was the Tall One.
I was dry. And smug. And thoroughly entertained.

Later, the Tall One sniffed him and frowned.
He picked up the shampoo bottle, read the label, and said, “I thought this would smell nicer.”
I told him, silently, with my eyes, he’s not a cat.
A stinky dog will always be a stinky dog.

---

Conclusion:

The Tall One bathed. The Golden Menace wriggled. The Blonde One supervised from a safe distance.
And I? I stayed dry, superior, and emotionally fulfilled.

Mood: Dry. Delighted. Absolutely living for the drama

Destruction tally: Decking drenched, tea tree shampoo overused, Tall One’s back strained, Golden Menace defluffed, neighbourhood dignity washed away, me: dry (and smug)

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You’ve Just Survived: The First Two Weeks of Teddy

Congratulations (and condolences), you’ve just read the very first two weeks of the Golden Menace joining my once perfect home. There’s plenty more chaos, drama, and biscuit based injustice to come.