Smudge’s Diaries: August 2025

Sunday Visitors

The month began with visitors. After all, it was a Sunday.

Sundays meant my favourite human, The Smoky One, was visiting. And The Blonde One’s brother, The Baker Boy, arrived with his son, The Red One. Permanently hunched. Thumbs twitching. Screens glowing. Collectively known as The Scrolling Duo.

I smelled sugar. I sensed pastry. I prepared myself.

Nothing.

Not a flake. Not a crumb. Not even a pity sniff. A man who works in a bakery should not arrive empty pawed. It is against nature. The Red One, whose hair matched my flame like patches and thus shared my essence, also had empty pockets. A betrayal on multiple levels.

It was their first time meeting The Golden Menace, which apparently meant he was treated like a celebrity. Compliments flowed. They called him “cute.” Belly rubs were handed out freely. Balls were thrown. Applause. Encouragement. “Well behaved.” they said.

I have lived here for fifteen years.
Fifteen.
Years.

It was all lies! He chews socks. Even smelly ones. He barks at guide dogs, did they know about that? And yet they applauded him while I waited, seated politely near the fridge, for my ceremonial roast chicken slice from Granny.

I was later carried to the bottom of the stairs like royalty, which helped. But still. The injustice lingered.

I decided that next time they arrive without at least a mini corned beef pasty, there would be consequences.
I have not yet decided what those are.
They would be appropriate.

The Bubble Situation

It began, as many humiliations did this month, in the garden.

Bubbles.

The Golden Menace discovered bubbles and instantly decided they were a threat. Or a challenge. Or possibly food. He wasn’t sure.

He launched himself repeatedly at thin air. Snapping wildly. Spinning in circles. Overshooting. Undershooting. Missing every single one. He fell over more than once. At one point, he barked at a bubble that had already popped.

The Blonde One laughed.

The Tall One encouraged it.

I sat on my chair. My chair. The one I allow others to sit on when I’m feeling generous. Watching this show and breathing deeply.

He was only a puppy, I told myself.

He didn’t know any better.

The Next Door Neighbour leaned over the fence, hands clasped, voice soft, saying things like, “Oh isn’t he sweet” and “Look how happy he is.”

I blinked slowly and looked away. We clearly had very different standards.

Word travelled quickly. Not just Jasper and Comet.
Even The Robe Ranger’s two cats knew, and they barely leave the windowsill.
If cats who live under house arrest knew your shame, it is permanent.

Beach Nonsense

Then came the sand.

I didn’t go, obviously. I’m not feral.

But I heard everything.

Morning walks. Sunset walks. Long throws by The Tall One, who now considered himself some sort of coastal warrior. The Golden Menace sprinting after balls like his life depended on it. Sand in places sand should never be. Tongues hanging out. Applause from strangers.

Strangers.

One evening, they returned smelling of salt and satisfaction. Apparently he had been let off the lead and had not run away. He played fetch. Then stopped and refused to move any further.

Finally, some sense.

I approved of beach trips. They tired him out. They brought peace. They could take him daily if they wanted. I would stay home and judge.

A Far Off Land Called Rhossili

Then came the talk of Rhossili.

A place I had heard whispers of. A distant, mythical land in the Gower. A world away from home. High cliff edges. Wild horses. Winds that steal your dignity.

It sounded… unsafe.

Apparently The Golden Menace went there. With The Blonde One. The Topless Gardner saw them there while walking his dog Atlas. Of course he was topless. He spent the entire time expressing concern that The Golden Menace would pull her clean off the cliff edge and into the sea below.

I approved of this concern. If that happened, who would give me Dreamies?

There were wild horses. Actual horses. Large. Unpredictable creatures. More unsafety. But I heard The Golden Menace behaved himself. Kept his distance. Didn’t bark. Didn’t chase.

I don’t like to admit this, but I paused.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

He was learning something.

I will not say this again.

The Sunflower Fields (Approved by Moi)

The sunflower fields were much more my style.

Pretty. Scented. Civilised. Endless yellow faces turned politely towards the sun, just as they should be. Very calming. Very acceptable.

The Golden Menace attempted to eat them.

Not one.

Not two.

Many.

He shoved his entire head into the flowers, chomping enthusiastically while everyone laughed and took photos. I considered the consequences carefully. He would be pooping sunflower seeds for months. I fully expect a confused sunflower to emerge in the garden any day now. Fertilised. Thriving. Uninvited.

Still. The photos were beautiful.

I allowed it.

The Vet Visit

There was a vet visit.

I knew instantly because the house smelled of optimism and fear.

The vet declared him “in peak condition.”

Peak.

Condition.

I found this offensive.

To be fair, he was in peak condition.
For approximately seven minutes.

The vet nurse offered him gravy bones for being a good boy. He accepted them greedily. Then, on the car journey home, his peak condition dissolved entirely. Biscuits were brought back up. All mushy. Everywhere.

The Blonde One was not happy. She muttered something about the vet nurse giving him one too many. The Golden Menace looked proud, as if he’d achieved something.

He did not like car journeys.

I enjoyed this.

When The Blonde One Was Always Gone

Towards the end of the month, something shifted.

The Blonde One was away a lot. Something called the AIG Women’s Open. In other words. Golf. Borrring!

Long Days. Early starts. Late returns. She came home exhausted, pretending to tee off in the hallway.

I foolishly assumed this would mean one on one time with The Tall One. Quiet bonding. Mutual respect. Shared naps.

But oh no.

During her absence, The Golden Menace followed The Tall One everywhere like a damp shadow. They shared sunsets. They shared beach walks. They shared sunset beachwalks, which felt excessive.

Evenings softened. The Tall One sat outside in the garden, feet up. The smell of cut grass and barbecues in the air, holding a cold Gulda beer and staring into the distance like a man who had accepted his fate.

I joined them occasionally.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

From the windowsill.

Barry hummed somewhere nearby, pharmacist by trade, dispenser of pills and busy watering his plants. Barry’s tabby watched from a shed roof. We exchanged looks. Everyone understood this was temporary peace.

The Tall One even shared biscuits.

This was getting out of hand.

I wanted The Blonde One back.

The Biscuit Ritual

Every day, The Tall One came home, opened the cupboard, and performed the ritual.

One biscuit for him.
One biscuit for The Golden Menace.

Repeat.

Where was mine?

I don’t even like digestives. I prefer chocolate hobnobs. Jammie Dodgers at a push. But that was not the point. The point was principle.

The Tall One made sure he had a firm grip on the wrapper this time.
Nobody wants a repeat of The Incident.
We all remembered what had to be pulled out.
We do not speak of it.

So I raised the issue of no sharing during my Sunday meeting with The Smoky One. She agreed. Quietly. Then slipped me some chicken slices.

Balance was restored.

Conclusion

August taught me many things.

That bubbles were apparently an enemy.
That beaches were overrated.
That puppies were loud, dim, and occasionally surprising.
That cliffs existed.
That flowers could be eaten irresponsibly.
That vets lied.
And that biscuits were shared unfairly.

But most importantly, I learned this:

Summer belongs to dogs.
Evenings belong to warriors.
And the house, no matter how busy it gets, will always belong to me.

I will allow September to arrive.
But I’m watching it closely.