Smudge’s Diaries: November 2025

Fireworks Night

I positioned myself by the window like a security guard. I sharpened my judgement. I expected chaos.

Jumping.
Barking.
Howling.
Trembling.
Fear.

I was, frankly, waiting in glee.

The Golden Menace has a long history of overreacting to things that are not threats. A sweeping brush. A spoon falling. A feather that floats with confidence. So when I heard the humans say “fireworks tonight”, I assumed we would be treated to a full performance.

I even made space on the sofa, purely as a kindness. A stage for his inevitable meltdown. A place for him to flail while I watched, composed, like a seasoned observer of nonsense.

And then…

Nothing happened.

There were fireworks outside. Lots of them. Big loud bangs. Screeching rocket type ones. The lot. I saw flashes. I heard the distant popping and fizzing.

The Golden Menace sat there. Calm. Ears up, but relaxed. Barely flinched.

I was disappointed.

Was he deaf, I pondered?

I watched him closely for signs of fraud. He blinked slowly. He sighed. He even yawned. Like a well adjusted adult who reads ingredients and drinks enough water.

I do not trust this development.

Either he had matured overnight, which is impossible, or he was saving his energy for something worse.

I kept my guard up.

November can be a tricky month.

Television Troubles

Later in the month, The Golden Menace discovered wildlife programmes.

That smooth voice. David whats his face? I listened while he watched.

He sat perfectly still. Invested. Focused. As if he was finally receiving the education he has been denied.

At first, I found it unsettling.

There is something eerie about a dog being quiet on purpose.

Then the lions appeared.

Female lions.

Powerful. Confident. Organised. The sort of women who could run a household properly and would not waste money on avocado toys.

They hunted a gazelle. All four of them. Sleek, strong, ready to pounce at any moment.

I sat up straighter. If I had cheerleader pom poms, they would have been in the air.

The Golden Menace lost his mind.

Barking. Growling. Scrabbling at the screen like he was about to join them. He threw himself forward as if he had been personally challenged. As if the lionesses had turned to camera and said, “Come on then, Biscuit Breath.”

The Blonde One squealed. The Tall One shouted his name. The programme continued, unbothered.

And I?

I cheered silently. Imaginary pom poms shaking.

Go on, girls.

The Golden Menace was removed from the room, offended and confused. I remained, dignified, and watched the lionesses carry on with the calm authority I crave in this home.

I felt seen.

The Great Escape

November also introduced a new game.

Every time the front door opened, The Golden Menace attempted freedom.

Not freedom with purpose. Not a heroic escape. He did not even run in a straight line.

He bolted out like he had been released from prison, did five chaotic minutes of running between cars, ignored every instruction, then returned tired and proud like he had just completed a four hundred metre sprint at the Olympics.

The Tall One chased him with the controlled panic of a man trying not to swear in front of neighbours.

The Blonde One did that nonsensical high pitched voice that makes everything worse.

And The Golden Menace?

He treated it like a sport.

He looked back mid run, tail wagging, face delighted, like, Are you watching this? Am I not incredible?

He was not.

Barry was outside tying in the long stems of his roses to protect them from the high winds. He saw the entire catch me if you can performance.

The Robe Ranger was also out. Polka dotted robe today. She was grumbling about how misbehaved these little terrors are.

Pamela, I agree with you love.

Eventually, The Golden Menace returned. On his terms. Always on his terms. Trotting back like a hero, as if he had done the family a favour by coming home at all.

I watched from the window, unimpressed. Front doors should stay closed at all times. This is not a radical belief. It is basic home management.

Locked Out

Talking of front doors, November brought an incident.

You may be aware of this. I do not go outside.

This is not fear. This is standards.

Outside is cold, unpredictable, and full of things that do not respect personal space. I watch it through glass, as nature intended.

So imagine my surprise when the front door closed behind me.

At first, I assumed this was temporary. A lapse in judgement that would be corrected instantly once someone realised I was no longer indoors where I belong.

I waited on the doormat.

Nothing happened.

The house remained sealed. Lights on. Warmth visible. The Golden Menace inside, snoring through a sloppy snooze like a creature with no responsibilities.

I was locked out.

I assessed the situation calmly. The air was sharp. The stones damp. I did not panic. I am not dramatic.

I repositioned myself by the front door and sat neatly. This usually works.

Time passed. I could hear muffled noises inside. Human voices. The television. Laughter. Life continuing without me.

This was unacceptable.

I considered my options.

I could cry. I did not.
I could scratch. I did not.

Instead, I patrolled.

I inspected fences. Sniffed unfamiliar scents. Reminded the neighbourhood who lives here.

I drifted over to Jasper’s. He had a cat flap. His own doorway. While I was locked out. I peered through the transparent flap and saw him stretched out by the fire. No dog. No chaos. Lucky cat.

I then visited Pickle. She was being forced into outfits on cold damp grass while her human took photos for Instagram. I would hate to be an influencer. It looks exhausting. Pickle waved. I sauntered off.

Eventually, the cold crept in. Not dramatic cold. Insidious cold. The sort that seeps into joints and makes you question your choices.

I returned to the door.

Thankfully, The Next Door Neighbour’s husband appeared.

He looked down at me. I looked up at him. Mutual understanding was briefly established. He frowned. He knocked.

Not a polite knock. A proper knock.

I sat perfectly still.

He knocked again, then went back inside next door.

Moments later, my front door opened.

Blondie stood there, confused. She looked left. Right. Then at me. Scratching her head, trying to work out how I had done it.

I chuckled internally.

I do not have hands.
I do not have knuckles.
I will never reveal my methods.

I strode past her with confidence, enjoying the confusion. I trotted in like I owned the place, which, obviously, I do.

From the living room came the tap tap tap of claws.

The Golden Menace had woken.

I reacted instantly.

Before he could greet me with his wet nose and general smelliness, I sprang onto the stair gate in one smooth, athletic motion. Clean. Efficient. Untouchable.

He skidded to a halt below, staring up in awe and disappointment.

I warmed myself slowly.

Dignified.
Silent.
Victorious.

Apologies were offered. I accepted none.

The Next Door Neighbour’s husband has said nothing since.

Good.

Some mysteries are better left unsolved.

The Sunday They Left Me in Charge

November also brought a Sunday.

A proper Sunday.

Granny had a birthday, which meant coats, handbags, perfume, and the arrival of more humans. The Baker Boy. The Red One. The Takeaway Sharer. Everyone talking at once. Everyone excited. Everyone smelling like plans.

Eventually, they all left together.

This would have been fine. Ideal, even. Except for one crucial oversight.

The Curly Intruder was here.
And so was The Golden Menace.

Two dogs.
One house.
One me.

The Tall One took this seriously.

After a brief discussion involving hand gestures and the phrase “we’re not coming home to a flat pancake”, a safety plan was put in place. The dogs were separated.

Not by doors.

By a stair gate.

They could see each other. Smell each other. Sniff. Bark. Whine. Perform.

I immediately had concerns.

The Curly Intruder was placed in one room. The Golden Menace in another. The gate stood between them like a flimsy promise. I positioned myself nearby, alert but calm.

At first, things were quiet.

Both dogs settled. I supervised. Time passed. I began to believe we might all survive.

Then The Golden Menace woke from his snooze.

I heard the shift in his breathing. The sudden interest. The stretch.

He approached the gate with purpose.

The Curly Intruder noticed immediately.

They sniffed.
They barked.
They barked louder.
They danced against the gate.

They became super duper excited.

What followed was less negotiation and more spectacle.

The Golden Menace backed up slightly, gathered himself, and launched over the stair gate like a show horse at a county fair.

Unfortunately for him, he is not a show horse.

He caught himself painfully on the gate.

There was a brief whimper. Not dramatic. Just enough to acknowledge consequences.

The gate collapsed under his weight, twisted and swinging sadly, half open, half shut, like it had given up on life.

The dogs froze.

Then it was as if someone pressed play.

They chased each other frantically. Teeth. Barking. Fluff. Sliding across the floor. Leaping on the sofa. Cushions flying. A lamp tipped over. The Curly Intruder attempted the curtains and failed.

I intervened.

Were they fighting? Playing? Performing a ritual? I will never know.

I tried.

I really did.

When the humans returned, they came in loud and bustling, laughing and calling names, braced for disaster.

What they found was this:

A stair gate.
Bent.
Twisted.
Swinging uselessly between rooms.

The one thing we forgot to fix.

Two dogs.
Panting hard.
Wide eyed.
Suspiciously intact.

And me.

Sitting nearby, composed, as if to say, I had a plan. They did not listen.

The Tall One stared at the gate.
The Blonde One stared at the dogs.
Granny laughed.

I stretched once, slowly, and walked away.

I had done my best.

The Case of the Missing Roast Chicken

Everyone returned together. The Blonde One. The Tall One. Granny. The Baker Boy. The Red One. The Takeaway Sharer.

The house filled with noise. Shoes kicked off. Coats flung. That warm, bustling energy humans bring home with them when they have eaten elsewhere.

I conducted a headcount.

Everyone present.
Both dogs alive.
The stair gate bent like modern art.

So far, survivable.

Then I remembered the only thing that mattered.

Where is my roast chicken?

I waited.

I positioned myself in the kitchen doorway, calm and hopeful, like a small queen awaiting tribute.

Nothing appeared.

Not a scrap.
Not a ceremonial shred.
Not even a sympathetic sniff of foil.

This was not an oversight. This must be theft.

Let us discuss suspects.

The Red One has a big appetite. The kind that suggests he could eat a roast dinner and still ask what is for pudding.

The Tall One also has a big appetite, but with the confidence of a man who believes leftovers are a human right.

And The Golden Menace?

He would eat roast chicken straight off the counter if nobody made eye contact quickly enough.

I launched a full investigation.

First, a mouth audit.

I sniffed each human calmly and professionally. The Blonde One laughed and told me to stop. This was unhelpful.

Then Phase Two.

I sat in the centre of the room and stared at them one by one in silence.

This technique predates guilt.

The Tall One suddenly became very interested in taking his trainers upstairs.
The Red One avoided eye contact and scrolled like a boy with secrets.
The Takeaway Sharer looked innocent, which means nothing.

The Golden Menace wandered in, sniffing the air, eyes wide, tongue loose.

I moved away instantly.

If he had eaten chicken, he would not confess. He would simply radiate pride and poultry.

Eventually, I reached a conclusion.

The roast chicken did not disappear.

It was consumed quickly, confidently, and without thought for me.

There will be consequences.

Not today. I am measured.

But the next time a Sunday arrives and the predictable aroma of roast chicken fills the house, whether eaten inside or elsewhere, I will be there from the start.

I will watch the carving.
I will supervise the plates.
I will manage distribution like an overbearing wedding planner.

Because if this household thinks I am going through another November without proper treats…

They are about to learn what alert really looks like.

Conclusion

November taught me this:

Fireworks are unreliable.

Quiet behaviour should be monitored.
Doors create problems.
And Sundays need supervision.

December is approaching.

The house will be fuller.
The food richer.
The expectations higher.

I will be ready.