We have a guest blogger today, giving their account of Life in the Time of Corona. Alfie gives his own unique overview of lock-down at Casa Higueras.

Alfie’s Story

“Don’t get me wrong, because I do love living here with these two in a pretty nice home, but for the past two and a half weeks they have been here CONSTANTLY, and it is beginning to drive me mad, although that is not hard in this house. There used to be a time when the pair of them would disappear for a while and come back with these bags that invariably contained something tempting to sniff, but now only one of them goes, so there is always someone here. I feel like I am in some Spanish Wormwood Scrubs with the old screws constantly watching over me.

Oh, and the singing…..don’t get me started on the singing. It’s either full-on Handel’s Messiah or West End Show Tunes and there is nothing quiet about it. If I hear another rendition of “Don’t Rain on my Parade”….!

Apart from being constantly under someone’s beady eye, life here is much the same as it normally is, but then I make sure of that. The only things that are really missing are the longer walks. Now, I tend to just get taken on a circular route that I know like the back of my hand, but there are always ways to spice it up if it gets a bit dull. Chasing those creatures with the curly horns is always good for a laugh. Well, I say chase them; I do a lot of butch huffing and puffing so I look fierce, although this is quite hard when you are less than 12 inches tall. However, I never let stature get in my way and I do huff and puff, and get all upright and thuggish, you know how it is. Then, when I know that they are definitely going to run away I chase them. Goodness only knows what I would do if they didn’t run away, but I’ll cross that little bridge when I come to it. Bread is also good fun. For some reason, there is one area on my walk where there is always a bunch of baguettes. Unfortunately, they (my dads; I call them my dads because I never really knew my own dad as he clearly did a runner as soon as I was born) know where these delicious treats tend to lie in wait, so I am having to be a bit devious in my approach and not take the same tack twice. It’s finding the right moment to break away without being noticed, but the eagle-eyed so-and-sos never miss a trick.

Anyway, back to my days in the cells. It starts off alright: wake up call, booted out into the garden to sniff the air, followed by some slops. The food here, for me, is atrocious, and today I’ve sort of started a sit-in protest, as I am SICK of these tiny, dry little pellets that get rattled into my bowl. I have tasted cheese, and it’s time to take a stand.

I get taken out for the first of my ‘walks’ after breakfast. I use the inverted commas to emphasise the fact that this is not what, in my books, passes for a walk. I literally get taken around the block so I can do my “business”; I’m not Richard Branson! If I do go to the …..you-know-what… too early, then the ‘walk’ might come to an abrupt end so I have to pace myself. Something I’ve learned quite quickly.

Then the rot sets in. I get home, and these two start. Generally, one of my dads, Andrew, goes into the small house at the end of my land and sits there looking at this dark piece of glass for hours and hours and hours. Every now and again, he talks but there is no-one else in the little house, so I have no idea who he is talking to, but talks he does. My other dad, Ian, sits at the table in the bigger house and he is the one who sings. He also does a lot of faffing about in the kitchen, throwing stuff that arrived in the above mentioned bags into bowls that look a bit like mine but bigger. So, you can probably see why I am turning my nose up at my diminutive stainless steel trough filled with even more diminutive pellets when I see what is being conjuring up in the kitchen. I am learning new skills, which appear to be working. I sit on their feet and look cute; took me a while to perfect the ‘cute’ look, but I’m getting there. I follow Ian a lot, because when he sings and cooks at the same time, there are often bits that go flying so it’s worth putting up with the caterwauling to pick up the occasional treat. Now that I am fine-tuning the cute look, I often manage to wangle a bit of cheese. I normally have to endure being picked up and squashed, but you know what? For a chunk of manchego I am prepared to go through hoops; not literally, I’m not that cheap.

I get another little jaunt in the afternoon. I have got to the stage now where I have to remind them that the time is fast approaching, so from lunchtime onwards I get a bit skittish. The sitting on feet gets a bit more frantic, and chewing a toe, I find, gets results. As soon as the walking socks and shoes go on I know that my efforts are about to be rewarded and I do show my appreciation; no, I do! I mean I do have toys at home, but they are no replacement for a good old romp through the grass. My favourite toys? I have Stego, a purple dinosaur, but to be honest there is not much left of him now, and I am quite partial to a green plastic bottle that used to contain water. It makes THE most satisfying noise which can be most effective when my dads are talking to each other and I need attention.

My land offers up all sorts of pleasures for me. Andrew, the dad who sits in the small house talking to himself, has taken to digging holes….on MY land! The liberty! I have no idea what he is doing, but he keeps shoving things in holes and then tells Ian that tomatoes are going to grow. I told you they were not all there. The number of times I have tried to help, and indicated, with my nose, the best way of digging holes, is beyond me, but what thanks do I get? None! Ungrateful, that’s what I say…Stego knows how well I can dig as he has been stuffed in so many of my holes that he now thinks he’s a plug.

The day sort of goes on like that. Ian and Andrew eat a lot, and I mean a LOT! I get my measly portions of rabbit-dropping kibble and they sit there scoffing cake, flapjacks, crisps. That fridge door opens more frequently than I can manage to cock my leg on a walk.

Ok, ok….I might be exaggerating just slightly, but there is no doubting that I am living in something of a mad-house. I still remember that day when I was plucked from my bush in the campo where I had been screaming incessantly for 5 minutes (no-one ignores my screams; the Sirens of Greek mythology have nothing on me. What? Er yes, I do know a bit of Greek mythology, thank you very much! I’m not thick!!). I was dragged from my bush and brought to this house and all my Christmasses had come at once. Of course, I didn’t want to look too desperate, so I sort of sashayed into the house as if I were to the manner born, and that was that. It is certainly more comfortable than scrubby old campo, and I do get very well looked after.

I have to admit, much as I grumble about some of the downsides, the past few weeks have been rather lovely. Ever since I was teeny tiny, there have been so many people coming and going in this house. At times, it has been like a London Park on the first day of lock-down, and my smallness had difficulty coping. I love having the company, but it has been rather calm lately, and we have had a relaxed routine. You know what, I even don’t actually mind the singing because it means that I have my favourite people here for company and not just the radio. Oh, actually, can we talk about the radio for one moment. I am sick of that constant drone that they have on every morning…..blah, blah, Covid-19, blah, blah, Coronavirus; it means nothing to me as it doesn’t contain any words I recognise like ‘cheese’, ‘walk’ or ‘treat’. I’d rather have a full version of “Defying Gravity” belted out in falsetto than endure another moment of that perpetual drivel.

It’s not all doggy treats and fun, though, and I have seen my pair behave oddly of late. They are not always happy and can sometimes look like I did when I had that tummy upset recently - no, I was so close to the end it is not even true. One of those baguettes must have been off. I’m digressing (see, living with my dads has improved my vocabulary!), but I did have this jippy tummy and the pair of them had to take me by car to the hospital. This was in the time before Prisoner Cell Block H kicked in. I had tummy ache so laid it on really thick and eventually, long after we would normally go to bed, I convinced them that I was on the verge of keeling over so off we went. Strangely, as soon as we got to the hospital I felt alright; must have been wind. But….what I am trying to say is that sometimes my lovely pair do look just how I felt when I’d eaten that dodgy baguette and I don’t like it. I do my very best to cheer them up, and that makes them look better, so I do have my uses.

We’re a bit like “Three Men in a Boat” except there are actually only two men and I am nothing like Montmorency; he would never chase Cabra. We rub along quite well, and I am getting an inordinate amount of cuddles, strokes and tickles. I love padding around the kitchen seeing what the pair of them conjure up to stuff in their faces. I am in my own little heaven when the fire is lit and the two of them come and join me with a glass of what looks like water, but I am sure is NOT water, and they have their own treats, some of which find their way onto the floor right by my feet. I have one slight grievance, but in the evenings there is quite a lot of chatting into small dark rectangles where pictures move and voices come out. I recognise some of these voices so get quite excited, but I can’t sniff them, which is very odd. So naturally, I feel a bit left out and, as I am of a certain stature, I can’t see into these rectangles so make very sure I get noticed somehow, and being able to leap onto unsuspecting laps is one of my many new tricks.

I still get carried out for my final sniff around the garden just before bed. Rest assured, this is one luxury I will not be letting go of any time soon. Walk after 10pm? You must be joking! Then into my little den beside the fireplace and lights out.”