Dad was putting my food out while adopting a stance that I can only describe as legs akimbo. Obviously I made a run for the grub as soon as the first molecule of it hit the bowl and, long story short, dad got nutmegged by a Labrador in the kitchen.

A duffing ensued.

Dad was trying to put my food out and told me to stand over there. That’s pretty vague so how was I to know that “over there” didn’t mean standing on his dodgy foot. Dad, or Hopalong as I now call him, wasn’t best pleased and a ruckus ensued.

It’s that time of year when dad thinks he’s talking to me but he’s actually talking to a heap of my shed fur. He’s gets quite salty.

I’m not sure why, you think he’d be used to catastrophic hair loss bearing in mind it happened to him about 30 years ago.

I’ve been called in to investigate the Mystery of the Missing Cornflakes. I’ve no idea what happened to the delicious and tasty cornflakes that go down a treat but dad said he suspects a cereal killer. I duffed him for obvious reasons.

Accidentally flattened dad in the kitchen when he didn’t hear me coming. As I explained to him, it’s not my fault I was top of the class in ninja school.

There I was, having a well-deserved rest when dad leaned over me to pick something up. Obviously I leapt up to see what was going on and that’s roughly when I head-butted him. Apparently, dads don’t respond well to a snout in the kisser and that’s when the punch-up began.

Dad has just named me “the family member most likely to duff up another” It’s when I went up to collect my statue that I found out it wasn’t an awards ceremony but an intervention. I duffed him.

As a consulting hound detective, I’m often called in to solve crimes that baffle dad. Today’s case, the case of the missing bin bag had no clues except a tuft of black fur, a strange paw print and a half-eaten piece of toast. I deduced that the criminal was almost certainly a cat or other non-pooch.

I told dad - if I dash into a bush, bending a springy branch backwards, and you come and look where I’ve gone just as I move past the branch and it twangs backwards straight into dad junior, it’s not my fault. He tearily agreed.

Dad’s a bit slow shovelling out the grub so I gave him a nudge. He nudged back so I nudged him again and then there was a bit of a punch up. The good news is, the food is now out of the tin. The bad news is, it’s all over the kitchen. Luckily my food clear up business can handle it.

Dad hurt his foot but luckily I was on hand. I’m used to emergency situations having been coincidentally present at 99% of dad’s accidents so I knew what to do. I stood on his injured foot. You don’t expect that sort of language on a Saturday morning. For shame, dad.

As a keen astronomer I was very impressed to see dad lying on the grass staring at the stars. He said something about being run down by a hound as black as night but it was hard to tell. He shouldn’t really talk through gritted teeth.

I’ve got a new career as a baggage handler but dad has just said that rooting through rubbish bags, digging out a piece of green cheese, eating the cheese, and then ponging out the house with cheesy bum smells is not part of the skill set for baggage handlers. Reader I duffed him.