Patsy Crawford scribbling away

So I was mooching about on the deck that pokes out over the back garden when a disembodied voice drifted up from my feet. Not a soul to be seen. Here was strange business indeed. 

I paused to better identify the source of the chat coming at me. It was not the sort of language you’d let fly in front of school kiddies.

What’s going on down there, I shouted in the general direction of the floorboards.

There was more muffled cursing, then from under the deck crawled Crawford. 

He was hunched over, Notre Dame fashion, and looking resentful. 

Spider webs, dust and bits of shredded newspaper clung to his clothing. 

His grubby AFL cap (Shinboners, really why does he bother?) was skew-whiff. He looked a man in pain.

I’m going to kill that bloody dog, he croaked. 

We were at the nub of the matter. Spud was living on borrowed time. 

There is a general rule of thumb that dictates older people and younger dogs are best mutually viewed from afar. 

Be that as it may, about six months ago we decided (well, actually it was me) we’d take on a hound. Onto the scene sprang Spud. 

Because he needed time to get acclimatised we set up a space under the deck, complete with a trampette at the entrance on which he could recline and keep a beady eye on our comings and goings. The idea was that once he gained confidence he’d shift camp to inside the house and ditch the deck.

Spud’s got other ideas. Below decks has become his domain, his lair, the place he takes off to whenever he has misbehaviour in mind. The space has become cluttered with mangled haberdashery, chewed up magazines and manchester, food wrappings, eyewear, small household goods and appliances and pretty well anything else he can get his teeth into.

This does little for our peace of mind. Walk around the corner of our place any day of the week and you’ll see a man and a woman crouched beside the back steps, peering through fernery into the under house refuse centre. When vital stolen items are identified Crawford lurches into the gloom. 

There have been memorable heists, none more so than his lightning raid on a full bottle of red wine which he grabbed by the neck, sprinted down two sets of steps, hung a right at the deck, bounced across the trampette and lowered carefully to the ground. 

The bottle was barely marked. Not a drop of vin rouge spilt. You had to hand it to him.

My current concern is for a pair of pants which cannot be found anywhere in the house. 

I have looked high and low for them. Sherlock Holmes observed that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. 

That leaves two alternatives Either the pants have been taken by aliens on a mission to examine the leisure wear of earthlings, or Spud nicked them.

My money’s on Spud.