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It’s over for another four months thankfully. One cannot stand to be in the same room as these screaming less hairy two-legged race any longer without developing a headache. They don’t get this excited when I chase after a ball and run off with it which is a little perplexing as I am the centre of their universe. The humans are such a weird race.

Since arriving at the maid’s house nearly three years ago, I have been subjected to hours upon hours of rugby with her and the rest of the staff screaming at the television and saying words that should apparently not be uttered around small two-legged less hairy race as they are “naughty”. They only seem to get excited by the Welsh team and only watch when they are playing. The ”Come on boys” and “don’t you do that to my boys” that come out of the maid’s mouth makes me wonder why I couldn’t have been placed with a less weird owner.

My mother Hetty was an English black Labrador and my father Pringle was a Canadian cream poodle so when I arrived in Wales where they spoke a funny language, I did not realize that they would expect me to support my new country. I learnt the Welsh commands that I followed whilst in the Welsh schools that we work in, I ate the tradition Welsh cawl that the maid often gave me on the sly and I even learnt to love running through the Welsh countryside that I now call home. When she asked me to wear this hat though, I think she may have been extracting the urine slightly.

Getting through to the semi-finals of the rugby world cup apparently was a big deal and she wanted us all to get in the spirit. Hmmmmm, Did she ask Angus the cat to dress up in Welsh gear or Faith the tortoise? Oh no. They would have probably told her where to go but me? I stayed as neutral as possible by not chucking off the hat in protest or showing her I was impressed. I was hoping my neutral face of being dressed up would show her my verdict on the stupidity of her request but nope she did not take the hint. I think she was playing the blind card again!

When the silence fell around the house as Wales lost to the better team of New Zealand, I thought it was best to humour her and let the hat stand tall. Her plan to make me the mascot for the day did not work but it was worth a try I suppose. Luckily my handsome face and alluring eyes filled the hearts of the staff after the game. I did not find it necessary to let on to them that I was finding the silence that fell around the house so satisfying. A Welsh loss meant a Munch win as I finally took the hat off and they turned their love and attention back to me instead of the Welsh team.

Let’s hope that when the Rugby International starts in February, she will have found something to put on Angus or Faith to make them the mascot and leave me out of it. Paws crossed, it will work.