At 8:15 precisely.

The war of wits continues. Yesterday, he got through the gate despite the bicycle lock. Impossible for any dog I’ve ever known. He was very pleased with himself.

Here he is, telling my wife that it’s time to go to bed. And, yes, the time was exactly 8:15 pm.

My wife’s fault clearly. I was doing it right, with a sort of standoffish Scottish bonhomie. Then came the broken arm. Suddenly he got the last bite of whatever she was eating, from tuna subs to Tastycake butterscotch krimpets. And she rubbed his tummy. Now he paws at her for tummy rubs. Scots should never get tummy rubs. We’re too prone to irrational fixations. Why do you think we’re so harsh all the time? Because we’re such soft touches.

Now we have a problem. No way to restrain him anywhere. Except at 8:15 pm.

Thank God for that.