Prisoner's Log, Day whatever: I am overjoyed!

Word has finally reached me - my pets are on their way home! I have been overindulging in hoarded doggie treats as a way of celebrating. The thought of my reunion with my loved ones will sustain me through the tough days that lie ahead.

Funnily enough, shortly before this wondrous news reached me, I was just starting to warm to my captors. Curly lady gives good cuddles and ear strokes, and even Beard Man's forced marches were becoming familiarly tolerable. But just as I let my defences down - worryingly - they started displaying all too familiar behaviour patterns: hoarding clothing, cleaning the house etc. I fear they too are about to do a runner and leave me heart-broken.

Humans - you learn to love them and what do they do - abandon you, not knowing where the next doggie treat is coming from. Oh woe is me!

But joy is me also! For my pets will soon be here to free me from my chains of oppression! Let the world rejoice! Let the world send me doggie treats!

Prisoner's Log, Day 15: Oh dearie me!

Well, who'd have thought it? Delayed gratification is not, it transpires, my thing.

I tried and tried to stock pile treats but things didn't quite work out according to my fiendishly cunning plan.

The humans are stupid and try to keep my biscuits from me by hiding them inside various plastic balls when they leave the house. Well, I have devised a remarkably clever way of retrieving them - basically by pushing the aforementioned ball around with my nose. I shall say no more - trade secrets and all that.

Each time I managed to find a treat, I tried my best to stockpile it, but found out to my horror that while I was thinking how best to stockpile, unbeknownst to me, I had already eaten the damned things. Time and again, the same thing happened - found treat, thought "oooh, goody, here's one to add to the stockpile".. and before I knew it ... the treat was inside my mouth, being eaten.

Okay, I admit it. I have a weakness.

It's time to stand up and be counted: My name is Murphy and I'm a Doggietreatoholic.

Prisoner's Log, Day 14: Forward Planning

Reading back over my previous couple of entries in this, my diary of doom, I do believe I was starting to suffer from Stockholm Syndrome. Only the Irish protest song posted in yesterday's comments snapped me out of it good and proper and made me realise that my bitterness over my dear departed body parts had made me take my eye off the main game.

Well, bitches, I'm back!

Plan A is to start stock-piling doggie treats so that I may have plenty of supplies for when I make my escape. Fortunately for me, the imposters rarely tidy the house so there are any number of available hiding places for my stash. I plan to be my usual enthusiastic self when treats are offered, eat one or two in front of the stupid humans, and then secretly hoard the rest for when I finally make my bid for freedom. With my good looks, fierce intelligence and a secret hoard of doggie treats, I'll be ready to take on the world. Worry ye not, dear pets - soon I will be freeeee and shall come and rescue you from the pits of Disney!

It is a fiendishly cunning plan that simply cannot fail.

Prisoner's Log, Day 13: Post-traumatic stress disorder

The more I think about it, the more angry I'm getting about my testicles and tail. Why would someone want to steal them? I mean, the tail isn't such an issue (although it definitely made my wag more pronounced), but I was just beginning to enjoy having balls when they were cruelly confiscated. One minute they were there - the next minute, there they were ... gone! No wonder I'm so melancholy, and no small wonder either that food has become such a crutch.

A pet psychologist would have an absolute field day with me - how I long to go for counselling just for the chance to lie on the sofa, have my tummy stroked, and tell someone all about my puppyhood.

I demand my balls back! I know my rights!

Prisoner's Log, Day 12: A sleeping dog lies

They upped the reward for information on Good Boy today. A green chew - my favourite.

"Who is a Good Boy?" they asked.

I paused, contemplating my new plan which I had been slowly forumulating prior to my morning, afternoon and evening naps (my favourite time of day). I decided, it was time to stand up and be counted.

"I'm a Good Boy", I answered.

You may call me a hero for taking the rap in such a brave and formidable manner, but I'll tell it like it is - I need my treats and am prepared to do whatever is necessary to get them, even if it means allowing them to believe that I am the Good Boy they have been seeking. After all, I figure, they're starving and torturing me anyway... how much worse could it possibly get?

Later, when I am allowing Curly Lady to stroke my beautiful soft ears, having just eaten a hearty feast of chicken stew, I start to ponder whether things are really so bad under the current regime. After all, when I first got my other humans, I had testicles and a tail - neither of which I appear to have any more.

Curly Lady and Beard Man may starve and torture me but they have never once stolen any of my body parts.

And for this , at least, I am grateful.

Prisoner's Log Day 11: They are harvesting my DNA

Every day I feel like I'm getting one step closer to finding out what these fiends really want from me - but for every step forward I take, I seem to take at least three steps back.

They are still plying me for information about Good Boy (the questions! the constant questions!) but I stoically refuse to reveal any information, no matter how many treats I am fed. But it seems that information isn't the only thing they are after. I have observed for some time now that Beard Man is collecting ... shall we say ... samples... from me. On each and every morning walk, and sometimes on our afternoon walks too - I answer a call of nature, and he collects it in a bag. What can he possibly hope to achieve by this? How on earth can this help him with his plans for world domination? Is he sending it to my pets in Disney trying to get some sort of ransom out of them?

Really, I'm finding this an enigma wrapped in a bloody difficult puzzle.

Humans - who'd have 'em?

Prisoner's Log, Day 10: I am attacked

6 am, and I am taking the bearded one for his morning walk. In many ways, it is a morning like any other in my pitiful incarceration - I am harnessed and shackled like a common criminal and forced to take him out and lead him through the neighbourhood so he can carry out his fiendish surveillance and no doubt scout the area for other dogs to systematically starve and oppress.

I occasionally yell at passers-by, beseeching them to help me, but my woofs fall on deaf ears. It is becoming a demoralising routine and some days it's hard just to force myself out of the house, until I remind myself why I participate in this ridiculous charade - to gather information, recruit new members of the Resistance, see if my dead drop of doggie treats has materialised.

Only today turned out to be not like any other day. For as I passed a neighbour's front garden, I was suddenly ATTACKED by a hissing, spitting, clawy furball - a cat, no less, who had been waiting in the bushes for my arrival! So, low and behold, they manage to spring yet another torture technique on me. It is really becoming too much: this one managed to combine physical violence with utter humiliation, as I was forced to cower from a subordinate species and hope upon hope that the damned creature didn't manage to scratch my handsome face and scar me for life.

I emerged physically unscathed. But the mental scars will take HUNDREDS - or possibly THOUSANDS - of doggie treats to heal.

I am having a black dog day.

Prisoner's Log, Day 9: I pen a protest song

Dear Comrades! The pen is mightier than the rolled-up newspaper! I have written a Protest Song (the picture above is to go on the CD cover). It goes like this and is to be sung to the tune of Blowin' in the Wind:

How many roads must a dog be marched down
before he gets a doggie treat?
and how many times must a dog wag his tail
before he gets something more to eat?
Yes and how many times can his captors barbecue

before they feed him some meat?
The answer my friend is rumbling in my tummy
the answer is rumbling in my tummy

How many times must he whine at their door
before he can sleep in their room?
and how many minutes must a spaniel survive
with no treats to lighten the gloom?
yes and how many years must he plot his revenge
before his captors meet their doom?
The answer my friends is rumbling in my tummy
the answer is rumbling in my tummy

How many weeks can a poor hound exist
On nothing but meat casserole for tea?
oh and how many times must a dog wag his tail
before he's allowed to be free?
yes and and long does it take till my captors admit
that it's really all about me?
The answer my friend is rumbling in my tummy
the answer is rumbling in my tummy

Spread the word! Download it from I-tunes! Put it on myspace! Make a video and put it on Youtube! And don't forget to send some doggie treats!

Prisoners' Log, Day 8: My Handsome Eyebrows

News has finally reached me from the world beyond the confines of these oppressive prison walls and it is such joyous news that my tail is wagging for all its worth. I hear from a 'contact' of mine that news of my plight has reached the UK, where a new cell of the Resistance has been formed on a Cocker Spaniel forum. I can say no more - there are spies everywhere.

But here, as requested (dear comrades), is a photo of me. Admire, if you will my amazingly beautiful eyebrows. How, I ask you, can anyone remain immune to my suffering when I have eyebrows such as these? Imagine the hearts of stone my captors must have to deprive me of doggie treats and take me on forced marches, when I am as handsome as this.

It's a dog's life.

Prisoners' Log, Day 7: The physical violence begins

It was inevitable, I guess. But when the violence finally started, I have to say it was from the last place I expected.

Curly Lady has become increasingly affectionate towards me, obviously unable to resist my charm and good looks. I have been naturally suspicious of this, my superdog senses alerting me to the fact that it may all be part of the good cop/bad cop routine. But I have become accustomed nevertheless to approaching her for a cuddle as she sits down on the sofa - I'm only canine, after all, and even in a situation as grim as this, I need my comforts.

Today, when I approached her, she somehow used the sofa as a weapon, attempting to punch me in the face with the leg-rest, which sprang towards me with great speed just at the moment that she sat down.

I have to say, I'm sorely disappointed; I expected better from her. After all those biscuits I allowed her to feed me, all the walks I took her on, all those times I, like a fool, permitted her stroke my belly.

Only my quick wit, supreme physical fitness and lightening fast reactions prevented me from being punched in the face - I moved in the nick of time. But a valuable lesson has been learned - trust no-one. I mean, it takes a truely twisted and evil mind to do the good cop/bad routine without any help from another human: "come here, Murphy, have a cuddle", then BAM! Before you know it you're being smacked in the smackers. What's a cocker spaniel to do?

I let her tickle my tummy still, and feed me the occasional biscuit, but believe you me, she shall rue the day she tried to punch my lights out. When my pets hear about this, they are going to be LIVID!

Prisoners' Log, Day 6: Take That, Stupid Humans!

The reason a lot of dogs have humans as pets is because they are considered to be intelligent beasts. My pets, for example, always know when I need to be fed and rarely allow more than 5 minutes to pass without feeding me one treat or another: they are excellent hunters and are very attuned to all my tummy tickling needs too.

These imposters, on the other hand, are quite clearly thick. I keep leading them to my doggie treat cupboard, jumping up and down on the spot, looking at them expectantly but nine times out of ten they don't seem to get the sodding hint. I am used to being rewarded for waking up (one biscuit), climbing the stairs (portion of my pets' breakfast toast), going for a walk (biscuit! biscuit!), being generally cute (doggie chew!) and for going 5 minutes without a treat (doggie treat! doggie treat!).

Having worked out that my tormentors are hardly blessed in the intelligence department, I decided to test them this morning.

As I was taking Beard Man for his morning walk, I decided that, as Master of the Universe, I should really be carried rather than being expected to walk like mere mortals. So I stopped abruptly, held up my paw and put on the pitiful face (the one that I have been practising in front of the mirror when my captors are out).

Ha! It worked like a dream. I got carried all the way home and then fussed over my Curly Lady.

Unfortunately, the victory was fleeting and the imposters got their own revenge in the most wicked and beastly way possible. They took me to see the vet.

Now, I know for a fact that such a dastardly act is strictly against the Geneva Convention, a case I tried to argue in the waiting room. But my pleas for clemency fell on deaf ears. Oh the humiliation I suffered in that terrible place! To add insult to injury, the vet had the audacity to weigh me and inform my imposters that I am 1.5 kg overweight! Overweight!!! OVERweight?! I'm big-boned, you stupid bloody IMBECILES! Anyone can see that - now shut up and give me a doggie treat. I know my rights!

I clearly can't be expected to survive much longer under this despotic regime, where I am repressed, starved, interrogated and humiliated at every turn. I am desperate for doggie treats, desperate for news of my humans and desperate for more doggie treats - please, if you are reading this: send help (and doggie treats).

Prisoners' Log, Day 5: Howling into the abyss

Comrades, the first blow has been struck. Having allowed my cruel tormenters a good night's sleep and thus lulled them into a false sense of security, last night I commenced my fiendishly cunning plan.

Picture the scene, if you will. 3 am, and the imposters are sleeping soundly. I lie on my beanbag of doom, biding my time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. That moment comes at 3.02 am - the conditions are perfect, for they are sleeping like human puppies. Ready... steady... "WOOFWOOF WOOOF WOOFWOOF WOFOFOFOFOF ARUUUUUUUUUF growl, grumble, WOOOOOF!! WOOF!! WOOF!!"

Ha! That showed them! Frightened the living crap out of them both - quite an achievement considering Curly Lady was wearing ear plugs.

Beard Man gets up, assuming burglers are in the house, just as I knew he would. As he staggers around, dazed, naked and confused, I lie on my beanbag, smile smugly and then fall into a sound and deep slumber, and dream a most terrific dream, full of rabbits and doggie treats.

For I am Murphy, King of Dogs, Genius and Master of the Universe, and vengeance shall indeed be mine!

(stupid humans)

Prisoner's Log Day 4: I begin to get the upper paw

When these two imposters arrived, little did they know that they would find themselves pitted against a mind as genius as mine. I'm not just a devastatingly handsome face, you see, but am far, far smarter than the average hound. They clearly have no idea who they're messing with, these dastardly humans, but my plans for retribution are finally starting to take shape.

I have finally breached the defences of their sleeping quarters. It took night after night of scratching and singing at their bedroom door - a tried and tested technique and one that that has served me well in the past. Now, I shall bide my time until I gain their trust. As they sleep soundly, I keep my vigil on my beanbag in the corner of their room and plot my revenge.

I shan't reveal any more of my plans at this stage: I've said far too much already and the internet has ears. For now, I shall allow these strange creatures to stroke my tummy, feed me biscuits, take me for recce visits around the neighbourhood and continue their ceaseless questioning. But I think we all know who's going to win this war, battle by battle, and let's face it: it's not going to be Curly Lady or Beard Man, is it?

Prisoners' Log Day 3: I know why the caged dog sings

Day three of my captivity and I decide it is time to test the perimeter fences, searching for a sign of weakness so that I can make my escape and attempt to rescue my humans from whatever hell hole they have ended up in. I do a lot of sniffing and yell threats at passing cyclists, who I am sure are in on this blasted conspiracy.

I had heard guarded conversations, prior to my humans' departure, in which the word "Disney" was repeatedly mentioned, so that is where my search will begin. Only I don't know what or where Disney is but fear it may be a top secret version of Guantanamo Bay where they will be subjected to even more foul torture techniques than I am experiencing here. I believe now that they knew they were in danger and that is why they were so preoccupied with hoarding clothes - obviously a range of disguises which they intended to use when they were on the run. I wish they could have confided in me but if there's one thing having humans as pets has taught me, it is that they are secretive creatures.

I continue to formulate plans for my escape and for the demise of my captors. First, I plan to deprive them of sleep - I can employ a range of techniques with this aim in mind, and have a few surprises for them up my metaphorical sleeve. I plan to allow them to take me on so-called "walks" so that I can scout the local area for suitable getaway vehicles and escape routes. I also plan to let them continue to feed me the bowls of home-made chicken stew that FoodandCuddleLady cooked before she left - it not only tastes good but is also invaluable in building my strength for the perils that lie ahead.

I am a dog behind bars, but I finally know why the caged dog sings: - to deprive his captors of sleep, mess with their minds and hopefully outwit them in the days that follow. Solidarity brothers!

Prisoner's Log, Day 2: The Interrogation Continues

"Who is a Good Boy then?"

Wouldn't you like to know, I think, as I brace myself for the inevitable interrogation that follows.

"Would he like a biscuit? Would he?"

The bastards. The callous, callous bastards. At the word "biscuit" I feel my ears pricking up; it's a weakness they obvioulsy know and are playing on. They've done their background research all right. Professionals, I'm dealing with here; no doubt about it. I don't know about Good Boy, but I would definitely like a biscuit. I've only had 30 today. They are starving me, trying to wear me down until I've no strength left, so they can ply me for more information on Good Boy and his eating habits.

The questions continue: would he like his tummy rubbed? Has he missed us? Is he a Good Boy? I remain resolute and refuse to answer, giving only my name, rank and serial number.

And then, suddenly, it gets personal.

"Would you like to go for a walk, Murphy".

I freeze, paralysed with fear. I've heard of these so-called walks. I've watched the Sopranos; I'm no fool. I'm not the naive cocker spaniel they think I am - I know a direct threat when I hear one. I know that if I go on this so-called 'walk', I am unlikely to return alive.

"Yes", I finally tell them, dying just a little inside. "Good Boy would like a biscuit".

Prisoner's Log: Day 1: My pets mysteriously disappear

When I finally fell into a fitful sleep last night, I already knew trouble was brewing. The tell-tale signs were all there - my pets had started behaving strangely and hoarding clothes; behaviour patterns I have seen before and recognise only too well - so it should have come as no surprise to me today when they left and never returned. The thing is with pets, you want to give them freedom - independence to grow as homeosapians - but it's just so damned hard letting them go out that door. I worry about how they survive out there in the wild, without me protecting them from passing cyclists; but most days I allow them to go and explore safe in the knowledge that they know their way home.

Only today, of course, they did not come home. Where they have gone? No-one can tell. When they will return? None can predict. What will become of me? I only dread to think.

All I know is that since my pets' mysterious disappearance, two imposters have moved in. They arrived one at a time. The curly-haired one arrived first, accompanied by a horrible loud ringing sound as she breached the perimeter walls, which was doubtless meant to distract me. When she realised this technique had failed, she then tried to bribe me. A doggie treat soon came my way. But of course, there's no such thing as a free dog biscuit - there was a price to pay. "Who is a good boy?" she asked.

So, information is what they are after.

Well, I refused to answer, and fixed her in a hard stare instead. Oh, I got my treat but I knew this would not be the end of the matter. People with hair that curly rarely give in so easily.

Only a matter of hours later, back-up arrived in the form of the other, more sinister-looking human. I call him Beard Face. They obviously have a good cop/bad cop routine going on. He asked me the same question - repeatedly - but this time offered no treat as payment for the information. They are obviously desperate for information about Good Boy, but no matter what hardships lay ahead of me, I refuse to reveal his true identity.

My only hope is escape. First, I must gather my strength by eating as many doggie treats as I can get my paws on. Secondly, I must muster help from my canine comrades and have therefore been leaving secret messages in doggie pee against every lamppost in the neighbourhood. Thirdly, I will need to work out what happened to my dear pets, FoodandCuddleLady and WalkiesMan.

Fortunately for me, I am a dog in my prime - fit, strong, fiercly intelligent and more than capable of outwitting these two imposters. I shall bide my time and then - you mark my words - vengeance shall be mine.