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.