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.