Until Poppy came to live with us, I had assumed that the dog-burying-a-bone thing was just a Tom and Jerry stereotype. How wrong is it possible to be?

The first time we bought her a cowhide chew, she carried it around the house, crying with excitement, stopping every so often to have a lick and a chew, and then taking off again for more carrying and crying. It was an extraordinary thing to watch.
Like over-anxious first time parents, we followed her about, twittering and wringing our hands as she trotted, whimpering, from room to room and from floor to floor.

She was the same with her first real bone. We knew she was quite a vocal character, but the trotting about, up and down the stairs and in and out of various rooms, crying with delight was almost more than we could take. We weren’t a hundred per cent sure that she hadn’t hurt herself on a sharp bit, or didn’t have a piece caught in her throat.

She clearly loved having bones and chews. We weren’t happy about the perils of bones, so we decided that we would give her the hide chews, and save them as a treat for her if we went out without her. That way she would have a distraction, and we wouldn’t have to watch her and hear her being overcome with joy. A win, win situation!

The first time we left her with a chew, we came back to find that the sofa cushions were not where we left them, and that she had chewed up Geoff’s slippers and a magazine or two. We weren’t amused. I set about clearing up the mess, making disapproving noises and expressing my disappointment at her lack of self-control.

Who said dogs don’t do guilt?

When it came to rearranging the cushions on the sofa, my hand hit something spitty and horrible. The little darling had buried her treasure in the sofa! My displeased and disappointed sound effects reached new heights as I tried to show her that this was Not The Thing To Do. She was suitably contrite, and I foolishly concluded that she would not wish to offend me again.

Round Two. Cushions all over the floor, newspapers and magazines shredded and one of Geoff’s shoes arranged artistically among the debris. In her defence, I would say that Poppy looked suitably remorseful, but I was not thrilled to be recovering her spitty, horrible chew from where she had buried it in the sofa. Again.

Confronted with the evidence, she thought better of trying to deny it…

Round Three. It seemed that the burying instinct was strong in our little canine friend, so I decided to cover the sofa with a heavy-duty throw. Poppy watched with interest, and politely listened while I explained that I understood her difficulties with temptation. I told her that she was getting quite old enough to understand that she was not allowed on the furniture, even when we were not at home, and that the throw was there to prevent her lapsing into forbidden burying behaviour. We went out.

And returned to a scene of carnage, including a huge hole in the aforementioned throw, where she had dug through it in order to bury her chew.

Hiding in her bed while forensics take photographic evidence

I will not go into the embarrassment of returning with a couple of elderly guests after an evening out, only to find the contents of an entire box of Tampax disembowelled and arranged decoratively around the sitting room. Nor will I tell of the ingestion of the last chapter of a book I had very nearly finished. I will not trouble you with details of the underwear she stole from a visiting friend’s bedroom and destroyed. It would be churlish of me to mention the tub of geraniums on the roof terrace that mysteriously came unplanted, and acquired a bone-shaped piece of evidence. Suffice it to say that we took advice and got hold of a crate for Poppy, and that one of my future posts may be about my success or otherwise at making new covers for the sofa.