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I trust you all survived Christmas, that strange time of the year when our humans feel the need to fill the house with everyone they’ve ever met? I know! Isn’t it exasperating?

We had very small humans this year – they call them babies - one that couldn’t move, and another one that could, and fast. Both were noisy and I found them challenging, but if I had a choice I’d go for the former. At least I knew where it was. The worst thing about the tiny humans were the hopeless bigger humans in charge. They had absolutely no idea how to handle their offspring. When the little ones yelled, the big ones just yelled even louder and ran around, headless, looking for something, anything, to make them stop. When in fact all they needed to do was lie down on the rug, turn over and ask for a belly rub. End of yelling; happy face. It’s that easy, I can’t believe I needed to show them how it’s done.

I did heave a sigh of relief when they left, and even more so after Mum stopped cleaning the house as though her life depended on it. When she gets into one of those moods, no corner remains safe and peaceful, and I haven’t yet found a way I can help.

Fortunately, there are other times where I can be really useful. We’ve resumed our committee meetings, for instance.  I’m very public-spirited, so I always attend. First I help with the parking by running in between the cars and giving directions (committee members aren’t very good drivers), and once they’re settled in the dining room, I say hello to their legs under the table, both because it’s good manners and also because, when I’m wet from supervising the parking, that is a very good way of drying myself off.

Next, I check that the milk jug and the plate of biscuits on the sideboard are both full and nothing has gone off. You can’t be too careful, especially with milk. My final task, before Mum picks me up and carries me outside, is to sit on selected people’s laps or, if they don’t like that, on their notes. Once outside, with the door shut, I generally find I’d quite like to get back in. This isn’t as much of a problem as you’d think, because by then the humans need the toilet and open the door to come out, so I walk back in. Mum really appreciates my help with the committee. She says she doesn’t know what she’d do without me. I don’t either.

When the weather permits – and sadly it doesn’t permit it very often these days – I like to climb through Mum’s office window out on the roof, from where I can see everything that goes on. On one side, I see the roofs and gardens of our village – even those gardens where I’m not allowed to go –  while on the other, it’s all trees. At the front, I see our driveway and the postman in his little red van when he brings us mail. At the back, I can watch the birds fly across our garden and help themselves to seeds from the feeder. When I’ve satisfied myself that all is in order, I climb back through the window on to Mum’s lap, to give her a full report of the goings-on.

I’m hoping for lots more fine days so I can be useful in the garden also. There are probably way too many mice by now. Keep dry, everyone!

Bilbo