I’ve been pugnapped. Mumsy screamed when the bald fan praising my performances suddenly swooped me up from the pavement and legged it like a greyhound. Now I’m locked in this yard with nothing more than water and, bizarrely, a pineapple.
Advertising ‘Pineapple Pups Plant-based Kibble’ (camera rolls, sniff food, lick lips, wolf down) doesn’t mean I like it. My acting must be convincing because my deluded dognapper clearly believes this canine carnivore is a flexitarian.
I blame Mumsy. She recognised my flat Pug features and expressive eyes could sell ice to Huskies and since becoming the face of Pineapple Pups, I’m a celebrity. Perhaps she shouldn’t have told that journalist, a footballer’s wife and Survivor finalist have put their names down for my pups.
Channelling my inner Pekingese, I start yapping. Should I be barking like this in my condition? Why does the thief continually open an upstairs window, photograph me looking hangdog and shout ‘shut up?’
A car door slams. Baldy opens the back door. Behind him. Can it be? Mumsy! Wagging furiously, I leap into her arms noticing my jailer recording our reunion on his mobile. She clutches me to her bosom, sobbing somewhat theatrically. Licking her blushed cheek, I smell studio makeup.
Something’s wrong. Mummy’s overacting. Being a professional, I know the difference. What’s she’s telling him? ‘Get a pug shot with that pineapple. Once the media get this footage, her fee will double along with the price of those pups.’ I pee down her designer coat.