My mother has rather bad dementia, and resides in a care home. We always take Beanie along on our visits to see her – Beanie gets loads of attention and cuddles, and my mum and all the other old folks really seem to brighten up while she’s there. We watch Beanie like a hawk though. Why? Well it’s not because as a pup she’s quite likely to pee if she gets really excited. The residents have christened the carpets plenty of times already – one little doggy puddle isn’t going to make much difference. Nope, the real worry is that there might be a stray pill or other toxin hiding under furniture which Beanie could swallow. So if it looks like she’s got something in her mouth, I investigate immediately. Fortunately, our little pup is normally quite happy to let me open her mouth and fish around in there with my fingers.

Ok, so here’s the scene. We’re on a visit, and we’ve brought Mum some chocolates. Chocolate is toxic to dogs, so we’re watching her carefully to make sure she doesn’t try to feed any of them to Beanie. We stop by her room, and while we’re sitting chatting Beanie goes on her usual nasal reconnaissance mission. Suddenly she picks up a scent and crawls underneath the bed. When she emerges, there’s something in her mouth. I grab her and pry her jaws open. Whatever it is, it must be really tasty because Beanie’s fighting to keep hold of it. Eventually I get a finger behind it and flick it out, and Susan and I study the object as it sits on the carpet.

Me: “It could be a stone”

Susan: “Is it a chocolate?”

Then a horrible thought enters my mind. I try to dismiss it, but… I have to be sure. I raise my fingers to my nose and sniff.

Yep. You guessed it. Four letters, ends in “IT” and is found at the bottom of bird cages. No – not “grit”, the other thing. And the worst of it is that this didn’t come out of Beanie’s rear end. It has to be my own mother’s bottom sausage.

There’s a pause while I process what’s just happened, then I fall into a routine that I’ve done countless times since getting Beanie. I reach into into my coat pocket, extract a poop bag, stick it on my hand, pick up “the thing that is not chocolate” and close up the bag. A trip to the bin and a really thorough hand wash and it’s all over.

The good thing is that my Mum was none the wiser about the incident. The bad thing is that I’m going to need therapy. Lots of it.