As a free resource for learning new skills, Youtube is fantastic. As a platform that puts lifestyle ideas into your head that can’t possibly work if you live in Scotland and/or have spoiled Beagles, Youtube is the work of the devil. Case in point: the back garden movie night.

Lured by clips of US folks watching films in their gardens on rugged, comfortable outdoor seats by a glowing fire, we invested in a budget projector, screen, and firepit, and ordered lengths of 2″ x 4″ timber from which to make “Adirondack” chairs and footrests. I made the chairs and footrests, bought hotdogs and a pack of marshmallows to toast, and soon we were all set for a night at our own private cinema with a pair of Beagles snoozing peacefully on our laps.

I’d taken great care over the choice of firepit; it had a mesh dome cover and all-round restraining bar to keep intrepid girls like Beanie from getting singed and going to the vet, while reassuring more cautious boys like Biggles that the fire wasn’t about to break free and go after them.

Things were going well until the burning wood in the pit let out a sharp “pop”. Biggles was sitting on Susan’s lap, wrapped up in a blankie for extra security when this unexpected sound spooked him. His head popped up, he froze for a moment, and then made an emergency retreat to the kitchen door. Fear is more contagious than any virus, and soon the Beanster was right up there with him. Biggles issued a somewhat urgent version of his distinctive “knock-knock” woof, while Beanie adopted an extra wide sit.

In case you didn’t get that last bit, let me explain: the width of Beanie’s sit is a key indicator of her mood. A compact sit shows she wants something but is willing to wait patiently, possibly as long as several seconds, before her demands are met. A wide sit – which I often refer to as a “John Wayne Puppy Sit” – indicates that she has a legitimate grievance which should be addressed post haste. If things get bad, a John Wayne sit can be accompanied by woofing to emphasize the urgency of the situation. If things get even worse, the sit gets wider still and we’re into Jean-Claude Van Damme doing the splits territory. Right there, in front of the kitchen door, a full-on JCVD puppy sit was in progress.

“You’d better let them in and put them to bed” Susan advised.

I had to agree. It was a shame though; I’d really wanted the four of us to be out there together, but I knew the pups would be happier in their crates. I tucked them up in their beds, giving them both half a dental chew by way of an apology. Back on the patio it was finally getting dark enough for me to set up the projector, while Susan nipped back into the house to prepare the first round of hotdogs. I’d just started the film and taken the first bite of my hotdog when I heard a somewhat distant howl. Thinking it might be some random other dog in the neighborhood, I ignored it for a moment, but then it was repeated, and I now recognized it as one of Biggles’ urgent “I need a pee!” proclamations. Falling back on years of training with my furry mentors, I speed-swallowed the remainder of my hotdog and went to attend to the new emergency.

As soon as I opened the crates, both Biggles and Beanie bolted through into the kitchen and out into the back garden. “Wow – they’re really desperate!” I thought, and so they were, but not to relieve full bladders; this was all about the hotdogs. Susan only just managed to lift our plates out of reach before the Beagle dish-clearing service got started.

“OK, you can stay out for a bit.” I said, and went back to my seat. We put the plates back on the table and went through the standard three levels of access denial (that would be “No!”, “Seriously, leave it, both of you!” and “Oi! You little buggers!”) before I released that there could be no peace while the plates were out there. I got back off my bum and took the plates into the kitchen. Returning once more to my seat, I was ready to put my feet up and enjoy the film, but Beanie and Biggles had other ideas, because they’d just remembered why they’d gone to their beds in the first place.

“The fire’s scary! We want to go in!!!” they woofed as they took up position outside the kitchen door. I sighed, and got off my arse yet again to go sort them out.

“OK, are you absolutely sure that neither of you wants a pee, because I’ll be annoyed if I put you to bed and then you want to get out again.” They assured me that they were both ready for their crates, but that another round of dental chews was necessary. I obliged, got them safely into their crates, and returned to my seat.

“Fancy some toasted marshmallows?” asked Susan. I really did. I’m in my fifties and I can honestly say that until that night, I’d never tasted a toasted marshmallow.  I was on my second one when there was another round of distant, muffled howling. The little buggers wanted to come out again.

“It’ll just be about the marshmallows, ignore them and they’ll settle down.” said Susan.

I tried to do just that, but the the howling repeated and intensified. “It sounds like Biggles really does need a pee. There’s been a lot of excitement and he always needs a pee when gets excited. I don’t think it’s about the marshmallows” I replied.

As it turned out, it was about the marshmallows. We went through the whole sequence again, and ten minutes later Beanie and Biggles were back in their crates and I was – finally – about to sit back on one of the new garden chairs I’d made and watch what remained of the film.

“Is that rain?” Susan asked.

Of course it was. It had to be. For three days the Met Office had confidently predicted that the chance of precipitation on this particular evening would be less than 10%, which is as good as it gets during summer in western Scotland. And as is often the case, the Met Office had got it wrong. I felt a raindrop on my head, then another, then another. Time to abort the whole thing and get the projector, the screen, the computer speakers and the extension cable all safely back inside before the rain got up to speed. Once I’d done that my thoughts turned to resuming the movie inside the house, but first there was something urgently requesting my attention – an all too familiar howling coming from the bedroom.

“We want to go out! We really do need a pee this time!”

Little buggers. I love ’em to bits. But they’re still little buggers.