I think I have one. Henry clearly thinks I have taken out life insurance with him as the main beneficiary (I haven't) or have left all my worldly possessions to him in my Will (that would be half a bar of Galaxy and a ropey Ipod Nano - and anyway, I haven't) because I think he's trying to kill me off.
It all started as a result of me meeting A Man. Yes, that's right. An actual human man. A person in my life without paws. Someone who doesn't roll in fox shit for fun (well, not in front of me yet anyway), and whose idea of taking me out to dinner does not involve looking through hedges for decomposing roadkill. As you can imagine, this is a definite step up from young Henry's social skills.
Not that Henry should be feeling left out, mind you. He has played an integral role in this relationship so far (this has been borne with great stoicism by said man), with several dates revolving around taking the dog for a walk.
However, despite this, it's clear his nose has been put out of joint and it seems that he's decided that killing me off is the way forward. It started with a subtle campaign of shame. I'm not sure if anyone has actually ever died of shame, but obviously Henry thought it was worth a try. We started with the 'run around barking and jumping up' technique whenever the poor guy was in range. This was accompanied with a side-order of 'get wet then take a flying leap at him'.
Then, we moved on to 'muscle our way into every situation going'. For instance, don't think you can sit about holding hands without a large furry paw being plopped into the mix. In fact, for Henry the ideal sofa arrangement is him in the middle, with the humans as bookends.
When this didn't work, he tried 'stealing food from the guy's very mouth', although this did not quite have the desired effect as he was simply removed from the room at mealtimes and has not been allowed back in yet.
His latest tactic has been chemical warfare. It has to be said that over the last few years my sense of smell has atrophied to a worrying level (most likely as a defence mechanism) but the complaints rolling in from every angle were enough to convince me that we had a problem. Quite how he had achieved such an impressive level of stench is beyond me, but it was enough to necessitate open windows, followed by a bath. That's open windows for the humans, with a bath for Henry. So far, so good on that front.
Which brings us to his final, last-ditch attempt at murder - the Spaniel Induced Heart Attack. You see, we went to the sea-side on Saturday, and after a stroll into town, a pint at the pub and some fish and chips, we decided to take Henry for a run on the beach before heading back. This was an error.
The cliffs at this particular beach are not high, but they are sandstone and have crumbled in places until they are more of a very steep slope, with plenty of cover growing. It's an ideal place for rabbits, and Henry was in his element, scooting up and down like a very small furry mountaineer.
And then it happened. I called him down, and for once in his life, Henry actually did as he was told. It's the unusual nature of that which makes me think that this was deliberate. He flew down the slope, got to the drop - and launched himself into space. Now, admittedly this was a fairly small cliff. The drop was only about 6 feet. But that's a long way if you're Henry sized! In fact, I think I may have squeaked a bit: my heart certainly missed a beat. He face-planted into the sand, looked a bit dazed - and then, thankfully, was off with no ill effects. In fact he gave a repeat performance about 5 minutes later (after which he was put back on the lead on health and safety grounds).
That was Saturday - today is Monday, and I fear the worst. The man is coming over in a bit, and Henry appears dormant. I'm not fooled though - he's just plotting his next move. Who knows what diabolical plan he may have come up with now?
