But, hey, they can still be read. Apart from the thrillers which, mysteriously, all seem to be missing their last pages

He has a predilection too for those DS Thomson annuals you receive as Christmas presents: The Broons, Oor Willie, and Ma Broon’s Recipe Book. All are in shreds.

Expensive art books, giant Sunday Times atlases, sets of Oxford dictionaries. Nothing is of the menu. Not even my full set of football programmes from Dundee United’s run to the semi-final of the European Cup.

You can tell who is “out of favour” in our household by whose shoes he steals from the bedroom cupboard before dragging them to his lair one at a time - always, curiously, in matching pairs - to chew over at leisure.

My boots are no longer boots. Rather they are shoes, as the uppers have been obliterated. They have been refashioned as flip flops. N.B. That ability to pick pairs of shoes is doubly impressive given that my other half’s footwear pile would put Imelda Marcos to shame.

As far as food is concerned The Dug could be a food critic for The Scotsman (move over Gaby Soutar). His “tailor made for all your dogs requirements” kibble and soft food from Tails.com remains resolutely uneaten. To the point where I’ve had to cancel the order! This has elicited a flurry of emails all but asking if ‘they could come round and study this curious creature in his natural habitat’.

The freezer remains full of unused Butterbox.com... lamb, beef and chicken all with carrots and peas which remain resolutely uneaten. I’m seriously thinking of adding a dash of Marmite and Lea & Perrins and having them with spuds – or perhaps tomato puree, ketchup for a makeshift Bolognaise.

Meanwhile Sir Fussalot (dog) will tuck into smoked cod with black beans and roast tomatoes followed by ginger cookie crumbs with ice cream and aged Gouda cheese on an oatcake.

The Dug is is a little martinet, a little Sergeant Major and the wrens are the bane of his life. They flutter outside the window like tiny brown, furry balls on wings. Mimicking his posture with their sticky up wings. He goes apoplectic with rage, snorting through his nose – a sound that can only be described as ‘phoof’. If he were human it would be a snort.

He screams down the stairs into the garden and scatters them, never of course catching them.

The wrens regroup and proceed to dive bomb him, alternating this with deliberately sitting on branches that are mere centimetres from his snout.

This brings on his ‘woo, woo, Woooooo’.

If the moon was out he would be seen to be howling at it.

The wrens depart and he sets of stabilising his territory, marching back and forth, chest puffed out, harrumphing all the while. The only thing he is missing is a drill sergeants swagger stick.

Boundaries secured, he allows himself a contented sigh, and starts scratching his arse. All is peace.

And then the squirrel comes…

Sequel

When someone in the Banana Flats died young a while back, a little improvised shrine appeared in the garden at the bit where the banana bends. Rather like those roadside shrines that pepper Japan. A friend who hails from Yorkshire and lives i

Tokyo says, people leave gifts like bottles of whisky and money. He does not often leave empty handed!

Our improvised shrine is more modest; a football, a helium balloon, empty bottles of his favourite tipple, candles in lanterns, full packets of favoured snacks. For a while there were fresh bouquets of flowers now they are plastic. A Hearts shirt draped across the fence is, movingly, untouched. In this cradle of Hibernian.

As I leave, I see a small framed picture of the guy on the summit of what looks like a Munro… with his dog.

My dog in his turn is drawn toward the Banana Flats for the number of dogs to be found in it’s environs. There are a lot of dogs. He follows the curve of the building following their scents – like a greyhound chasing a rag on a rope. Whilst stopping the while to bark at anyone who has the temerity to play any ball sport in the basketball court without his participation.

Surprisingly (or not) the court is much in use.