Oh, Hector

I've been asking Husband for ages if he could help me fix the Lindam gate (for "help me fix", read "fix") that we have between the kitchen and the utility room, so that I can leave the house without Hector free-roaming in the kitchen. Husband fixed the gate yesterday. So this morning, you would think that I would leave Hector in the utility room, with the gate shut. You would think.

But old habits die hard, and I didn't. When I came home from Sainsbury's, this was the scene that greeted me.

I still haven't worked out how he got the packet down from the table, since I'd carefully tucked the chairs in and moved everything away from the sides. There have been two occasions when I've been puzzled by a pair of my gloves appearing in his crate. Both times, I was sure I'd left the gloves on the table, but had concluded that I must have dropped them, or left them somewhere in reach. I couldn't believe that Hector could have got up onto a chair, wriggled round to get up onto the table, tidily selected the most interesting item without disturbing the rest of the selection on offer, and got back down again. But with this morning's event providing a new piece of the detective jigsaw, I conclude that that is exactly what he did. (Unless he can jump straight onto the table from the floor, which I suppose is another possibility.)

And just in case you want to leap to his defence, I have photographic evidence of his guilt.

I think that's conclusive proof. Caught red-pawed, wouldn't you agree?

For the eagle-eyed among you, yes, someone in the family had edited the front of the cereal packet, to read "Special Kat". Do you think that's why Hector couldn't resist the temptation?

Thank heavens for Dysons. That's the moral of the story. But before I go, I must just share one rather revolting detail with you. When I found him, Hector was acting in a slightly deranged way. He was rearing up on his back legs, Pudsey-style, stroking and batting at the sides of his jaw with both front paws. He was licking his lips and throwing his head around, and it became obvious to me that there was something stuck in his mouth. On investigation, I found a great cloying wad of Special Kat, mashed together and compressed onto the roof of his mouth. I suppose evolution didn't design the spaniel jowl for the efficient mastication of breakfast cereal. He didn't seem to be making progress in dealing with the situation himself, so I had no choice but to hold his mouth open, and scrape the Special Kat wad from the roof of his mouth with my index finger. Look away now, if you don't want to know the result. (The Sharpie and the pound coin are for scale.)

I've totally put you off your flapjack, haven't I?

Oh, Hector. You're in the doghouse again.