After weeks and weeks of milk tooth-watch and oodles of dribbling, tons of biting and endless sucking, finally there is something to show for it.

Two little teeth are now starting to protrude through our daughter’s aching gum. It’s the newest chapter in Betsy’s development and the excitement is building over her first proper finger food; no more beating everything to an unappetising pulp, she’s been eyeing up our food for months and managed to intercept my husband’s steak-loaded fork at the meal table.

The other source of excitement between our four walls involved my brother’s bassett hound Mr Smith. He made his TV debut on BBC1 last week. His appearance was fairly brief, just four seconds of him running with his oversized ears flapping towards the camera as he made a beeline for the fluffy sound boom.

There was a bit of a mix-up with Mr Smith recently. My delightfully eccentric mother was walking him in a nearby park when he skidaddled off tempted by the charms of a coiffed poodle. So taken with the poodle’s bouffant was he they went out of my mother’s sight.

She hollered his name, Mr Smith, over and over again, concerned at his absence of obedience.

Out of nowhere a gentleman appeared, looked quizzically at mother and asked why she had been calling him.

He, of course, was also Mr Smith.

After an explanation about the dog he chuckled and returned to a disgruntled and thoroughly confused Mrs Smith standing several metres away with folded arms.

Moments later mother was joined by the blow-dryed poodle and the tearaway tart, Mr Smith ( the canine).

Well, talking of dogs I had the most unusual offer while walking my Jack Russells. As I strolled by the river Windrush, my two girls sniffing the grass and playing rough and tumble like they often do, a large, leggy saluki-cross made a beeline for my girls, wanting to join in their fun. When the dog reached us, so overexcited was it that it headbutted one of my girls and sent her like a little rocket into the cold river.

The dog’s owner by now had run after his wayward dog, and seeing the panic on my face and Lottie’s (who had suddenly lost the ability to even muster doggy paddle in the muddy water) he flung himself on the ground and demanded I sit on his legs to steady him as he reach out to grab Lottie from the cold, roaring current (okay, maybe I have slightly over egged the strength of the flow).

Successfully reaching my soggy doggy, like a chivalrous hero he pulled her from the water. Momentarily he was my Mr Darcy. I wrapped Lottie in my coat, Mr D apologised and invited me back to his house.

He was suggesting I could blow-dry my terrier at his house.

Politely I declined, looked bemused and turned on my rubber-booted heels and headed back to my car to dry off my dog with a towel.

Blow-drying is for poodles.