Day One: “The Night Before Scottishland”
by Frank Dog
Alright folks, lend me your ears and if you’ve got snacks, even better, but I cannot promise their safe return.
My name is Frank, Frank Dog. I have many other names, some that I could share and others I cannot. I am small of paw, I am big of bark, and I’m absolutely buzzing because we’re one sleep away from when we head to a place of legends, misty mountains, and funny accents: Scottishland. At least, that’s what I think it’s called. I overheard Mum saying “Scotland,” but I’m fairly sure I know better because lets be honest, I just do.
Now, we haven’t even left yet but you wouldn’t know it from the chaos in the house. Mum’s been planning for what feels like seventeen years. She makes lists of lists. She’s got maps, apps, new daps, and snacks (I live in hope about the last one). She says things like “logistics” and “routes” and “battery storage.” I nod wisely, but I’m just thinking about my next treat.
Dad’s no better. He calls the motorhome Vincent—as in Vincent Van-GO! (he always shouts the ‘GO!’ bit like it’s a spell which it may well be). I personally think it’s a big biscuit tin on wheels, and I love it. It smells like diesel, socks, and dreams. That’s my home on wheels right there.
Now, I’m not one to brag, but I’ve packed like a pro because that is what small dogs do.
I’ve got:
My meaty meat (the good stuff that smells slightly illegal),
My special zip-up tent-bed-thingy (grey, stylish, spacious and smelly)
My lead, harness, poo bags and some proper treats
Oh yeah, and a torch………
I’m yet work out how that works
I cast a suspicious look in the direction of my luggage in case any of the cats try to sabotage me.
Speaking of cats… there are three. One’s missing a leg but lives life with the fury of a thousand suns. I steer well clear. You don’t mess with a cat who’s seen the things he’s seen. Trust me, every time I trot past, he squints like he’s planning bad stuff to happen, so yeah—getting out of that melting pot for 2 weeks? Total and utter win.
I notice that Mum has packed bottles and bottles of water. “Just in case,” she says. In case of what? That Scottishland doesn’t have water? Does she know this place?? Its their national export. Maybe she thinks we’ll have to barter it for haggis or something? I don’t ask questions. I just watch and occasionally lie on whatever pile of things she’s trying to organise.
Tomorrow? We hit the road. Vincent Van-GO will roar to life, the wind will ruffle my ears, and the cats will be someone else’s problem. I’ve got my eye on a new toy — a sweet, little Highland Coo I heard about that lives in a place called Portree. Word on the street (well, the garden fence) is it’s got squeaks in both legs. The ultimate jackpot. I’m a killing machine when it comes to squeaks!
For now though it’s the night before and I need sleep. I’ve been a walk and the moon is out, Mum is double-checking the checklist for the checklist, and Dad’s pretending he knows where we’re going. I’m curled up in my bed-tent thingy, dreaming of mountains, bagpipes, and magical moss to pee on.
Next stop: Scottishland.
Wish me luck (and sausages)
Frank Dog
Small but mighty. and very, very ready for adventure.
© 2025 Paul Henshaw / The Typing Troubadour and 2025 Ash Painted Wings All rights reserved.
This blog and its contents, including all text, images, and characters such as Frank Dog, are the intellectual property of Paul Henshaw except for “Frank’s Image of himself” Copyright Ash Painted Wings. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without prior written permission, except for brief quotations used in reviews or articles.
Frank Dog is a fictionalized character based on a real dog. All stories are creative works and any resemblance to actual events or persons (living or dead) is partly coincidental and partly just very good storytelling.
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