Leona Helmsley and her dog Trouble

I am barking mad about what I have just read in the papers I fetched this morning for my master.

It says that this dog, living in some city far away on the other side of the ocean in which I love to swim, by the way, has been left US$12 million by her mistress, some woman named Leona Helmsley who expired recently.

People call her the “Queen of Mean” – the mistress, that is – but I think she can’t be that mean if she’s given all that money to her dog whose name is Trouble.

Now what kind of name is that to give a dog? I often hear humans say that names maketh a person so if you name a dog Trouble, then you’re bound to get nothing but trouble. Humans give us stupid names anyway – La-La, Spotty, Happy, Lucky – imagine being called La La the whole of your life? Enough to make any dog go la la.

Anyway, the worst thing is Trouble is one of those small, yappy dogs whose owners love to dress them up with ribbons and bow ties. In the canine hierarchy of things, we consider them to be on the same level as rats. Tiny nuisances.

What on earth will a small dog do with all that money? There’re only so many bow ties, ribbons and diamond-studded collars it can wear, and only so many gourmet meals it can eat before it dies from heart disease.

Imagine what I could do with US$12 million …

Why, I’d buy a house with the biggest garden and hugest swimming pool so all my friends and I could run and swim all day. I’d employ a personal butler to run and fetch balls for me. I might even buy an aeroplane, kit it out for dogs and call it Doggie Airways. If they can name an airline Tiger Airways, I don’t see why not?

Doggie Airways would be a full-frills airline, yes sirreee. Not one of those low cost jobs where humans don’t mind being squeezed in like monkeys and they even have to pay for the peanuts.

It’d have flat beds where we could stretch out in full splendour. It’d have beautiful and handsome humans serving us hand and paw. The toilet would have a nature theme with lots of potted plants and shrubs to create a pee-friendly zone. It’d have a unlimited treats-dispensing machine. Plus, of course, an automatic ball-throwing machine.

And oh yes, I would also employ a personal vet who would look after our health needs and deal with all the paperwork humans seem to love when we dogs want to go anywhere.

Anyway, back to Trouble. Actually I feel sorry for her. The whole world is now baying for her blood, especially the two grand-children who did not get anything “for reasons best known to themselves”, and everyone will want a slice of her doggy pie. They’re calling her names like “Rich Bitch”.

Poor mite. Perhaps I should mount a rescue squad, rope in my Husky friends and snatch her from the jaws of those who are out for her blood.

Who knows, she may fall in love with me and I’d become her Prince Charming – her pet name after all is Princess – and we could both live happily ever after, in our house by the sea and which would have our private jet parked in front of it, just like John Travolta.

Woof, woof.