It was The Mother's turn to sleep on the sofa on Friday night.

After my aunt returned to Yorkshire last week I thankfully vacated said spot and returned to my bed.

At last it seemed sleeping arrangements in our house had returned to normal.

And they had - until the dog went to have its teeth cleaned.

You may well ask what the dog's teeth could possibly have had to do with The Mother's enforced slumbers in the living room. Let me tell you, they had everything to do with them.

For instance, had the dog been more conscientious about using a toothbrush and gargling with mouthwash after a dishful of Growly Chicken Chunks In Jelly, then the vet wouldn't have told The Mother that its teeth needed a scale and polish, or whatever vets do to dirty canine gnashers.

Now when you and I go to the dentists for an S and P, we're usually in and out of the chair in around 15 minutes unless, oh, horrors, a cavity is discovered.

We also know if we behave, the dentist is more likely to treat us gently and with respect. Or so we hope.

But dogs aren't like that. No, indeed. Dogs, you see, have a tendency to take decisive action when someone starts messing with their mouths. They bite.

So they have to have an anaesthetic which knocks them cold and ensures the vet retains ownership of his/her fingers.

"I've asked him to trim her nails while she's unconscious," said The Mother.

"And paint them bright pink I suppose," I couldn't resist replying. "If she's having a manicure as well, how much is all this going to cost?"

I didn't believe her when she told me.

"For that," I said, "you could get the dog dentures, a set of false nails and breast implants."

Later that afternoon the dog returned home. She staggered, she swayed, she slumped, as if someone had laced her drinking water with gin.

The animal was quite obviously still under the influence of the anaesthetic.

And as afternoon became evening she didn't improve.

When she tried to stand she actually fell over, so The Mother and I had to carry her into the kitchen for a drink and out into the back garden for a call of nature.

Come on, even dogs deserve the odd euphemism at times like that.

Now the dog is no lightweight (The Mother keeps its exact tonnage a secret) so after three or four of these expeditions I was expecting double hernias all round.

"I can't leave her alone for the night, I'll have to sleep downstairs," said The Mother.

Before I could volunteer for sofa duty again, I heard myself say: "I'll go get your duvet and pillows then."

But I do have a conscience you know, and halfway through the night I remembered how cold it became on the sofa.

So I got up, went downstairs and when I saw the duvet had slipped off The Mother's poor old feet, covered them up again before going back to my own warm, snug bed.

And what about the dog? Oh, yes, the dog. Well you know what they say you should do with sleeping dogs . . . so I did.

The same applies to sleeping mothers, believe me.