Sam the hound has been in the doghouse this week for committing unspeakable crimes of the food variety or, in plain English, stealing.

I have threatened to send him back to the RSPCA if he doesn't improve but he knows I won't, so this is an empty threat.

Monday, he managed to open the bread bin by using his nose to push the lid off. He then helped himself to three bread rolls that were supposed to be for mine and daughter's packed lunches the following day.

I wouldn't mind but he didn't even bother to put the lid back on so the rest of the bread went stale. Mind you, it was covered in black hairs so I don't think we would have fancied eating it anyway.

Tuesday, he got into the spare room by jumping up and pulling the door handle down. Sam knows he's not allowed in the spare room because I feed the cats in there to allow them to eat in peace away from him.

I got home to find both the cats bowls licked suspiciously clean, the dog happily asleep on the spare bed and the cats staring at him in hatred from the top of the wardrobe.

Wednesday, he helped himself to two frozen baby mice daughter had left defrosting for her snake. He didn't seem to enjoy the taste of these so after chewing them for a bit he left them in bits on the kitchen floor for me to tread on in my bare feet.

This was what you might call a highly unpleasant experience, and definitely one I do not wish to repeat. Ever.

I also do not like having to wash the kitchen floor at ten at night.

Thursday evening I was busy cooking mini sausage rolls and things for someone's leaving do at work. The oven was full so I left a tray full of prepared sausage rolls on the side, waiting to go in the oven.

This was probably a bit stupid but at the time Sam was asleep in his basket in the front room.

I realised he had sneaked into the kitchen when I heard a clattering sound as the tray hit the floor and simultaneously noticed his basket was empty.

There were one and a half sausage rolls left out of the twenty odd.

Sam had half a raw sausage roll stuck to his ear, and was hiding under the kitchen table.

I think that was enough evidence to show he was obviously the guilty party.

Daughter's reaction to all of this was: "How cute, he's only a puppy, don't shout at him."

Thankfully she did offer to wash the floor this time.

I tried to explain that at two-and-a-half years of age I expected her "puppy" to behave with some restraint.

She used her usual tactic of explaining that as Sam is a rescue dog he has some behavioural problems resulting from being abused as a baby, and said that I shouldn't shout at him because he would get scared.

I think he's lucky that shouting was all I did.