What a great place for a wargame - the conservatory. Table put up, terrain laid out figures in position and tomorrow would be the day of the big battle. However, enter stage left Morris...

Morris, our immensely dense Bull Terrier, has elevated himself - he is now the earthly representative of St. Francis.

He began the canonisation process by collecting hedgehogs. Last year, when Morris was mortal, he ate a hedgehog (spines and all), but soon learned you can't keep a good Tiggywinkle down, and regurgitated it over my record collection. Hedgehogs were removed from Morris' menu forthwith, only to rematerialise 12 months later as the focus of his new-found spirituality.

It was late summer, a time when Mrs. Tiggywinkles everywhere abandon their offspring. The night in question was hot, so Morris crashed out in the conservatory with the door open for drafts from the garden. Our garden is surrounded by an enormous wall, only ever climbed by Himalayan cats with oxygen gear. Mrs. Tigg, however, was undeterred: she came; she dropped her sprogs; she trundled off.

Morris collected the waifs before they had time to become strays, and filled his bed with them. Plonking himself on that lot must have brought tears to his eyes, but Morris is not one to allow torture to thwart his destiny.

PRICKLY HEAT. At bedtime, I closed the conservatory doors and bid him goodnight. All was peaceful. Our children had been sub-contracted to their grand -parents for the weekend, so I only had global warming, the economy, the wargame and Eric Cantona to worry about before dozing off. However, had I known Morris was sharing his bed with half-a-hundredweight of vermin, even the game would have taken a back seat.

What did I find when I awoke Morris next morning? Overnight, our conservatory had become the first UK branch of Fleas 'R' Us. I could see the hideous creatures leisurely backstroking though Morris' coat, before holding their noses and diving for breakfast, while the prickly importers of the plague lay snoring in Morris'bed.

Wife alert! She was awake upstairs, and I knew it would take about three minutes for her to shift from bleary to ballistic! A cleanliness freak, she'd only stopped hoovering up spiders after I'd owed to throw the big ones out until they learned to poo in the shrubbery. We live in Hounslow, for God's sake. One simply can't have parasites in Hounslow. After a single glimpse of the ticks, lice and hopping filth flowing through our conservatory, my wife would beat me to death ...with Morris.

Step one: Isolate dog. Open door of conservatory and hook Morris out with walking stick. Prod dopey git towards kids' paddling pool and force him in. Threaten castration with garden hoe if he dares to move.

Step two: Stall wife. Tell her there's an enormous spider downstairs and suggest she returns to bed, while I kick it towards the nearest hydrangea. Top tactic - she retreats.

Step three: Evict lousy lodgers. With walking stick, prod hoglings into cardboard box, resisting urge to use walking stick as a five-iron and chip them over the garden wall where they belong. Sneakily release the Hounslow Six into neighbour's garden.

Step four: Prepare for chemical warfare. Anything that deals death is unleashed through the conservatory door. I deploy two packets of ant powder, every last squirt of fly killer, a can of something called 'Stay-Mll', and a two-litre canister of industrial strength hairspray.

GUILT TRIP. Once our conservatory is as welcoming as the staff canteen at Chernobyl, I return my attention to St. Morris the Wretched. Bull Terriers have a talent for looking guilty; they may have stolen from the kitchen bin or chewed through a supporting wall- the look is the same. Morris had his look on now. Standing rigid in the paddling pool, head down, tail so clamped, he pleaded for clemency.

He didn't have a prayer! I squirted insecticidal shampoo on him, scrubbed him until he became a foaming heap, then de-foamed him with the hosepipe. Foamed and rinsed thrice, two flea-collars bolted to his neck and clouds of powder announcing his arrival 10 seconds before he became visible, Morris was adjudged suitable for re-entry into polite society. The conservatory and contents were vacuumed to within an inch of their lifes and the pot pourri revitalised with essential oils to mask the smell of Armageddon.

Devouring all my luck for several years, fate had allowed the wifemeister to go back to sleep and miss Morris's little flea-asco completely.

We got away with it ... that time. A fortnight later, Morris tried the same trick with a baby rat. However, its mummy didn't appreciate this and violently debated the point with Morris all over the house. I wasn't even home. My wife was, and it was still my fault ...

One day his name will be glorified. Meanwhile, St. Morris the Martyr suffers for his compassion towards everything that itches', squeaks or crawls.

Oh! The wargame? I was too worn out to play!