BARK. Bark. Bark. Whatever your political leanings, anyone tuning into Prime Minister's Questions last week must surely have felt at least a shred of kinship for Ian Blackford.

As the SNP MP joined the Westminster session remotely from his home on Skye, Blackford attempted to hold Boris Johnson to account over allegations of sleaze and cronyism.

Yet, it was his collie Maisie who stole the show as she barked incessantly in the background. Some suggested the bold Maisie was keen to give the PM a piece of her mind. Johnson himself said that the dog made a "more sensible contribution" than Blackford.

Either way, any collie owner will know that distinctive sound. I'm not a dog expert but there is something about the pitch of the bark from this breed that I can pick out in any crowd.

Many of us working from home during the pandemic will have had similar experiences to Blackford. Not only with dogs: I have colleagues who get up to make a cup of tea and regularly return to find their cat sprawled across the laptop keyboard.

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My own collie Moose runs a tight ship. The click-clack of claws across the uncarpeted areas announces his impending arrival, then a curious face peers round the door to see what is happening.

Woe betide me if the door has been closed. Any door. I can't remember the last time I went for a pee without a keen pair of amber eyes observing. It's like being a teenager when your mum insists the bedroom door must stay open at all times when boys come over.

Collies are an intelligent, astute and discerning bunch. Smarter than some humans, you might argue. They also enjoy routine. Take the writer of this column. When my husband's job necessitated a shift pattern change, it saw me and Moose home alone on Tuesdays. Aka Bin Day.

Mid-morning on the first Tuesday, I was alerted by urgent barking and much insistence that we should go outside. I thought Moose perhaps needed the loo. Instead, he ran to the end of the driveway and imparted – through more barking – that the bins were to be brought in.

I duly obliged. The next Tuesday the same thing happened and by the third Tuesday, as soon as I heard the signal, I was out the door and down the drive to get the bins. I have since realised that Moose watches from the window as the contents of the bins are tipped into the lorry, then comes to cajole me.

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I was pretty impressed. Basically, it only took Moose three weeks to train me to bring the bins in. Something my husband, despite his best efforts, has tried and failed to do in three years.

I'm not as daft as I look. I know the bins are merely a ruse so King Moose can have a potter around the garden and survey his kingdom. You have got to admire that gumption.

Our columns are a platform for writers to express their opinions. They do not necessarily represent the views of The Herald