The two corgis have been at it again.

I suspect it’s payback because the weekend before last when we went to Tassie for a few days, the dogs were sent to what we think of as The Dog’s Resort, but they probably call it Stalag Corgi.

It took days for them to forgive us for not finding a place with reverse cycle air-conditioning, all-day breakfast, comfy bedding on the loungeroom floor, TV, a bottomless drink bowl, nice furniture, and a couple of cats to stir up at hourly intervals.

These mutts would demand Foxtel if only it’d change its name.

So, they acted sullenly for a few days and then seemed to get over this massive insult and returned to normal behaviour – ish.

Max, the younger of the two, again colonised the antique chaise (Mrs Whacked’s great grandmother’s) and rather than boot him off, we just put an old sheet over it.

The rationale was that Marley, the older by 18 months, had already placed her mark on that bit of furniture by tearing off all the embroidered gimp around the edges of the upholstery.

When she was banned from the chaise, she doled out the same treatment to an antique gentleman’s chair, two dining chairs and a varied assortment of shoes.

About 10 metres of lace curtains had to be junked when many of the lace holes mysteriously expanded to precisely corgi-size.

Around the time Max developed a taste for quality home furnishings.

An old mahogany hall stand had one corner chewed off. A refined cedar hall table now has some interesting abstract carving at dog nose level and a pink mohair throw-rug was turned into a series of pink, furry lawn cigars. As Mrs Whacked commented: It all worked out in the end.

In Marley’s first foray into home redecorating she turned a leather sofa into something from the set of the The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

We came home to find her sitting in a sea of ripped foam and leather with an expression on her face which said: Damn thing just exploded all over the place, boss!

But we had gone months without any of this nonsense and we thought they’d settled down. In dog years, Marley is about 22 and Max is about 20. They ought to know better.

But then came the “abandonment” at Stalag Corgi and it’s on again.

Last night, Mrs Whacked came into the lounge while I was watching TV and said very calmly: “Wayno, there’s something wrong with the front curtains.”

I thought maybe they came off their tracks, or the pull cord was knotted or some such. I like these curtains. They’re a sort of embroidered satin and effectively block the hot western sunlight.

No. Just about half-a-metre above the above-mentioned chaise was a ragged hole about the size of a dinner plate. Or a corgi boofhead.

An abrupt flow of short, sharp, Anglo-Saxon words spewed from me, punctuated by the words Max and Marley a few times.

Then I heard a bang-bang from the back door which was the sound of two dogs making an emergency exit through the cat flap into the darkness beyond.

These two can sense a looming telling-off from 100 metres.

Mrs Whacked, forever trying to pour oil on troubled waters, said the hole wasn’t too bad and you could hardly see it – when the curtains were open.

WAYNE GREGSON