Adventures of Humphrey

12 June, 2026

Buongiorno readers,

At last, some good news! Last night I slept like an absolute angel. No midnight groaning. No dramatic sighing. No emergency cuddles required. Those tablets the vet gave me must contain magic because I slept solidly, and so did the hoomans. Frankly, everyone looked much less grumpy this morning.

Even better, when I woke up my poorly toenail wasn’t feeling too bad at all.

After breakfast, we headed back to Pienza for a countryside walk. Now *this* was more like it. None of this city nonsense. Give me rolling hills, giant fields, fresh smells and room to zoom.

The hoomans unclipped my lead and I charged around like a furry missile through endless golden wheat fields. I was flying. Sprinting. Leaping. Living my best life.

For a glorious moment I completely forgot about my sore foot.

I also forgot about the temperature.

Which was unfortunate.

Because it was approximately one million degrees.

Apparently we were walking to something called the “Gladiator Field” from a famous film. The hoomans seemed very excited.

I wasn’t.

It’s just a field.

A very nice field, admittedly.

But still a field.

After admiring the scenery and taking approximately 47,000 photographs of me looking handsome, we began the climb back up to town.

Readers…

It was steep.

Very steep.

The sun was blazing.

The spare hooman’s face had turned an alarming shade of purple.

My tongue was hanging somewhere near my knees.

By the time we reached town, all three of us looked like we’d survived an expedition across the Sahara.

Thankfully we found a restaurant with shade and cold drinks. I immediately collapsed onto the cool ground and refused to move until my internal temperature returned to acceptable levels.

Eventually we headed back to the agriboutique for a rest.

I stretched out on the cool tiles and enjoyed a peaceful afternoon.

Sadly, that peace would not last.

Because later we headed to Montepulciano for a wine tasting.

Now this part was excellent.

The second I arrived, people started admiring me.

Americans.

Random passers-by.

Honestly, it was exhausting being this popular.

One lady gasped when she saw me.

Another asked if she could take a photo.

I graciously allowed it.

Then we descended into the ancient wine cellars.

Now *those* were impressive.

Cool stone tunnels.

Huge wooden barrels.

Lovely chilly temperatures.

After spending the day roasting in the Tuscan sun, the cellars felt like heaven.

The wine guide absolutely adored me and included me in the tour as if I worked there.

I nodded wisely whenever he explained something important.

I have no idea what he said.

But I looked professional.

After the tasting, a lovely Finnish family came over to meet me. They told the hoomans they have a wire-haired German Pointer at home and couldn’t believe what a good boy I was.

I accepted their compliments with my usual humility.

Then everything went wrong.

Catastrophically wrong.

The hoomans loaded me into the car.

I assumed we were heading for dinner.

Instead…

We pulled up outside *the vet.*

Again.

I immediately knew this was bad news.

Readers, what happened next was one of the greatest betrayals of my young life.

The vet looked at my toenail.

The hoomans looked at my toenail.

Everyone nodded.

And then she CUT IT OFF.

Well… technically she cut off the damaged bit.

But that is not how I remember it.

There was holding.

There was trimming.

There was blood.

There was screaming.

Most of the screaming came from me.

I howled.

I shrieked.

I sang the song of my people.

Dad held me while I informed the entire region of Tuscany that I was being murdered.

Honestly, the drama was entirely justified.

When the ordeal was finally over, I sat in stunned silence.

The vet came back to check on me.

I reluctantly allowed her to pat my head.

She seemed nice enough.

But I wasn’t ready to forgive her.

The moment she said I could leave, I hobbled out of that building faster than a dog with three good legs should reasonably be able to move.

Afterwards we drove to Monticchiello for dinner.

I sulked.

Through the entire journey.

Through dinner.

Through most of the evening.

Nobody appreciated my suffering.

When we finally returned to the agriboutique, we visited the baby goats.

Unfortunately, one of them had managed to lose a horn after getting tangled in some fencing and also needed medicine.

Honestly, it was a rough day all round.

The poor little goat.

The host tucked the goats into bed, and I lay on the grass watching the sunset with the hoomans.

Just when I thought the day couldn’t possibly contain any more drama, I met another dog at the agriboutique. His name was **Louis**. Now, Louis was a little fellow—much smaller than me—but what he lacked in size he more than made up for in attitude. He marched over as if he owned the entire property, gave me a good stare, and then barked right in my face.

Honestly, readers, the audacity.

I simply stood there looking handsome and polite while Louis carried on with his tiny-dog tough-guy routine. I decided to be the bigger dog—literally and figuratively—and ignored his nonsense. Eventually he wandered off, no doubt realising there was only room for one canine celebrity at the agriboutique.

The sky turned orange and pink across the Tuscan hills.

It was beautiful.

Even if I was still slightly offended by the day’s events.

Tomorrow we leave Tuscany and head somewhere called **The Dolomites**.

I have absolutely no idea what a Dolomite is.

But it sounds adventurous.

Hopefully there are forests.

Maybe rivers.

Potentially sofas.

And preferably no vets.

Wish me luck.

**Buona notte,**

Humphrey x

*Chief Explorer, Professional Wine Tour Assistant, and Survivor of the Great Toenail Incident of 2026*