Dan Morris: A dance with a dog and his demon right hook

In a joyous side of my non-professional life, I've been getting firmly, truly, inside-out acquainted with my pop's pooch recently. Dad's adventures (or rather pursuit of the means to undertake them) have resulted in yours truly doing a spot of dog sitting – a so-called 'chore' that is absolutely no such thing and a genuine pleasure almost from start to finish.

I had however forgotten quite how much energy young pups come with as standard, and in the 15 years since I was last custodian of a canine of such an age, my energy reserves have plummeted far below their peak.

Still, Frank (as keen followers may remember his name to be) keeps me on my toes, ever ready with the threat of a precision leap and jab at certain highly-valued region of my anatomy. You certainly have to be quick to avoid the well-intentioned though infinitely wince-inducing groin shot, and since looking after him on more of a regular basis, I have now evolved to dodge and dance around my dad's kitchen like a bad hybrid of Wayne Sleep and Muhammad Ali.

This is all fine of course when my father's kitchen is indeed the venue for such dog-sitting sessions. The problem returns full throttle when, as an occasional break from the abode which he knows, Frankie comes to Dansville. Used to my dad's spacious rooms and high ceilings, for Frank, Casa Del Dan is something more of a 'compact and Spartan' option. And while Señor Pooch has plenty of space at home to chase his tail indoors without fear of braking ornaments and being reprimanded accordingly, at my gaff the picture is somewhat different.

Having lived in our home for over a year now, naturally we've still got plenty of unpacking to do. The result is that one of our rooms presents an irresistible Aladdin's cave of boxes, brushes and general detritus that any baby-faced Labrador would run through hot coals to disturb, trash and make his own.

And indeed he does (not literally with the hot coals, of course). The trouble is that once Frank has done that and drummed up enough excited energy to fill Madison Square Garden, it is indeed boxing time yet again. Only here, I am forced to face said featherweight champ in the confines of my attic office – the ceiling of which, unlike Poppa's kitchen, was not built for a 5ft 11" bloke to jump, dive, dip and dodge under.

As such, under my own roof, I am far less able to defend the family jewels from the precisely choreographed assault that awaits them, and am also likely of my own accord to inflict a few ceiling blows to my cranium. Still, absurd and calamitous as our routine tête-à-tête may be, he's worth it every time. Perhaps a little lie down may be in order though, and on the subject of a place to rest my weary, dog-abused body ladies and gentlemen, I have news.

As I hinted at before, while I have been playing the part of punch bag for the most adorable little scrapper in the world, Daddy Bear himself has been rather industriously scouring the country for the four-wheeled abode of our dreams. And now, it is with a giddy grin that I report he has succeeded, and the Morris Men are finally ready to take this show international with our very own motorhome.

I can't even begin to do justice to its specification, and I won't embarrass myself by attempting to go into the nuts, bolts and finely-detailed features of our four-wheeled fortress here. But it's a white one. A big white one. With a wine rack. Nuff said.

While Daddy-O has been busy cleaning, prepping and tinkering with it this week, I myself have been sat back with a Cheshire Cat smile, dreaming lazily about all the daft stuff we've managed to get up to over the years, and how (if there's any justice) that will increase ten-fold now that this double act has got wheels on it.

It won't be long until we head out on our first adventure, and I'll be sure to let you know in advance where you need to avoid.

My greatest challenge ahead is going to be guarding my 'goods' against Frank as we hit the road. Something tells me that compared to the camper, the attic's going to look like child's play...

Wish me luck – happy camping to you all...