Sunday, June 29, 2014
It is not happy people who are thankful. It is thankful people who are happy.
We park by a field of sunflowers then walk along the old roman road to the stream. Bob leaps enthusiastically on imaginary threats in the long grass. Sophie has a noisy drink from the waterfall. There are inept attempts at fishing. Then we're off to the cafe under the arcades for a morning coffee. Bob gives the waitress his best '' I love you '' look. In return he gets the first piece of croissant. He does his '' I is a happy boy " soft shoe shuffle.
In the young bakers window a handwritten sign saying he's closed for good but thanking his customers for their support. Seems that his fancy cakes didn't sell. Sad to see someones dreams shattered. The rival bakers relief may be short lived. Five doors down the new ''open all hours'' Carrefour supermarket is doing a roaring trade in baguettes.
Home by eight. Sophie digs a hole in the courtyard. She then stands contentedly looking at it. Later she finds a length of buried irrigation pipe. This she digs up, then chews. A jet of water shoots up into the air. Drenched, she squeals with delight. Despite turning off the irrigation system the garden now sports a small, deep, puddle. Through a combination of Sophie's continued digging and an unstoppable ( and untraceable ) flow of water this may yet turn into a lake. Such are the vagaries of The Rickety Old Farmhouse's plumbing.
Strong winds forecast. I close the pool and put down the garden umbrellas. The PON's settle in the courtyard to recharge their batteries. Bob gives me his '' Don't worry about a thing. I'm on the case '' smile. Then he falls asleep. Deeply, snoringly, asleep.
A Sunday morning in deepest France profonde with two lively young PON's. Those routines in a dog owners life too small to be put in a diary but too important to go completely unrecorded.