Wednesday, October 8, 2014
A glorious age.
Twenty one months old. A glorious age. Puppy hood replaced by a confident zest for life. At first light Bob carefully christens the tyres of two large tractors that have arrived to cut the grass verges along the lane. Eau de PON a sure way of neutralizing possible threats. Later a pair of French pilgrims are barked at. They, being full of the spontaneity of pilgrims and quite probably dog owners, bark back. The angelic duo are nonplussed by this unexpected development. Bob adopts his big brotherly '' Sophie. You'd better let me deal with this " pose on the stump seat. He stays there until the barking pilgrims are out of sight.
In the evening, after a nine thirty tour of the garden in search of hedgehogs, they settle down at the far end of the library and fall into a deep sleep. Bob lies silently, dreaming of heroism in the face of barking pilgrims. Sophie snores away like a trooper, dreaming of chasing squirrels and digging up moles and wallowing in mud.
The gentle rhythms of dog ownership too unimportant for a diary but too important to be forgotten.