Overnight a brief but passionate storm sweeps down from the mountains scattering watering cans, rattling shutters and overturning garden furniture. This morning the air fresh, the grass wet underfoot. Bob and Sophie sleep through the crashes and bangs and wake refreshed and ready for whatever might lie in store.They bound out of the door and scurry, noses hard to the ground, round the garden. Angus puts on a sweater.
Down in the copse by the donkey field the sound of badgers singing. That low plangent uninterrupted growl that signals they're simply content or have just fed until they're fit to burst - or both. Whatever the reason there's an intentionality to the sound that signals all is well with the world. I laugh out loud and tell Bob we live in a land of happy badgers. He pauses from sniffing, then looks up in acknowledgement into my eyes in that way which elevates dogs above other animals. Sophie has little time for such notions. She's in the bottom of a ditch amid the veitch and orchard grass savouring something that humans would find alarming.
After an hour of scavenging in ditches two wet and dishevelled PONs are loaded into the back of the car and driven to the greengrocers.
Fresh Gariguettes and thick white asparagus on display. We buy some fresh potatoes to boil and have with asparagus and ham for lunch.
This morning the greengrocers teenage Down's syndrome daughter is manning the till. She rings up the strawberries then stops and laughs and scratches Bobs ear. She informs him he's handsome. His tail wags. She then rings up the asparagus before stopping to tickle Sophie's head and tell her she's beautiful. The girl laughs freely, the laugh modulating higher when the PONs lick her hand.
Such are the little points of innocence that punctuate an April Sunday.
This must have traumatized the little guy :