The magic of dogs.

A day spent in the garden. The soil here is pure clay. Sodden and spongy in the winter, baked hard as a brick in the summer. Roses, mahonia and ceanothus thrive, everything else is overwhelmed. 

We plant a mahonia on the top of the ridge. Then we plant two ceanothus by the terrace where there's  a gap in the fence. The label says they like full sunshine. We'll see.

By the end of the day nine standard roses have been staked up along the drive and five tree peonies have been put in acid soil in large pots. ' The font ' is in London so Bob and Sophie spend their day outside 'helping'. Sophie gets in the holes to see if there's anything to eat at the bottom. Bob gets in the holes because he feels the need to be intimately involved in everything I do. Sometimes they enlarge the holes , sometimes they fill them in. Potting compost is considered a delicacy.

Late at night Bob wanders into the office for his evening chat. He's exhausted. 'Had a good day ? ' I ask in that way dog owners do and which non-dog owners think is mad. He puts his chin on my knee and sighs contentedly as if to say - '' We were together. I forget the rest ". Then he falls asleep. And that, in a nutshell, is the magic of dogs.