Cloudy and humid. For the angelic duo a day for sitting back, chasing blackbirds and imagining what it would be like to be invited to lunch with the Hungarian stonemasons. The smell of garlic laden sausage wafts, tantalisingly, through the village from the chateau.
Bob and Sophie practise their ferocious look on passing pilgrims . They don't quite get the hang of it. Squiffy will have to do. A couple from Bordeaux stop at the gate to chat. Bobs tail wags. He's hoping they're up for a game of ' throw the furry fox '. Sophie is having none of it . She gives them her ' if you don't have sausages don't bother me ' look.
One of those quiet days with dogs. Not important enough for a diary but important enough to be remembered, with a smile, here.
6 comments:
How could anyone resist picking up that furry fox and throwing it for dear Bob?
Oh, and Bertie is wondering if there is such a thing as a non-furry fox?
Cheers! Gail.
The smell of sausages. Hope the duo don't become escape artists.
The fox might soon be non-furry if Sophie has her way with it - and the poor thing is starting to look as though it has been thrown once too often!
Imagine - pilgrims without sausages - what is the world coming to? There should be notices everywhere that all pilgrims passing by the ROF must bring sausages as offerings to the delightful duo!
Those Hungarians must either be building a very large piece of
masonry or dragging the job out while they enjoy springtime in
the French countryside. And didn't you say they are staying in
the gatehouse with its own pool?
We are currently snowing and gusty winds. Welcome to Victoria Day on the Canadian prairies....
It would seem that the Hungarians are on a diet of garlic sausage, with, we hope, the occasional addition of something more healthy. Who can blame them for dragging the job out in such idyllic surroundings. Are they still phoning home from the steps of the war memorial each evening - in spite of the mayor's notice?
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