Yesterday was not a good day. Not only did Granny and Granddad go home but Reggie, Polly and Bella, the sheep, have gone too. I was confused as to whether to stand and look mournfully at the front door or to stand by the fence and look sadly at the empty field. On balance I chose the latter. I’d grown accustomed to their baa, their little sheep faces looking at me as though I was crazy when I offered them the end of my rubber chicken to play tug. I miss watching them mountaineering up the fences to eat the hedges and running out to say good morning to them when I got up. Admittedly there is now no one to put me off when I need to go to the toilet. It is a little daunting to go about your business with a ram staring at you. I was marginally cheered up when a neighbouring cat came and looked at me through the French Windows having not noticed they were open and that I could launch myself in his direction rather rapidly and without fear of immediate injury. He still beat me in a dash for the fence but it was enough to give him a shock.
Living in a village with a good pub is not helpful to a dog. I like summer bar b q’s. Without the pub, when my Mistress doesn’t want to cook in the summer she persuades my Master to light the bar b q. The dog wins. I get lots of extra food. Now when she doesn’t want to cook they all go to the pub. The dog loses, except for the rare occasions when anyone leaves anything and she brings it back in a serviette. I’m just crossing my paws that she remembers to bring me something back today.