REFUSING TO HELP WITH ENQUIRIES

Home from the hills

AFTER their safe, if rather costly, return from the frozen wastelands of Wensleydale, the dogs have slept all day – on the sofas, on the bed, on the washing: all the forbidden places. They’re taking full advantage of our delight at having them home. (Although I have to say Ian’s has been tempered by mean thoughts. “I did begin to think at one stage that if they didn’t come home we could perhaps get a little black labrador puppy that would come when you called it, and play nicely at retrieving sticks and balls, and never, ever run way.” How boring would that be?)

Where did you spend the night? is what I most want to know. In a barn? In a fox hole? A garden shed? Were you scared? Did you think you’d never see us again? No answer. What did you eat? Did you kill any rabbits? You didn’t eat dead ones did you? As in dead for a very long time? How did you find your way to Castle Bolton? Did you see the lights and know that meant civilization? Or just follow the scents of human footsteps on a well-trodden path? And what about the nice man who found you – did he call you into his house, or lasso you with a clothes line, or coax you in with a bit of cold chicken? Did you get his name and address?  All enquiries are met with a long, bored yawn.

Good grief – I might as well talk to Ian.

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