I have just a few precious moments before flinging myself into Saturday.
I have been going on about the dog a bit lately. You have had several posts charting his love affair with the Lamb Bone, the terrier’s grail.
It was safely buried in the soft black peat of a forest garden, sleeping, pregnant with possibility, the last time you heard of it. The dog’s strategy of burying it in sixteen places before settling on a seventeenth has foxed the local fox, who has found the bone very difficult to steal.
As for the dog, he is dapper, and preppy, and we are fifty quid poorer. We took him to the groomers on Thursday afternoon. We walked through the door and the dog became a pointer: to the exit. He just wanted to walk out again. No number of doggie snacks can atone for shampooing, the removal of layers of olfactory patina, the doggie cologne which makes Mac irresistible to his peers. He walked out half the dog he was, leaving a large pile of fur, debris and tiny visitors behind him.
Still, he is extremely tidy. We all find ourselves double taking as he clatters past. Cue the Girl From Ipanema music. Who is that dog? Oh, yes, it’s Macaulay.
Until last night.
I walked into the sitting room to see Macaulay out in the garden. His bottom was poking out of the bluebells and forget-me-nots. It had an intentness about it, and I knew the other end of Macaulay was looking for his bone.
When he emerged, his trademark moustache was a dramatically different colour: peat-black. He looked like a swarthy coal miner who has just finished his shift.
That was the end of Macaulay’s possible canine modelling career, then.
However: he had found his bone. And the next hour was spent in happy mastication.