“Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read.”
Profound words from Groucho Marx, there. I have many books, but they did not get me through this rather grim year. The constants, this Summer, were four-legged. My dogs have remained unchanged throughout the highs and lows of a roller coaster set of life changes.
And I’d like, officially, to thank them.
Macaulay, the emotiophobe, who, every time I begin to look upset gets up and potters off to find some quiet unsentimental backwater in which to snore; and Freddie, the great black saxon hellhound, a barometer for hurt, one who arrives when one is down with huge eyes, a vast cuddlable expanse of rippling black fur, and a propensity to sing in sympathy.
Here they are, loving the Summer I hated: I give you, The Dogs.