I have a dog at my feet, but not my dear little Berry. I can’t yet explain why it’s not Berry - too painful.
The dog at my feet is called Mill o’ Mains, hereafter Millie. Millie is 6 weeks old today. She has the colouring of her Border collie father, but threatens to become the size of her Irish wolfhound mother. (And yes, the prospect of a Border collie mind in an Irish wolfhound body is a little alarming.) She’s still young enough to have spells of intense activity, abruptly curtailed by sleep. She’s now sleeping. She arrived last Thursday, since when, she’s met her first garden, and explored three more; met Mossman, the cat, and learnt that she’s not universally regarded as adorable; and met family, friends, and neighbours and been cuddled in Chinese by students.
Sales for puppy toys and, especially, floor-cleaning agents have increased a thousand-fold, since last Thursday (note well, those who buy shares). I, meanwhile, have done little other than play with puppy toys and deploy vast quantities of cleaning agents – the latter despite the weather being benign enough to enjoy hours in the garden, watching Millie stalk beech leaves and dandelions, and waiting for her to squat.
Today, I need to be firm, and introduce a little work into the daily round of play. To which …
