Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Whiffy Wilf .
' The font 'sets off for the airport at the crack of dawn . Time to go and see granny font . Angus is left with strict instructions to wash Wilf who has developed a decidedly ' whiffy ' old dog odour .
A well tested damage limitation routine . Run the bath, strip down to my boxer shorts, put on an apron and a pair of Wellington Boots , don a pair of Madam Bays Marigolds , lay a thick layer of towels on the floor and finally track down and then lift one exceedingly unhappy PON into the bath . Five minutes later , all the offending areas washed clean , Wilf emerges , polar bear white and smelling like a bed of roses . Straight out into the garden with a chew while towels are collected up and the floor mopped . The rising sun seems to make the old fellow glow bright orange . By the time it's fully risen Wilf is no longer wet and Angus is less frazzled.
Dried and fully dressed , again , Angus and the family fellow head off into town for our morning croissant, coffee and bowl of water . On the way back home a detour down to the valley for a mano a mano saunter by the stream . A huge swarm of electric blue dragonflies darting everywhere .
We arrive just as a herdsman is moving the young calves and their mothers down the lane from one lush field to another . Within seconds of getting down from the back of the car freshly washed Wilf finds a large puddle of something unmentionable to roll in . Over and over he goes in a whirl of canine delight . A look on his face that says ' Boy ! This is great fun ' .
Wilf is happy . Like all old dogs he doesn't ever save anything for a special occasion . Being alive is the special occasion .