A slight dusting of snow yesterday. Wilf was delighted. Polish Lowland Sheepdog heaven. He followed me across the fields, head high into the wind. Every so often he would run on ahead and pounce on something invisible in the long grass, emerging with a smile on his face and a muzzle and nose covered in snow. I'd like to say that his hunting technique was lithe and graceful but that wouldn't be entirely true. It was however highly entertaining. Play mode firmly set.
When, after a long day out in the cold, an old dog sits in front of the fire, lays his head on your foot and falls gently asleep is that happiness, delight or joy ?