Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Pre-dawn darkness. Time for the daily trip to the bakers. Wilf has chosen to spend the night asleep at the foot of the stairs . He's got his nose deep inside one of my gardening shoes , his right paw guarding the other . I pick up the car keys, open the door and shout out '' Croissants ! ". His fringe moves but that's all . Sometimes a boy needs his beauty sleep .
' The font ' finishes dinner with a particularly powerful goats cheese . Wilf arrives , his nose , or the one nostril that still works, turned expectantly in the direction of the pungent delight . He seems to be saying that this is not just any food - this is what Polish Lowland Sheepdogs eat in their natural habitat.
For ten years of his life this sort of dining room behaviour was forbidden but there comes a time when rules are meant to be broken . The family fellow gets three tiny slivers. Afterwards he sleeps , pit stop free , all the way through . Perhaps we should give him goats cheese every night ?
' The font ' has just drawn an unhelpful comparison between the goats cheese and the inside of my shoes .