Friday, 7 March 2014


So there I am on this delightful spring day, walking the rather handsome mutt, a Catalan sheepdog (or Gos d'Atura as I call it when I cross the road into NW3), when into the cherry-blossomed cemetery stroll two disreputable looking people with their even more disreputable looking dog.  I hang back, restraining Messi, who wants to cavort with the stud-collared, red-eyed beastie.  I wait and then turn the corner. They have not moved on.  I cannot turn back.  My dog pulls and pulls; their beastie is let off his lead.  I can't hold mine.  They're off and away. They have a very good time.  I fall into conversation with the disreputable pair (even more disreputable close up), but she is happy that someone is letting his dog play with hers.  And he is interested in my dog.   He wants to know about his strength and so on.  I quite like this odd couple.  She is small and skinny and has few teeth.  He has a delicate moustache but a wary look.  In their twenties? And what's my dog's age, he wants to know. Well, my dog is not much over a year. Our last dog died a year or so ago, I say.  He asks what kind of dog it was. A terrier, I say.  A terrier? says he.  And she says: "We had a Ridgeback.  He got stabbed to death at Christmas".

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