Roamin' in the Gloamin'
Bunty's mother has gone away to a UFO conference, and has left her haggis hound with him, to the disgust of his cats. A haggis hound is used up here for the hunting of wild haggises (obviously). South of the border, she's known as a "smooth collie" or a "Scottish sheepdog", but that shows what they know. Personally, I am against the barbaric practice of haggis hunting, but Pip is exceptional in that she runs away from them instead of chasing them. (Or was that sheep? I forget...)
At dusk, we took her for a walk up the lane. There was a frosty nip in the air - the first this year, and it made our cheeks and noses rosy. Pip didn't mind the cold: she kept haring off into the shadows after her ball. (I guess they're less intimidating than haggises.) The lane is lined by trees, many of which overhang to form an arch, but it was still light enough to see, thanks to the fact that most of the leaves have fallen. The air smelled of autumn. Bunty got sidetracked under a horse chestnut, and spent several minutes collecting conkers. We bore right, past a tree house towards the sheep field; Bunty was lobbing Pip's ball greater and greater distances, and inevitably it landed in the field and he had to climb over the fence to retrieve it. A dog-rose bush tried to scratch his eyes out on the way back over, so we met up at the gate, which he hurdled rather impressively. No dog roses there. Then he got the ball stuck in a tree.
I helped him by standing aside and laughing at his running jumps and wild flailing. In due course, the ball dropped off the branch. It was a nice wee walk. The best thing about walking in the cold is coming back to a cosy house and two viciously swearing cats.
At dusk, we took her for a walk up the lane. There was a frosty nip in the air - the first this year, and it made our cheeks and noses rosy. Pip didn't mind the cold: she kept haring off into the shadows after her ball. (I guess they're less intimidating than haggises.) The lane is lined by trees, many of which overhang to form an arch, but it was still light enough to see, thanks to the fact that most of the leaves have fallen. The air smelled of autumn. Bunty got sidetracked under a horse chestnut, and spent several minutes collecting conkers. We bore right, past a tree house towards the sheep field; Bunty was lobbing Pip's ball greater and greater distances, and inevitably it landed in the field and he had to climb over the fence to retrieve it. A dog-rose bush tried to scratch his eyes out on the way back over, so we met up at the gate, which he hurdled rather impressively. No dog roses there. Then he got the ball stuck in a tree.
I helped him by standing aside and laughing at his running jumps and wild flailing. In due course, the ball dropped off the branch. It was a nice wee walk. The best thing about walking in the cold is coming back to a cosy house and two viciously swearing cats.