I'm up early for day one proper of the dog show and as I get ready at around 7am a ghostly figure drifts downstairs. It grabs one of the newspaper bags and goes out of the front door. Blimey. I'm sure that was Son, looking like he's been up all night, which, as it turns out he has. It'll be a bit of a shock to them at the newsagents when he turns ninety minutes earlier than usual.
It's very hot at the show, which means Doggo can't be bothered and I can hardly blame him. The first event has right hand weaves, so I've already written that one off, but as it happens, he misses the first pole instead, just to be different. He does the same on our second course. Finally, we get a clear but it's a bit of an amble, so no cigar.
Ironically, it’s the first show with good weather this year but it comes after my Father's operation, so he misses it.
L texts to say she's sitting out in the sun with Mini Doggo and listening to her smut. Messages like 'You will find the bloody dog in the bloody bin when you get home', hint that perhaps they're not getting on. The statistic in today's paper that 50% of women kiss their pet goodnight might need recalculating, along with the one about the 15% of women who admit to paying more attention to their pet than to their partner. Hopefully. Hang on, only 15%? A lot of people we’re clearing lying.
Daughter has apparently gone to her Fathers and Son will follow later, presumably to catch up on some sleep. Damn, we could be at home playing at Magic Toyshops.
When I get home, after checking the dustbin for discarded furry packages, I try to get my priorities in order: - Tour de France, passion, food then beer.
We don't venture out and instead stay in with the dogs, although there's no climbing of the apple tree naked, as in the Magic Toyshop.