The DevilDog is back!
Oh ye of little faith...
Not more than half an hour after last night's cheerless blog, I was alerted by a quiet scraping at the door. Outside the rain was lashing down, cold enough to be snow a couple of hundred feet higher up (more's the pity it couldn't have fallen in Canada two weeks ago) and blowing a gale. Darkness was near total; a man could get lost in his own back yard and never be seen again. Or perhaps be found days later, a life size mansicle, frozen in a grimace of terrified horror. It was not a night to be stuck in a hole in the woods above the snow line.
So the DevilDog had decided not to do that.
Instead he had made his way home and now stood, patiently waiting at the door. To be fair, I think his throat was so choked with mud that he couldn't bark - thus waiting patiently was his only option. His face was a mess, his eyes filled with dirt, his nose swollen and bloody. He was soaked and weary and shivering but he had made it home, in the dark and stormy night.
Washing has revealed minimal injuries - mostly eyes aggravated like the hayfever I had when I stupidly forgot to take my antihistamines before turning the hay one summer's day a few years back. His nose is swollen out of its normal aquiline perfection and is caked with blood on top, but I don't think he has been fighting something - more likely he spent the better part of yesterday afternoon and evening struggling to get out of too small a hole, succeeding, Pooh-like only when he had slimmed down enough to fit.
anyway, he's cleaned up now, and had his standard farm-stay visit to Auntie Clare (the vet). To thank me for my concern and worry, he laid an enormous steaming turd on the kitchen floor just before I came down this morning (it was still warm), and pissed a veritable lake alongside it.
Cheers Mr Fish.
Not more than half an hour after last night's cheerless blog, I was alerted by a quiet scraping at the door. Outside the rain was lashing down, cold enough to be snow a couple of hundred feet higher up (more's the pity it couldn't have fallen in Canada two weeks ago) and blowing a gale. Darkness was near total; a man could get lost in his own back yard and never be seen again. Or perhaps be found days later, a life size mansicle, frozen in a grimace of terrified horror. It was not a night to be stuck in a hole in the woods above the snow line.
So the DevilDog had decided not to do that.
Instead he had made his way home and now stood, patiently waiting at the door. To be fair, I think his throat was so choked with mud that he couldn't bark - thus waiting patiently was his only option. His face was a mess, his eyes filled with dirt, his nose swollen and bloody. He was soaked and weary and shivering but he had made it home, in the dark and stormy night.
Washing has revealed minimal injuries - mostly eyes aggravated like the hayfever I had when I stupidly forgot to take my antihistamines before turning the hay one summer's day a few years back. His nose is swollen out of its normal aquiline perfection and is caked with blood on top, but I don't think he has been fighting something - more likely he spent the better part of yesterday afternoon and evening struggling to get out of too small a hole, succeeding, Pooh-like only when he had slimmed down enough to fit.
anyway, he's cleaned up now, and had his standard farm-stay visit to Auntie Clare (the vet). To thank me for my concern and worry, he laid an enormous steaming turd on the kitchen floor just before I came down this morning (it was still warm), and pissed a veritable lake alongside it.
Cheers Mr Fish.
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