I want, I want, I want, I want…

I want a dog.

It would love me and let me cuddle it and I could take it for a walk and it would curl up at my feet or on my lap (except if the dog in question is Baron because when he sits on my lap it gets very hard to breathe – fully-grown Dalmatians being large and heavy) and I could hack across the countryside with Vin with the dog trotting faithfully alongside (except if the dog is Baron once again because at the first scent of a rabbit, hare, fox, field-mouse, badger, beaver, moose, aardvark or whatever he’d be away after it even if it hadn’t passed that way for a day or several and it would take a month to get him back from wherever he ended up just like the time he went AWOL from Bérchules and turned up weeks later in Trevelez with a group of wild boar hunters who were using him as a scent dog and feeding him slabs of raw wild boar as a reward) loving being with his large equine friend and his human friend and everything would be great and wonderful and terrific and because he loved me so much he would play with me on a Saturday evening and prevent me from watching Britain’s Got Talent.

Except a working family of two can’t have a dog; the reasons are legion and all are firmly rooted in common sense and sometimes I think The Lovely S and I are blessed with far more common sense than is our quota.

So I am doomed to spend a number of the next Saturday evenings being amazed and cringing in equal measures.

Good grief, I need help.

B.