I do not want to butter my own parsnips, although obviously if I could, I would, but I must say that I am rather swift and lithesome when in full gallop. It is a sight to behold and will be familiar to any other blessed human creatures who cosset and nurture sight hounds of any description.

It was one of these magnificent displays of hound agility that caused a slight frosting over of my short human slaves devotion to me. To be fair, if she wasn’t so devoid of height then it would not have happened at all. We were strolling casually through the woods together, I trotted along quite happily, sniffing here and there as she scampered along on her little stumpy legs next to me. It was then in the distance that I saw a flash of squirrelly fur and the chase was on!

It was only by a whippet’s whisker that the cursed fur bag evaded me. The grip is going somewhat on my winter brogues you see. Unable to gain proper purchase whilst zooming over a slick of muddy leaves, I slipped just at the crucial part. It was not dignified and truth be told I think I have pulled a muscle in my right side buttock portion. With a huff I turned away from the devilish tree rat who was by now sitting in the branches making rude gestures at me with its paws. The outrage! Anyway, seeing the diminutive terror quite a way behind me now I thought I had better return and see if she had caught anything (she never does, I don’t know why I bother). Such is my devotion to her that I launched myself with full abandonment and great speed at her, keen to fill her in on the details of the chase and to ask if she could pop my brogues in to be re heeled…when…well.

It all seems rather amusing now but I slightly misjudged my speed and distance ratio and as I zoomed past her I clipped the little black bag of doggie delights that she was carrying with my head and it sailed majestically (the bag, not my head) out of her hand in a rather well described arc. The first interesting fact gained from this is that it would seem that the craftsmanship of poo bags really is going downhill, as it rather unexpectedly exploded and sent a shower of…well…this is where relations between us cooled somewhat.

It was rather spectacular and the now fully weaponised excreta didn’t behave at all as I thought it might. Think November the 5th without the smell of cordite…or pretty flashes, and with more of a splat than a whiz or a bang…actually I am not a fan of fireworks so this was an improvement.

The second interesting fact which made the little mishap all the more irksome to her was that I had secretly been at the festive rum soaked figs which tends to have, well I don’t wish to be coarse…but it seems to have a loosening effect on me…although the secret I fear is now out – quite literally.

It was a sight that thankfully not many saw. Annoyingly the walk was brought to a premature conclusion. I also learned some new words, some of which I had to look up when we got home. Filthy mouthed wench is all I will say.

I am now writing this whilst I kick back the cares of the day and treat my ear flaps to a spot of Erik Satie. Whilst my mind melts into the beautiful places the music takes me I can hear the distant sound of the short one muttering in the shower. Chortle.

photo credit to the amazing Sammy Williams.