Spindle and the Shaftesbury Six

This morning I had to face the indignity of being coaxed out into the rain for my morning constitutional. I was not that keen. The tiny terror was keen however as she had books to make and things to do, so she took me out for a reluctant drag around the village. In her defence, she did croak out an encouraging ditty to facilitate the onslaught of the evacuation process. Sadly the tuneless din she made only served to constrict and tighten any resolve I had to keep my treasured offerings. Eventually we made it home, where I am now curled up on my chair. The reason for this tiredness? Well! We have just had an exceptionally spiffy weekend away with some dear friends of ours. We assembled in a pub (naturally) and as I sipped my Cinzano I surveyed the raggle taggle ensemble for the weekend. Naturally Hector and the Tiny Terror were there in all of their haphazard glory. There were also the dynamic twin combination of Mistress Beth and Bee, both raven hair moppets, rumoured to circumnavigate a dance floor in a way that leaves many temporarily speechless. They were accompanied by their respective spouses, grandmaster DJ Alan and the intriguing Haynes manual enthusiast Nick. The female participants were all chattering at the same time, waving their arms about to punctuate the discussion. More sedate and considered contemplation was emanating from the gentlemen of the group, who were all comparing their membership cards for Beard Topiary Today.

A provisional plan was set for the weekend, which we gleefully abandoned immediately as that was the sort of willy nilly mood we were all in. After visiting a sub zero emporium of precious antique articles, we sallied forth to check in to the pub within which we were going to be residing. They had the good taste to accept hounds, and I can also report they had a glorious fire, where you could extend all limbs upwards to the ceiling whilst you warmed your particles. As I watched the ladies do this, I contented myself to sit cross legged with a small glass of sherry.

Having briefly touched upon the subject of dance floors, it was declared in a burst of verbal excess that my lithesome limbs would lend themselves very well to a bit of retro shape throwing.  Having enjoyed several sherry and Dubonnet chasers by this point, I was encouraged to show them what I could do when I put my mind to it. When in doubt, you should always return to what you know, so I threw off my sling backs and launched myself into some stylish voguing. It was all going well until I misplaced a paw and careered off the table into the arms of the surprised chap behind the bar, who was busily polishing the glasses. He began to hear a violin begin to croon somewhere in the room, but before things progressed any further (there were unnecessarily lewd catcalls from the onlooking rabble) I had to explain about the true keeper of the key of my heart, Nelson. It was taken in good grace but I detected a droop of dejection. 

It was whilst we were basking in front of the bar that evening after a sumptuous feast, that a very interesting discussion developed about the indignity within which a hound has to do one’s tiddles in public. Yes, I can raise a leg daintily as I do so, but this does not detract from the fact that one’s delicate fairy is exposed in public. A moment which humans generally prefer to do in a private isolation. Also, an unexpected draft whilst siphoning can be very off-putting indeed. Alan’s suggestion was that a specially engineered poo tent that could be erected around me.  As we were a group of enquiring minds we took the idea of this and ran with it. Perhaps different sizes for different breeds, a range of appropriate designs and then we went into full theoretical production. We were determined that we would not out source, and that each one of us would display our own particular talents. There would be a plethora of tents. Would the plural would be poo-tenti? This then rapidly descended into the ridiculous as it tends to with this lot so I won’t discuss any further details, although I will profess to having some interest in Nicks idea for a nozzle that gently puffed out warm air to dry ones portions when finished.  

The following morning we gathered for sustenance, and they all had on their special quiet morning voices. A gaggle of cooked breakfasts appeared as several members of the group condemned themselves to the God of sausages and descended into a nommy pork coma. I am delighted to say that I was one of the lucky sausage samplers. 

The rest of the day was spent in the company of some new friends, they were both joyfully creative, especially gifted with thoughts and the appropriate words. I felt a little humbled when I thought of my own meagre diary offerings. They were very hospitable and provided cake and tea.

All in all it was a rampaging success, and I am hopeful for another one, perhaps Nelson would be permitted to attend…

So as the silken sheets of slumber gently envelope me, I wish you well, my dearest pal.


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