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very best begging look.
It always works.
Two bacon rinds in secret under the table,
and all her toast crusts too. Lovely.
There’s good pickings
under the baby’s chair this morning.
I hoover it all up. Lovely.
Lula always likes me to go with her
to the end of the lane.
She loves a bit of a cuddle, and
a lick or two before the school bus comes.
“Oh, Russ,” she whispers. “A horse.
It’s all I want for my birthday.”
And I’m thinking, ’Scuse me, what’s so great about a horse?
Isn’t a dog good enough?
Then along comes the bus and on she gets.
“See you,” she says.
Lula’s dad is whistling for me.
“Where are you, you old rascal you?”
I’m coming.
I’m coming.
Back up the lane,
through the hedge,
over the gate.
“Don’t just sit there, Russ.
I want those sheep in for shearing.”
And all the while he keeps on
with his whistling and whooping.
I mean, does he think
I haven’t done this before?
Doesn’t he know
this is what I’m made for?
Hare down the hill.
Leap the stream.
Get right around behind them.
Keep low. Don’t rush them. That’s good.
They’re all going now. The whole flock of them are trotting along nicely.
And I’m slinking along behind, my eye on every one of them,
my bark and my bite deep inside their heads.
“Good dog,” I get. Third one today. Not bad.
I watch the shearing
from the top of the haybarn.
Good place to sleep, this.
Tigger’s somewhere here.
I can smell her.
There she is, up on the rafter,
waving her tail at me.
She’s teasing me. I’ll show her.
Later, I’ll do it later.
Sleep now. Lovely.
“Russ! Where are you, Russ?
I want these sheep out.
Now! Move yourself.”
All right, all right.
Down I go, and out they go,
all in a great muddle
bleating at each other,
bopping one another.
They don’t recognise each other without their clothes on.
Not very bright, that’s the trouble with sheep.
Will you look at that!
There’s hundreds of crows out in my corn field.
Well, I’m not having that, am I?
After them! Show them who’s boss!
Thirsty work, this.
What’s this? Fox!
I can smell him.
I follow him down
through the bluebell wood to his den.
He’s down there, deep down.
Can’t get at him. Pity.
Need a drink.
Shake myself dry in the sun.
Time for another sleep.
Lovely.
Smarty wakes me.
I know what he’s thinking.
How about
a Tigger hunt?
We find her soon enough.
We’re after her.
We’re catching her up.
Closer. Closer.
Right on her tail.
That’s not fair.
She’s found a tree.
Up she goes.
We can’t climb trees, so we bark our heads off.
Ah well, you can’t win them all.
“Russ, where were you, Russ?”
Lula’s dad. Shouting for me again.
“Get those calves out in the field.
What’s the point in keeping a dog
and barking myself?”
Nothing worse than trying to move young calves.
They’re all tippy-toed and skippy.
Pretty things.
Pity they get so big and lumpy when they get older.
There, done it. Well done, me!
Back to the end of the lane to meet Lula.
