The master plan in acquiring our flatcoat retriever puppy Damson was that as folk no longer with full-time jobs we would invest our time in producing a perfectly trained dog. On New Year’s Day the growing gap between intention and reality was acknowledged. Damson is affectionate, fun and beautiful — frequently admired by passing strangers. She is also a thief.
We were hosting friends from the sadly deprived country of Italy where they are unable to purchase either chipolata sausages or pork pies, a liberal plateful of which we therefore provided for the lunchtime buffet. ‘No feeding the dog at table — we don’t do that,’ we had warned them sternly, only to realise, as we sat down, that such an admonition was irrelevant: the pork-pie plate on the corner of the table, comfortably within reach of a leggy retriever, no longer boasted so much as a crumb. The pie completed a festive season haul in Damson’s stomach that included a chunk of Stilton, Turkish Delight, half a pair of Barbour socks and the lower branches of two espalier apple trees.
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