I almost forgot to write, as I’ve been commenting almost everywhere today. I thought, earlier, what I was going to write about, and now I’ve forgotten. I have an impassioned post all formed, but I feel quite mellow now, so it can wait.
Like the Boy, we had salmon for dinner tonight. Farmed, however, for the Wild* Atlantic variety is not delivered to my door by the good fishmonger Paul. And beans and pasta. As I gathered together the final forkful, Tilly appeared by my chair, tail wagging. How did she know it was the final forkful? She’s a dog. Dogs know.
I had, of course, put aside morsels of both salmon and pasta to share with her. She accepted them gracefully, without snatching. She breathed cowpat breath and we gazed at each other. Undoubtedly, she told me that she’s got the message. Eating cowpats is acceptable, rolling in them is not. I stroked her, telling her how long and elegant her neck is without her collar (which, washed, is still in the porch). She leaned in towards my hand appreciatively.
She looked at me again. I took an extra piece of pasta from the serving dish. “It’ll only go to the chickens” she had said.
You may think, by the way, that I pamper my dog. Chester, who died nearly three years ago, would disagree. He used to sit up at the table, on his own chair, to eat cheese. He had impeccable table manners.
*I’d have put in a quip about ‘wild? it was furious’, but it’s been done before.