The new dog aged seven-and-a half weeks is sitting on the kitchen doorstep, yawning. He is so bored. It is dawning on him that he is not destined for serious watchdog status or edgy urban aggro, just a sleepy household of women and female dogs and his only thrill might be getting underfoot in the kitchen.
He doesn’t want to play with his knitted toy or his stripy ball or his chew rope. He doesn’t want to chase dozens of turtle doves or house martins. Everyone else is happy to sit and watch the grass grow. Nothing much happens. His playmates are wusses. His food is gone in a flash.
Never mind, puppy! In two weeks time we shall be going on holiday despite a somewhat ruinous financial year and he can run on the beach, chase seagulls and chew driftwood and sleep beside an indoor fire each night. Our friend Helena has assured us he cannot destroy anything at her beach cottage because it is basic stone and hardwood and built to withstand the Cape of Storms as well as puppy mischief. So he can be bored there while we grill fresh fish and sleep late and explore the coastal dunes. If it rains we will all sit indoors on comfy old sofas reading detective thrillers and watching rain fall on the grey sea. While the dog learns to exercise patience.