If a puppy has ever more repeatedly been told it's loved, I will eat our Cath Kidston dog basket.
And we mean it. He will just have to stay close to us, lead length, forever.
Sorry and all that, lad.
Only his mate Rossco is, already.
So maybe I'll try it today, I thought.
Fuck it.
Shit me, Frank thought.
Er, hang on a minute. Where are you going and why doesn't my neck hurt? Wait up.
That's sheep shit, that is. I'm going to eat it. There, see?, I've eaten it.
No neck pain. Odd.
I'm gonna trot now. I'm trotting. I'm bounding. I'm bloody bounding. I'm going to turn it on on, here I go. Here I go. I'm only bloody running. Earrrrs, back!
What's that? A whistle. That'll be Dad, that will. Better turn around. Better go back. Back, back, I'm coming!, might just bend down here a sec for a bit more dung, and there, I'm back. Watcha!
He does seem pleased.
Must be the poo eating.
I'll do that more then.
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