But sir, I don't think you understand, said the man with his foot on my chest and Frank in his arms.
He is without doubt the most beautiful hound I've ever seen. You must submit.
Oh my, his cappuccino colours.
See how his tilted head woos.
Dear, shall we take him now?
This is getting ridiculous.
I'm alternating walking routes, looking for quiet paths, mutt-less cuts where normal dog owners fear to flounder. But escape, there is none.
Another corner another cooer. Each more heartfelt, impassioned than the last. He's so beautiful. I must have him and not any other.
And how does this affect Frank?
Whippets are sensitive, and you must be careful not to impart your own emotional baggage on them, for fear it shall be reflected back; so goes the threat of the expert.
Frank offers no argument to the contrary, as his tiny, nose-dominated head swells with self assurance for all to see.
He's due a fall, that one.
You can see it in the eyes of the dogs we meet as their masters fall to their pathetic knees.
--
Out on the bike last night. First time in a while. It was rather good.
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