Frank and I now walk to work and back every day.
This is a good thing.
I feel fitter, and Frank chases more squirrels.
I compensate by eating and drinking more. Frank compensates by eating less.
We're still struggling to find food he likes which is not food we like; namely hot, tender, preferably marinated, meat. And to this end I continue to initiate discussions with other whippet owners in the park.
To our horror we discovered that Lupin's otherwise charmingly down to earth owners make her a batch of steamed vegetables to accompany daily menus of the meat we like, mostly steak.
It's no bother, said one.
One batch lasts a few days.
The expense? I fought not to exclaim. Jess is better at hiding her emotions and simply laughed as if she were being told a farcical fib.
I'm not buying frank real meat, he can eat elbows and feathers like the others. Or he'll go hungry. He's a dog, and he must learn. When he's hungry, he'll eat. All of which I said or thought or repeated.
He heard all of it. And ate nothing for 24 hours.
I panicked, as he knew I would, and bought a chicken.