Spring is undoubtedly upon us.
We sat in bed this morning watching birds diving into our front garden and flapping away, ponderously and unsteadily, weighted down by beaks full of dog-fur.
One of them was so overloaded that he couldn’t quite make it over the ridgepole of the house opposite, and had to stop and have a little rest, before launching himself exhaustedly over the top, in a series of little hops, to take off again at the other side.
It is almost gone. A vast pile of dog fur, which had more than filled a large carrier bag, and which weighed considerably more than a kilo, has been determinedly tugged and pulled, and launched into our skies to be recycled into warm beds for baby birds.
I hope it turns out to be worth it. It looked like exhausting work. Some of them were labouring under the weight of lumps of fur which were almost half as big as they were.
It is a happy sight. It is nice to feel that the dogs have contributed something useful to the world.
It is the only useful thing they have contributed. I lost Roger Poopy’s tiresome father again this morning, and wasted a very irritating half an hour rushing up and down the path through the woods trying to find him. In the end a group of walking ladies found him on the fell. They tried to recapture him, but he is surprisingly agile when he does not wish to be caught, and even though there were four of them he evaded them. Eventually their yells attracted my attention, and I went rushing up to see what was going on.
He recognised my voice but had no idea which one was me, and stood on a rock, looking puzzled and a bit anxious, exactly like a dog who knows he has done something really annoying and is not going to be popular.
I told him that I thought he was a senile old nuisance, and Roger Poopy jumped on him and bit his ear, which might have helped because he tried a bit harder after that. Indeed, we did not lose him again for ages, not until we got to the park on the way back and he relaxed because he thought he knew where he was. It turned out that he forgot after the cricket pitch, and I had to go back and get him.
Apart from tiresome dognesses it was a good walk. The leaves are just out on the trees, in the lovely bright emerald green that they are when just new and fresh, and I ambled along marvelling at the happiness of a new world again.
After that I had just about managed to get the washing pegged in the garden when Lucy came home.
Obviously she likes to be home when Oliver is here, and she has a few days occupied with neither university nor work, and so she has come rushing up the motorway to be with us.
She has been suffering from a general feeling of melancholy and exhaustion, which was solved within five minutes of her arrival, after it was established that she had run out of iron tablets some time ago. Our very helpful chemist issued some industrial-strength ones, and she took one and instantly fell asleep.
She woke up feeling considerably more cheerful, and we have wondered if we might have a day in Blackpool whilst they are both home. Watch this space, if we decide to go you will hear all about it.
Oliver has got revision to do, and Lucy has got a dissertation to write, and I have got to write something or other for university that I have already forgotten what it is, and so will have to look it up, but all the same it would be very nice to go and paddle for a day.
We might go on the Pleasure Beach. A whole day of thrilling rides and burgers and candy floss and doughnuts.
It will give me indigestion, but I might like it anyway.
