There's really nothing so great, IMO, as scampering about a field. Ah, the feeling of freedom, the wind in my ears and all the loveliness of being a slim dog on the hoof...Well, you know, slimmer than of late (see earlier post where vet probably messed up weighing machine results and declared me a heavy lass, the bas****).
Anyhoo, there I was sprinting about, fly style, in all directions I fancied for no more than 3 seconds at a time then BANG! we're in the car and heading back to Londres (where my Midlands/Borders accents sometimes stymies the locals)!
Traffic. Bah!
Crowded streets. Bah again.
Take me back to the wide open spaces or if not the wide open spaces then the steep hill where the deer hang out chewing whatever it is they chew unsuspecting of the presence of the NunuThunder!
I have to admit that recently I have been much taken with the RNIB audio book of the Count of Monte Cristo and it may be colouring my blog style, so stop me if I meander into close detailed descriptions of FP's dress or ST's stash of poo bags...
But I digress; where I meant to stay was on the topic of tearing about in fields only to arrive home, assume the position for a Brushing Brushing and discover one of those prickly things in my tail feathers.
We've had the devil of a time getting it out and it almost came to scissors*. But it is gone now and I'm not sorry either as it was damnably uncomfortable to sit on so that I was forced to lay down my weary head throughout the journey and snore loudly from just outside Birmingham until Kilburn, when I was required to navigate from the back seat whilst all the time sitting on a prickly thing. If you were in Kilburn, Marble Arch, Victoria or Clapham today and saw what you imagined to be a dog snarling at you from the back seat of a passing car, then rest assured it was I, Nunu, and it wasn't you, it was that prickly thing in my tail feathers causing the rictus expression.
*Always bad to hear scissors mentioned in relation to the tail feathers.
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