I don’t blog for ages and now, all of a sudden, I don’t want to stop. I’m like the bus that doesn’t appear while you’re waiting at the bus stop, then as soon as you decide to go home, three appear one after the other.
|One, two, three, four, five buses|
The only difference is a bus takes you somewhere, whereas my blogs just leave you confused and wondering what the hell did I just read that for?
Today, while Mr Sunshine was locked away in his Masters tower I took Aflie to the forest. Nothing usual in that, you may think, and you’d be right. But, while I was on the way to the forest I was thinking (a dangerous occupation of late).
I have this misapprehension that Aflie is quite possibly the best dog that ever lived. He certainly is the cutest, I’m not deluded about that and towards Mr Sunshine and I he is most definitely the most affectionate. He, also, performs magic (badly), keeps our feet warm while watching Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares, and stands guard all night protecting us as we sleep (sort of).
|Look into my eyes|
So why does this perfect dog, insist on dragging me towards every object that stands at right angles to the ground between here and the forest?
|Hey wait, no really wait - I missed one.|
I’ve watched The Dog Whisperer, I’ve read several How to bring up a well behaved dog books, and I’ve been told countless times that the reason he gravitates towards and cocks his leg at: all lamp posts, bollards, and slow moving OAP’s on the five minute walk to the forest is that he’s marking his territory. I know this is a truth, and yet why then do I always get the feeling he’s leaving a trail so he can find his way home.
|Please don't leave me|
He’s like Gretel (Hansel’s sister)leaving a trail of breadcrumbs, only wetter, in case the wicked step-mother (me?) tries to leave him alone and friendless in the dark sinister forest.
|Very sinister forest|
When I look at the garden I’ve been creating here in the Netherlands I wonder if I’m not all that dissimilar to Aflie. I’m not suggesting I’ve been - knowingly - cocking my leg against the wheelie bin, or marking the drain pipe with my scent. (To be honest I couldn’t do it, although that being said, I’ve always felt a sneaky admiration for anyone that can. Especially if they can do it while standing on one leg and cocking the other.)
By creating our own patch of garden here in the Netherlands am I marking my territory? Am I announcing that this patch of Dutch soil is ours - enter at your peril. Or am I like Gretel, so afraid of being lost in a strange place that I’m creating little crumbs of Britain so that when the time comes I can remember how to find my way home?
|Marking our territory|