The Dog on the Table
I keep being told that my book titles are a little – well, weird, really. This should work, though? Don’t know how I’d get the plot running . . . maybe a man gets home, finds his family’s missing, but the family’s dog is there, on the table, dead . . .
It’s not the sort of thing I’d want to see happen to the Ridgie, no. She’s a gorgeous girl, and I adore her. However, I’ve just got back from the doctor. This Ridgie ran into me what – five, six weeks ago? And my ankle is still the pits. No Morris dancing, no walking or moor-walking. I’m hoping to get out on the pushbike again this week when I get a moment (between squalls, that is), but beyond that, the ankle is taking a hell of a time to get better.
Still, today was the first good run which Berry and Dori had on the flat, and it was some compensation to see the two glorious monsters rushing about enjoying themselves. Shocking to think that only four or five months ago we were told the Ridgie has a spinal problem which could leave her paraplegic.
No sign of that now. Now the brute just takes over the garden table, or the chaise-longue in my office, or the floor under my desk, or the space in front of the sink when I want to wash something, or . . .
Seven stones of Ridgie can get in the way a little!
All best
Mike