The Dog
This is Phoebe. She was born in 2020. A COVID puppy.

She cried the entire journey from Lincolnshire to Berkshire…
…and defecated in the car.
Forced social distancing – from the litter. The reality of forging a new bond beckoned.
To say she harbors her enthusiasm, would be an understatement. She wears a countenance that would be the envy of Jack Dee. I respect it.
Few things can puncture her aloof mien like a chattering squirrel. She transforms into a rampaging hare in full pursuit. Which used to be entertaining…
…until it wasn’t.
In 2022 she won first prize in a waggiest tail contest at a local fair. She waggled somewhat. But even if she hadn’t, it was still a shoo-in. Like bringing a peacock to a pigeon contest.
Young children often mistake her for a lion, or a bear. She’s far more gentle, but disdains petting, unless you’re part of the pack. The adopted pack.
She’s observing me as I write this, in 2026. From a distance. Hugging the skirting board at the top of the stairs, like a giant 30Kg sausage roll. Her face belies an unspoken bond.













