Winter has returned.
I first became aware of this yesterday when Mistress dragged me out into the early morning gloom. Not only was I forced to wear my horrible blue coat, but added to that indignity, she hauled a garish yellow scarf round my neck. Apparently this is for my own safety so that I can be seen by other humans and dogs, but I suspect it is also so that Mistress can keep an eye on me in case I rush off to the edge of the river to feast on one of the several rotting salmon that have been washed up on to the bank in recent days.
There was the usual icy chill of snow and ice round my paws and the thick flakes of snow meant I had to keep blinking my watery eyes so that, to any passing dog, I must have looked like a weeping emotional wreck. What an embarrassment, for an aging literary whippet, with a manly white chest, etc etc.
Whippets were not designed for this weather – I turn fourteen next month (that’s 98 in dog years) and I am getting too old for winter here. To cap it all, my kitchen bed has vanished – apparently it was getting “too fruity”. Where is an old whippet supposed to rest his weary bones, let alone find the space and time to think up his literary gems?
Bring on spring and the warmth of summer!