A fun blog of 'soft' philosophy about the life and times of a Westiepoo called Chester. Written as a prelude to a more serious novel raising the question: Who is the most bankrupt: the banker who won't whistle-blow or the chef who loses her livelihood?
Well, it’s the new year, and life is back to normal in the WS household after the Christmas excess. I enjoyed my Christmas and New Year break for two reasons: firstly the variety of my walks increases from the monotony of standard 'block' routes, and secondly the choicest bones of lamb became available.
I am, unsurprisingly, a lover of walks. Yours truly has the block walks first thing in the morning and the evening for my doggy do. Then there is my 'free rein' afternoon stroll, usually of around forty-five minutes duration off the lead. This stroll consists of three or four standard routes subject to the weather. Up to the recreation ground being the first. Around the dog walking compound within the park and back beside the river is the second. Thirdly, the floodplain of the river where they are stupidly building a new housing development. And, finally, the best of all in the spring and summer when the ground is not sodden in the farmer's field behind our home.
Now at holiday-time, the usual 'rules' get broken. So there is the added choice of the canal from the wharf to Great Bowden or from Foxton to Kibworth, or along the old railway track along the Brampton Valley. But yesterday is the quarterly walk I dread most of all. It's the one where I keep looking at Mr. A (and on this occasion Miss A too) as if to say, "are we actually going there?"
And they reply, "yes we are!"
I keep looking up at them in hope that we are not. You see they take me along the long Welland Park Road through a different park at which point they turn left. And, as I stare inquisitively looking into their eyes, I sense they are not lying, especially as I pass underneath the railway bridge and ever closer to the car valeting place. I begin to fidget and try to lead the walk in a different direction but to no avail.
Swaggers Dog Groomers it is then, where, much to mine disgust I am, chained to the table from the roof of an outhouse, scissored, cropped and, worse of all, shampooed with an abhorrent scent. I hate going in that place but somehow after an hour of pampering and grooming, I feel a new lightness in my swagger and tail very synonymous perhaps to how you humans approach the freshness and vitality of a new year after the rest and recuperation of time off over Christmas. Not that it lasts long!
And today's walk was not much better — to the vets and back for my annual inoculation .... grrr!!!
At least, there is still some Christmas bone to cheer me up even if he does cause canine constip... (I don't wish to be rude, but I think you can guess what I am saying?)