Captain Midnight here in the post-Christmas doldrums.
The pack was supposed to be cavorting on the beach in Lyme Regis this New Year but we stayed in London instead because Herself has hurt her back and, not to be outdone, Himself has “a terrible cold and a cricked neck.” They’ve been sprawled on the couch for days, moaning and groaning, though I notice that they still manage to get up to pour drinks and stuff themselves on leftovers.
Of course, I hunkered down and did much wuffling and cuddling to soothe their suffering. It’s what we do when the pack is in trouble and I’m glad to report that it seems to be having some effect. Herself can now sit down and get up from the sofa without actual tears of pain, while Himself found sufficient energy this afternoon to finger the keyboard listlessly for 20 minutes or so, albeit without much inspiration.
New Year’s Eve came and went without much incident. There were fireworks in the street and I did what any sensible super-dog would do: stayed indoors and hid under the bed until they stopped whizzing and popping.
In the past week, I’ve sat through half a dozen movies, an entire boxed set of Game of Thrones and 10 episodes of an excellent programme about a family of corgis and their owner, called The Crown.
In between times, I’ve managed to drag Himself round the block a couple of times a day but that’s been about the only exercise I’ve had apart from chasing phantom foxes in the garden and some rather half-hearted ball chucking in the hallway.
I would worry about putting on weight except for the fact that remarkably little of the turkey, sausages and bacon lying around has come my way.
No surprise there.
Coming Home to Story 