Going to the dogs

Neglect of this blog is, obviously, nothing new. WT has been ticking over for the best part of a decade at a frequency so low that any actual entries you see around here are basically a rounding error. But it is a measure of just how remiss I’ve been that I haven’t posted one of these before:

Uncle Keith is more than 2½ years old, having arrived a couple of months before lockdown and the ensuing puppy bubble. Nephew Justin is nearly 1½. Both are, of course, adorable.

Having dogs has been transformative in a variety of predictable and unexpected ways. Mostly for the better, even. I’m not sure I can even remember what life was like without them, although that may also be mixed up with the overwhelming brain fog of the plague years. And the idea that they one day won’t be around is too horrible to contemplate — though Border Terriers are a long-lived breed, and I’m no spring chicken myself, so maybe I won’t have to worry about that.

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