1. We hug and feel paws stretching out against our waists, the hound trying to join in.
2. We go into the hills to the south, following the tributaries leading from our beck. One stream opens out into a quagmire and John stomps up it, the proud owner of wellies for the first time in nearly two decades. Lily – who is now allowed off lead in the woods and runs at top speed EVERYWHERE – creates muddy waves as she bounds back towards from her distant travels and we take that as cue to return to dry land.
3. Bums touch as they curl up next to me on the sofa.
4. The dog likes on her back, feet twitching in dreams, as the intruder (John) enters the house. She wakes – finally – when he calls her (“Crap guard dog! Crap guard dog, where are you?”) and runs at him, ball in mouth, ready to play.
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